Three years ago

Three years ago I was already in hospital, BORED out of my mind. I'd been admitted a day earlier and was already just wishing it would all be over. I knew the induction lay ahead, and wasn't relishing the thought of being woken at midnight to start the process.

I was also terrified.

2 years before that I'd been this close to birth and then Zoe had died in utero, after labour had started.

I'd spent the entire pregnancy with Nathan trying so hard NOT to bond with my child, NOT to get attached to him, just in case I lost him too. I didn't think I could survive losing a second child. Yet, against my better judgement, in the third trimester, I'd realised that I couldn't help myself. I was already attached, both literally and figuratively. As my "dead baby thoughts" intensified, I fell more deeply in love with my baby.

So there I was, sitting in a hospital bed, bored, and desperate.

When I was finally woken at midnight, I knew the induction wasn't going to work - I don't respond to the gels; I only respond (and HOW!) to the injections/ drip. Eventually, at 5am, I was moved across, and given more drugs. By 10am, there was still nothing to report. I was tired (only having got to sleep around 10pm the night before! Hospitals are really noisy.) I was also starting to get worried. I slipped into the bath, to try and speed things up, and that's when these big clots (bigger than a R5 coin) starting pouring out.

TERROR!!!!

I jumped straight out again, the gynae was called, and we went into emergency mode.

After a further hour or so of hard labour (and it now being around noon), I was too tired to push any further. I was at the end of my strength, both physically and emotionally. I was terrified my child wasn't going to make it, and I just wanted to go to surgery and have a caesar.

At that point, I lifted my head, to tell my gynae that enough was enough and to just cut him out, when she grinned and said, "There's his head!" I looked down, and could see the crown of his head appearing. I knew then that the only way he was coming out was if I pushed - it was too late for surgery. So from somewhere deep inside (I still don't know how I did it), I pushed and pushed and pushed some more.

And then there he was - in all his nearly 4kg glory!

The relief at knowing he was safe, and alive, was so much, I basically just passed out on the bed. My job was done. I didn't care if he lacked fingers or toes, or if he was in any other way impaired. He was alive.

I then made Graeme swear to stay with him ALL the time - there'd been a recent spate of baby abductions from maternity wards and the last thing I needed was for my baby to be taken! - and then I really did fall asleep.

When it came to dedicate him to the Lord, my only prayer was that he would continue to bring joy into people's lives, and with that, healing, in the same way that his birth brought joy and healing into my life.

Bringing him into this world alive vindicated me in some way as a mother. I'd failed to do my job properly with Zoe - it's because of me that she died. I know that nothing I could have done could have saved her, because I didn't know about my APS then. Never the less, she's dead because of me. Yet, here I was, giving birth to another child, a living child. I'd overcome my disorder. I'd completed the circle.

And what joy! He was (and still is) a bruiser of a child. And given the amount of adrenaline floating in my blood while I was pregnant, how he turned out so joyful and calm (most of the time) is beyond me! He is a miracle.

As much as I love Janel (and how I love her!) Nathan is special to me in a way that she's not. I know that she is just as much a miracle, even more, because I wasn't on drugs through my pregnancy with her. Because I had to fight for Nathan though, he's got a special place in my heart.

Every day, as I was injecting myself, I would have to talk myself into it. It didn't get easier every day, as the gynae said it would. If anything, it got harder every day. Every day, I would have to tell myself that if I wanted Nathan to live, I had to do this. I had to stab that needle into my own flesh, and grit my teeth through the searing pain (I'm told an insulin injection is relatively painless). And every day I did. Every day I made the choice for him, in spite of what it meant for me. Every day I chose to do what was necessary so that he would live. It doesn't surprise me then, that he has such a special place in my heart.

Seeing him alive, every day, brings such joy into my heart. I thank God for him. Here's to the last 3 years with this very special little boy, who has brought me such love, and joy, and healing, and life. Happy 3rd birthday my precious baby! And here's to many more! May you grow to be all that God has planned for you to be, and to do.

