by Carre Otis
“What does this mean? Is it okay? I mean, I’ve been in surgery, under anesthesia, radiation, for hours. I’m recovering from a fusion.” As the words came out, my heart sank. I was naturally concerned. A miracle, yes, but one that arrived under what seemed the worst possible circumstances. The doctor assured me we’d talk in the morning, and I hung up the phone and dove into Matthew’s arms. He held me as I sobbed and worried and also laughed with joy. We were both beside ourselves with a strange mix of elation and fear. The uncertainties spread out before us like the big blue sea.
The days that followed were harrowing. It was true, I was pregnant and had been about six weeks along at the time of my surgery. According to the experts, this timing corresponded with some critical fetal developments that could have been adversely affected by all that I underwent during the operation. But there was no certainty. Matthew and I sat with a genetic specialist who crunched some numbers to determine the radiation to which my baby had likely been exposed. Her prognosis was neither good nor clear. The bottom line was, the doctors and specialists could only give me their medical opinions, opinions based on statistics and their professional expertise. In the end I’d have to make the final decision based on my beliefs, my faith, and what was in my heart.
After several weeks of tests and consultations, I realized I had to pull away from all the medical input. No one could look into a crystal ball and tell me what the outcome of carrying my baby to term might be. There was no way of knowing how my newly fused spine would handle a pregnancy or labor. Somewhere within myself I had to find the answer and the conviction it would take for me to go against all the medical advice I’d been receiving and bring my child into this world. And that’s exactly what I did. I understood without a doubt that my pregnancy was part of a spiritual agreement. I had karma with this being, and I had no right to step in to alter what had taken place. That this child had stuck with me through the invasion of a major surgery and was still holding steady was miraculous. I recalled the sense I’d had during surgery that I was not alone. It was my baby who was with me then, and I knew it. I looked back over the events that had taken place in the six months since Matthew and I had gotten engaged. Everything, it seemed, had been leading up to this very moment. This was part of an abundant blessing. And no doctor could tell me otherwise.
And so I made a pact with my baby. I did it out loud as the rain pounded on the roof of our home. I placed my hands over my belly as I spoke. This child had chosen me, and I had chosen this situation. We had karma together, and no matter what that meant, what that looked like, or how it panned out, I promised that I was going to show up and be the best vessel, protector, and mother that I could be. I recalled how when I’d seen my heart teacher in January in Houston and introduced him to Matthew, he had nodded and laughed. “I told you. Finish your Ngöndro!” he’d said with a wink. He had known all along that my path was not as a nun but as a mother and wife.
In the months that followed, I continued to walk the mountain. The spring came and went, the long hot summer witnessed my body swell to a great round shape, and on November 11, 2006, my daughter Jade Yeshe Sutton was born into this world.
ENDURING COLIC
Although I’d always had a vision that I would be birthing my babies at home, we’d decided that, given my recent back surgery, the safest place to deliver was in the hospital. It turned out to be the right decision, too. By the last week of my pregnancy, I could no longer walk without a cane; the pressure of my baby on my pelvic floor and spine was more than I could bear. The doctors wanted to induce. I worried that might very well result in a C-section.
On the eve before my due date, I lit a candle and spoke with my baby. I told her that it would take the two of us together to get through what lay ahead, and I needed her help. I was ready, I told her, but she was going to have to initiate her entrance into the world. Each day that went by, it was becoming harder and harder for me to function.
One November evening Matthew came home from work and took me to dinner at a wonderful restaurant in downtown Mill Valley. I sat across from him, keenly aware that we were sharing the last moments together of being a two-person family. As I lifted a forkful of food to my mouth, I felt a gush of liquid splash forth between my legs, and my eyes widened in surprise.
“What, Carré?” Matthew asked, knowing that something had happened. We’d been reading what seemed like a million birthing books, and as I felt my water break, one of the funniest terms—one that had never failed to send us into fits of hilarity—came to mind.
“It’s a sock soaker!” I burst out laughing. “My water just broke!” He stared at me, wild-eyed. “What do I do?” I asked, standing up and looking down at the drenched and stained leather chair I’d been sitting in.
“Just throw your napkin over it!” he said, and I did exactly that. Matthew paid the check, grabbed my arm, and as I clutched my cane, he helped me to the car.
After sixteen hours of labor and an epidural, Jade was born. She was literally the first baby I’d ever held. The mothering instinct kicked in, but with it came a certain degree of doubt. I really didn’t know what I was doing. As much as I wanted to leave the hospital and begin privately enjoying the magic of nesting together, I was scared. And when we returned home, things became even more challenging.
Jade had colic. I had read all the baby books and felt I could handle anything but that. “Please, please, Buddhas! Just not a baby with colic!” I had heard the horror stories.
Like clockwork from 2:00 till 8:00 P.M. each day, Jade would scream. She would cry, moving into fits that were terrifying because there was no fixing it. I brought her to our pediatrician, and as Lindy held her, swaddled her, shushed her, and rocked her, she just nodded sympathetically to me over the ear-piercing shrieks. “Sorry, hon. It’s your classic case of colic.” I was devastated.
I tried every remedy under the sun: homeopathics, tinctures, swaddling, better burping techniques. I would hold her in the bathroom with the shower and sink running. I tried a white-noise machine. But finally I had to surrender to the fact that there was nothing I could do except wait it out.
One evening Matthew and I stood shoulder to shoulder in the laundry room, our dinners on the dryer, each of us with a glass of wine in hand. Jade was swaddled, strapped in her car seat, both washer and dryer going for sound effect. Matthew was as frustrated as I was and possibly as frustrated as Jade! On and on our daughter wailed.
My nerves were frayed. I was sleep-deprived, still figuring out how to nurse and how to burp. My body was a blob. I was beside myself. And then I heard Matthew say:
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.”
I looked at him, bewildered. Bad fucking timing, buddy! I could feel some crazy primal rage bubbling to the surface, and in a flash it unleashed itself.
“Don’t you even fucking tell me this NOW! Too late, Matthew—think again. Not an option. Make yourself cut out for this, because there is no other option!” I was furious, but I also totally knew how he felt. He spoke the words we’d both been thinking for weeks. It’s just that some things, even between a husband and wife, are better left unsaid.
It is clear to me that a marriage or a partnership that can survive a child with colic can survive anything.
And we did. Like clockwork, just as our pediatrician predicted, the colic disappeared when Jade turned three months old, What didn’t divide us made us stronger. We had passed the first of many tests.
ROUND TWO: BODY IMAGE AND WEIGHT GAIN
I had always been certain that if I were ever to be pregnant, I would enjoy it thoroughly, embracing all the wonders that came with it. Knowing a number of powerful midwives throughout my life had made an impression on me, and I was inspired by the form of every pregnant woman I came across. Marveling at the great protruding bellies of pregnant friends or strangers on the street, I saw nothing but beauty and the evidence of miracles.
But when it came my time to be the pregnant lady, the all-giving mother godd
ess, I had definite challenges accepting what was happening to me. Though I was in awe of my changes, proud first of my little baby bump and then the enormous swell it grew into, there were some tough feelings I had to reckon with and talk myself through.
As a woman who had recovered from an eating disorder, I knew that I wasn’t entirely free from old habits. I could feel the need to scrutinize and monitor each of my changes as my body grew. I used the tools I’d been taught, making sure that at every step I processed my feelings with my support system. There was a lot of dialogue regarding the rapid and drastic transformations my body was undergoing, changes beyond any I’d ever dealt with before. The changes were gorgeous, but they were also outrageous and shocking. That’s the bottom line: What happens to a pregnant woman’s body is absolutely wild.