A sense of humour loss

I think I've lost my sense of humour. Browsing through my recent posts, they all seem so serious. I know I've laughed a lot recently, both long and hard, but always at stuff other people have said. Somehow I seem to have lost my sense of humour when it comes to reflecting on my own life (which I tend to do in blogging). I'm not sure how that happened, or why, but I'm hoping it returns soon.

Actually, thinking about it, I think I can probably guess why. It's called panic. While I'm very excited about going into hospital tomorrow, a large part of me (that I'm trying very hard to ignore) is quietly panicking that this baby is going to die. Thus far, he's been active and healthy, but because all that can change in the blink of an eye (he could go from alive & healthy to dead in less than 20 minutes), I'm too scared to believe he's going to be okay until I can see his eyes open and hear him take a breath.

Is that a lack of faith? I'm not sure. I know that God understands, though. He understands my frailty. He's seen my tears, heard my pleas, felt my fears. He also knows that I know that this process is in his hands alone. There is nothing I can do to change the outcome. What will be, will be. Choosing to hang onto my fear is more about trying to protect my heart than anything else.

Unless someone has lost a child, I don't think they can understand my mind-set. I believe that God can save this child. I believe that God wants to save this child. However, those two facts together do not mean that God WILL save this child. That's the lesson I learnt with Zoe.

I feel like the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head, and that with each passing hour it drops closer to me. Only when my child is born, and alive, will I feel we are free and will I be able to fully experience the excitement of his birth. I just know I'm going to sob a LOT in the next few days and hours - either from sheer relief and joy, or from extreme heartbreak.

Oh dear God, let him be born alive. Please. Please.

I have no fear of the labour, although I'm not looking forward to the pain and although I keep wondering how I got through the last two. My only fear is that I'm going to go through this only to lose him. I guess contemplating the death of a child is enough to make anyone lose their sense of humour.

So I'm praying I recover mine, because that will mean he's born alive. I don't care if he has to be in ICU for weeks. I just want him alive. Please God.

Another member of the family... or two

Nope - that's not the announcement that we are pregnant - much as we are hoping to make that announcement soon!! We've been practicing hard... we're just waiting to see whether the hard work has paid off, the investment has brought returns, etc, etc.

Instead, congratulations must go to Graeme's brother who has ... [I was going to say something like 'hook' or 'bag', but in thinking about it, that's a pretty vulgar way to describe this fantastic event. No, let me rather say it the old-fashioned, and much more tasteful way.] ... just got engaged to a lovely lady. The family are THRILLED!! What is also pretty amazing is that all 3 boys in the family will be married to girls who were born (and therefore matriculated) in the SAME YEAR! Graeme married a (much) younger lady. (I keep him young.) Robert is marrying a girl roughly his own age, while Philip has married an older woman (who keeps him in line). But wait! There's MORE. Their only sister was ALSO born in the same year!! How freaky is that? So, all the Broster girls (yes, on this occasion I'm happy to be referred to by that name) are the same age. There's got to be something in that, don't you think?

The other congratulations goes to my cousin whose second child was born this afternoon - Myles. Thus far, Myles has joined an elite club on my side of the family... he is one of only 5 boys, amongst 13 girls. Interestingly, 3 of the other 4 boys are the 2nd child. Although that's not a huge sample size to go by, it does seem that if you're going to have a boy in this family, he's going to be your 2nd child. Hmm.... we already have a girl's name picked out for the next one (sad, I know). Maybe we ought to be thinking of a boy's name?!?!

Anyway, huge congrats to Jeanine, Mike and Emily on the latest arrival; and Rob and Gina on their engagement. We love growing families!

Circle of life... take 2

Here she is - Ariana and Mommy. Apart from being the name of a Tunisian city and a brand of Bulgarian beer, Ariana is Greek for 'most holy' and Welsh for 'silver'.