Fortunately, by the time I conceived, I had done so much work on myself that I was well trained to observe and appreciate these changes. Every day I would stand before the mirror in wonder. My breasts were massive, my hips were slightly padded, and my ass was bigger than it had ever been. And of course my belly was like an enormous mountain, proudly protruding from it all. I knew and trusted that my body was doing everything it needed to in order to prepare itself to birth a child. Body wisdom is mighty and impressive. But each day I had to consciously let go a little bit more. It was about softening. And even for women, softening is not what our culture wants us to do. We are taught to muscle through, dominate, and remain in control. We are taught to be hard. Yet to birth a baby out of your vagina and into this world absolutely requires softening and letting go. Trying to dominate and power your way through the process is impossible.
When I visited my ob-gyn’s office early in my pregnancy, it was the first time in what seemed like forever that I’d been on a scale. I had thrown mine away long ago as part of my healing. When the nurse slid the weight bars forward, I experienced all-too-familiar dread: What would I weigh? Would it be too much? Too little? It took me several visits to the doctor to find the voice to say that I didn’t want to be weighed unless absolutely necessary. And even then I turned my face away when I was on the scale. I did not want to know the number.
Most of the pregnant women I knew seemed thrilled. There was so very little conversation about the more frightening aspects of watching one’s body change that I felt as if I should be beaming, too. And even though I did feel terrific as I entered my second trimester, I still had a lot to contend with and surrender to. It took a conscious effort on my part not to completely freak out. I was blown away—and I was blowing up, too.
Some women don’t gain weight. Some do. Some women lose it right away. I happened to gain fifty pounds with both my daughters, and it took at least a year to get it off. The many tabloids that so rudely harassed new Hollywood mamas, reporting on the race to lose the baby weight, incensed me.
Like so many women, I was disgusted and horrified to find my body become a subject of discussion and unwarranted comments from complete strangers. As a culture we are fascinated with pregnant women; think of the entitlement that leads many people to freely put their hands on a woman’s expectant belly. People also feel it’s their place to criticize or offer suggestions about diet, as if the health of the unborn child requires their unwanted and unbidden intervention. As a model who was still regularly recognized and remembered from my thinner days, I heard quite a lot of discussion about my weight gain.
Going to my local Whole Foods became a nightmare. I actually started driving to one farther away in San Rafael so that I didn’t have to engage with anyone or endure unwelcome intrusions.
“You look like you’re going to explode!”
“Wow, I gained weight just like you. My thighs and ass got huge!”
“Oh, you’ll drop the weight, don’t worry.”
“When are you going to pop that thing out?”
The remarks came from both men and women. I began to wonder if the miracle and the reality of the pregnant form was just too much for people to handle. Does it expose us to the unknown? Does it push our limits of how we believe the world to be? Does it test what it is we can and want to see? Whatever it is, I’m convinced that there’s only one thing that you should ever say to a pregnant woman: “You look great.” Other than that, keep the comments to yourself.
As I moved through my pregnancy, I realized I was again being given the opportunity to assert healthy boundaries around my body. In my last trimester, before people could open their mouths with those unsolicited comments, I would hold up a hand and simply say, “My body is off-limits for discussion or review.” I wouldn’t wait for a response. I knew that I needed to protect myself and was finding my footing as to how to do so.
No one had discussed how I would feel or look after I’d given birth, and this came as a surprise. I just assumed that postpartum I would somehow shed my belly, rolls, and love handles. But this wasn’t the case at all. For at least four months after Jade was born, I still looked pregnant, and I just had to accept that the mirror was not a place I needed to linger. Many women and doctors today tout breast-feeding as a way to take off the baby weight. A slew of promises are made, and the experience of many women bears this out. But it didn’t work that way for me. The fact is that breast-feeding is a great idea, period. Hoping for quicker weight loss shouldn’t be the reason to do it.