In reading last night's post, I was struck by how bitter I sounded about Ariana's birth. It's so hard to explain to people how two completely different emotions can war in your heart simultaneously. On the one hand, I'm absolutely thrilled at her birth and I can't wait to meet her. On the other, I'm left feeling bereft again. Ariana isn't Zoe, so I can rejoice at her birth and her life. Yet, her very presence reminds me of what I have lost.

A while back, I believed that it got easier with time - dealing with the birth of any baby. I struggled not to be offhand with women on the baby loss forums I'm part of who were 5-10 years down the line who still struggled in this way. I just thought they were deliberately holding onto their grief, or something. I'm learning that nothing could be further from the truth.

I'm realising that every birth will be bitter-sweet for me, and learning that I'm just going to have to find a way of dealing with that. I don't want any new mother feeling she has to pussy-foot around me to spare my feelings, or that she needs to be less excited or less joyful around me because I've lost Zoe. On the contrary! The more joy, the more excitement, the better. I'm just going to have to remember to make time to cry and release my sadness so that it doesn't wind up souring the joy I, and they, feel.

And now for the other part of the circle...death. Tonight I discovered that the guy leading my Louis Group business course (Bruce) lost his daughter last year. She was 25, and had 2 small kids. Bruce & I chatted very briefly this evening about the pain of losing a child. His loss is compounded by the fact that his grandchildren are now motherless. We also talked about how grief like that really complicates matters in terms of faith - how both of us are really struggling to make sense of our loss.

And now back to life... Before my life fell apart, I was really trying to develop my leadership skills. I even managed to attend a course (back in 2003) in the USA, at which Bill Hybels spoke. (If you don't know who he is, it's worth Googling him and doing some reading.) I also read as much as I could get my eyes on, including a book by John Maxwell called 'Courageous Leadership'. That's a really inspiring book.

Last week, one of the first things Bruce said to us was that it was not an accident that we were on the course. My ears pricked up at that, because I hadn't expected to encounter God at a place like that. It made me wonder what God had in store for me.

Anyway, when my life fell apart, I forgot a lot of the basic principles I had learnt. It's very hard, for example, to get balance in your life when you're struggling to make the decision to live. In tonight's lectures, Bruce referred to both Bill Hybels and John Maxwell, and the influence they had had on his own leadership journey. Everything Bruce taught was straight from what Bill and John had written about or taught. It was all VERY familiar to me!

Hearing all that good stuff again made me realise a few things. Firstly, just how much I have to relearn. Secondly, just how badly I am leading myself at the moment (let alone leading my department or my family... or my business in time to come). Thirdly, that it really isn't an accident that I'm on this course. For whatever reason, God intends to meet me in that conference room, in those discussions about balance sheets and business plans. God has a plan for my life, and he wants me to be an effective leader. Since I'm not in church much, and since I don't really have the time to read books of any nature at the moment, this is the only way God is going to get me back on track.

As I was chatting to Graeme about it this evening, it also struck me that having my life fall apart was not a diversion. It was not a side-track, or an alternative route from A to B, nor was it an accident that should not have happened.

Rather, God deliberately led us down this path - not to harm us, but to develop us. God blessed us with Zoe, and then blessed us by taking her away. It's not the kind of blessing that results in spontaneous joy and laughter - quite the opposite. However, it was a blessing, none the less. Of that I have become certain tonight.

I can't tell you what it was that made me see that, and I can't explain how I know, but I know. Losing Zoe is an integral part of God's plan for us. Without her, God's plans for our lives will not be fulfilled. We will not become the people God intends us to be, nor will we be able to fulfil the roles he has picked out for us. And I will never become the leader God has designed me to be.

As I continue to learn the lessons of grief, God has started building back into my life the lessons of leadership that I thought I'd learnt before. The question now is: what will I do differently tomorrow because of what I have learnt (been reminded of) today?

The circle of life

Birth and death... the one inevitably follows the other.

This afternoon my latest niece was born. She's the first niece from Graeme's family - Nellie has 13 other cousins from my side of the family! She was born in Hungary, by water birth, at 4.30pm (approximately) and weighed 3.05kg. As yet, she has no name, but her parents are working hard on one. Needless to say, we are all thrilled at her birth, and thrilled that both she and mother are doing so well.

But I have to admit to pangs of intense jealousy and grief. Because of my APS, I am forever denied a water birth... which I so desperately want. I should also already have 2 little girls under foot, not one. It seems to unfair that some women are denied easy labours and births, while others are forever doomed to have difficult and traumatic ones. (Did I mention here that my friends who had come to SA for an IUI lost their baby just before the weekend? My heart breaks for them!) It also seems so unfair that my dear sister-in-law should be having sleepless nights now because she has a gorgeous baby to look after... it should have been me. And it's so unfair that I can't seem to let go of this grief and that it should spoil what would otherwise be a perfect piece of ecstasy.

Which isn't to say that I'm not happy for my sister-in-law, or my in-laws, who now have a real grandchild of their own (everyone knows that only your daughter's children are really your grandchildren!) ... sorry. That was bitchy and completely uncalled for.

OK - let's move onto death then, since I can't seem to deal with the birth part of life too well this evening.

Death. Here in SA we have this lovely culture of rites of passage. Our traditional cultures all have a tradition of sending their boys off into the bush to be circumcised, followed by a 9 day fast, to undergo a spiritual awakening of some sort, and to then return as 'men'. It's not the age of the boys that makes the difference between being a boy or a man - it's whether you have participated in such a ritual.

Tonight I learnt about one 'boy' in particular. He was 25. He went to one of the most prestigious boys' high schools in Cape Town, if not in the country. He had a BSc degree from UCT. He had a fantastic job with a very good company in Cape Town. His name was Buntu Majalo. (I hope I got his surname correct!)

In Dec 2007 he went off to the bush because the people in Gugulethu (the township where he grew up) still viewed him as a boy, because he hadn't participated in the initiation. He died in hospital, reportedly from a botched circumcision and some torture that he experienced.

According to the report I watched, during these June/ July school holidays (2-3 weeks), 20 boys have died during initiation ceremonies.

While I have no problem, in theory, with initiation rites, it blows me away that the death toll is so high. It's not that the ritual is bad - marking the move from childhood to adulthood is important to every culture. It's the manner in which that ritual is played out that shocks me. For 20 boys to have lost their lives over the past 2-3 weeks to the same mindless abuse is simply not okay.

Although the other provinces in SA have laws to ensure that the "surgeons" and "nurses" involved are properly trained and registered, our province (Western Cape) does not. However, despite this, the death toll in other provinces is as high as it is here in the Cape. Obviously, even legislating to prevent corruption is not achieving the desired outcomes.

Apparently, some of these "surgeons" are raking in R4000 per boy they circumcise. To put that in context - our tenant is paying us R4000 per month in rent for a 3 bedroomed townhouse next to a major highway. A visit to a medical doctor for a circumcision at a state hospital will cost you about R400.

Those boys who slink off to the hospital if they suspect something has gone wrong with the circumcision are ostracised when they return. They are not considered 'real' men, because they are seen to be weak. Yet, many of them lose not just part of their penis, but the entire thing, when proper medical care is not given to these boys and either gangrene or sepsis sets in.

If this were happening to girls, the world would be up in arms, demanding that the government put a stop to this inhumane treatment. Yet, because it is boys, the world averts its eyes.

Buntu was the only child to a single mother. Having lost my baby, I can tell you that her grief knows no bounds. I don't know what I can do, as one individual from the white community, but I know in my heart that to stand by and do nothing is to say that Buntu's life was worth nothing. If I count his life to have had any value, then I cannot sit idly by and allow this atrocious abuse of an otherwise useful ceremony and ritual to continue.

But what do I do? I don't even know where to begin. I feel helpless and frustrated, and very very sad for the families of these poor boys.