It helped to have tools in place to deal with the angst that arose around my less-than-perfect body. I sought advice and received great comfort from those mothers who I knew would be honest about their struggles to accept their changed bodies. And I was also given realistic encouragement. I was told that it took nine months to put the weight on and that I should expect for it to take at least that long for it to come off. I was also assured that in time everything on my body would go back “more or less” to the way it had been. That was helpful to hear.
I worked hard to enjoy both of my pregnancies and not let my previous body issues rule that time. I do feel that there’s so much about the process of pregnancy that we need to do a better job of honoring. Women’s bodies are not public property, even when they have other growing bodies inside them. Despite living in a supposedly open era, we need to have much more discussion about body image and pregnancy.
BIRTHING KAYA
That first year of my life as a new mother went by in a flash. The days were long, but the year was short. Just before Jade turned one, I realized I was pregnant again. My previous state of infertility had clearly passed! But I was as worried as I was thrilled. How the hell was I going to manage with two kids? I was just learning the ropes and finding my rhythm with one! I wasn’t sure at all that our house could hold our quickly expanding family. This time I was showing within the first two months, so I couldn’t keep the secret. But, fortunately, everything seemed easier that second time around. The worries of the unknown didn’t haunt me; I knew that my back could hold up. I trusted that my body would know what to do in labor. My old desire to have a home birth seemed more and more like a possibility, and after I’d sat down and talked about it with Matthew, he agreed to meet with some midwives.
We interviewed several and felt most connected to a woman named Nancy. She’d been practicing for over a decade and felt confident that I was a good candidate for a home birth based on my labor with Jade. I began the wonderful and intimate process of building a relationship with her so that we might move in synchronicity on the day my second child was due.
Being pregnant with such a young child at home left little time for rest or naps. I did my best to find the magic in it all and would continue my walks up and down the mountain, often with Jade on my back. I carried her until it was impossible, and then we continued by way of a stroller. I hiked like this up to the last days of my pregnancy, using the time as a moving meditation. With each step I envisioned my baby dropping lower and lower into my pelvis and imagined my labor filled with ease and grace.
For Christmas 2007, Matthew, Jade, and I traveled to Colorado to visit Lama Tsultrim and meet
our teacher, who had come from Tibet for our annual winter retreat. We stayed at a small condo in town so that we could have room to cook for Jade and we’d be able to maintain her napping schedule. Winter was heavier than usual that year. The snowfall was incessant, and the roads seemed always to be covered with thick ice. We had come knowing that there was a chance Matthew would have to fly back to the Bay Area on a moment’s notice. He was in negotiations to sell his company, affording our family a great opportunity for change. Indeed, the Mill Valley house would be too small for the four of us, so as we considered upgrading, the discussion about where it might be best to raise our girls began.
The day after we arrived in Pagosa Springs, Matthew received the call. The meeting needed to take place the next day. He would have to return to California and leave me in snow-laden Colorado with Jade and our new baby growing steadily inside me. Come hell or high water, I was set on attending the retreat, desperate to see my beloved heart teacher after my crazy year and before I was about to enter another.
I hugged Matthew tightly as soft flakes fell in the dark of the morning. It was a bold move on my part to stay. “I love you,” I whispered. “Be careful and come back quickly!” I watched, fighting back my tears, as he drove off slowly through the winter storm.
When the sun rose, I packed Jade up in her new snowsuit and set off down the snow-covered dirt road to Tara Mandala. How I made it through that retreat is beyond me; it seems now a distant wonderful memory. That I made it through was a testament to my practice and connection with my teacher. I managed to juggle Jade’s needs with my own, nursing her when she was hungry, pulling out my endless bag of tricks and snacks to engage and occupy her when she became fidgety so that I could practice as much as possible.
Matthew returned just as the retreat was wrapping up, and although I had missed his presence and help, we were thrilled that the company was going to be sold. It meant we could plan our next move. But before leaving Colorado, Matthew and I decided to stop and see a house that had just come on the market. We hadn’t seriously talked about Colorado as a destination—that was a dream well in the future—but we decided to see the place anyway.
