Waking

by Matthew Sanford

  Upended is how we felt. But we were parents, expecting new life into our midst. Jennifer was planning and grieving and protecting all at once. Her Sweet William was going to have surgery on the second day of his life. How was she going to breastfeed him? Where was she going to stay? Where would Paul be? Never underestimate the pragmatic strength of a mother protecting her children. This was one of the first of many examples that I would witness.

  My work was on a different level of our future life—the integration of a “special” child into our stream. While Jennifer was preparing to land our boys into the world, I was whispering to William. I was telling him that he could not have landed in a better place, that I too lived with a disability, that I had spent years realizing a different path, a more integrated one. I told him that I was a yoga teacher and he was my best student, that our work—if he desired—could traverse a lifetime. I would help him live vibrantly through whatever mind-body relationship he was dealt. I told him that he had given my life new purpose—I would now work primarily with kids. Finally, I whispered that I was proud to be his father.

  William’s presence in my life felt like the back of the elephant. I had been wondering how to bring meaning to my path, how I could give back. Suddenly, my work at the Courage Center took on new significance. My experience with people living with all sorts of disabilities, including a couple of teenagers with hydrocephalus, now felt like preparation. It felt like the Universe was deepening my commitment to helping people with disabilities—rather than being part of what I do, it was to be the main focus. I was surprised by this, but also relieved. My path was clear. There was no way I wasn’t going to help my son live as gracefully and magically as possible. Best to make the rest of my work congruent with that commitment.

  On a personal level, William’s looming disability also injured my heart. One of my jokes to Jennifer during the course of her pregnancy was, “Do you think my sons will come out in little wheelchairs?” So wonderful was the feeling that the struggle in my life would not be passed on. Most likely, my sons would walk through their entire lives, stand while peeing through their entire lives, have spines that would remain unbroken through their entire lives. So freeing was the thought that the car accident would finally end—at least physically—with the advent of my next generation. To have a son who would share my struggles was crushing. It felt like a continuation of my life’s rupture. It did, however, focus my purpose.

  Each night during the two weeks after the diagnosis, I would rub Jennifer’s growing belly and talk to my whole family. My life had taught me that there is a wealth of strength within us; there is nothing we cannot handle. Life presents its purpose and beauty in all sorts of ways. The trick is to stay open to one’s strength, to not deny or strive to prove it, but rather to simply have it. I told my family that we would be fine and our lives together would be an adventure. But to William, especially to William, I silently whispered that I was ready, that he should come, that everything would be okay.

  When William died in utero at thirty-four weeks, our lives were upended again. The planning, the purpose, the research, the healing was suddenly for naught. Jennifer and I were awash in silence, in grief, in a spin of painful emotion. We looked at each other, moved closer, and did what we always had—made the best of what’s around.

  The path ahead was completely unknown. Jennifer was carrying our dead son inside her body. Next to him was a vibrant, kicking, playful little scrum who was living, eating, and resting his head next to his dead brother.

  William’s death did not change the medical strategy. The best place for Paul’s continued development was still in his mother’s womb. Because William’s slowly disintegrating body posed little threat to his brother’s well-being, the doctor’s plan was to monitor Paul closely and head off any potential problems. The pregnancy went forward on a natural course. William would deliver first because he was positioned lower than his brother. His birth would be like any other, except his body would manifest the completion of death. Paul would follow, and we would finally meet our two sons—one living and one dead.

  This scenario was impossible to enter in advance. Despite the horror and the imagined revulsion of greeting death through the birth of a son, it was impossible not to be excited. Jennifer and I were having our babies, and its promise carried us forward.

  We spent the three and a half weeks between William’s death and the birth of our sons trying to prepare for what was unimaginable. Each night, I still rubbed her belly—which was now becoming lopsided as William’s body was leaving us—and talked to my family. I told Paul that I admired his spunk, his hiccups, his occasionally kicking feet, his general charm. I kept whispering to William, wondering if this was his choice, wondering if he had been afraid, and praying that he was finally at peace. My hands were not afraid to feel his dwindling body. I longed for it, for any contact with my departing son.

  Most of all, I watched a mother carrying her babies. I experienced the pauses she encountered as she told her story to people around her, the hushed tones: “You mean you’re going to carry ‘it’ to full term?” or “You mean there’s nothing they can do?” I watched as William’s name disappeared from our social dialogue, as people didn’t intend to be injurious but were, nonetheless. I watched a mother whose driving instinct was to follow Paul, but whose aching heart reached back to honor William. I watched her healing story emerge, a commitment. If at all possible, William was to receive a vaginal birth, an introduction into the world like any other child, an affirmation of his presence in our life. Jennifer’s motherhood would include him in every sense in the extraordinary event of birthing.

  Jennifer has strength that even her closest people often fail to see. It is a silent depth that gets overshadowed by her excitement about life, by her wholehearted desire to be a part of it. She carried a dead baby for nearly a month; she protected her other baby with everything she had. Most important, to this day, she loves her birth experience. Jennifer showed me in the clearest terms our human commitment to living, how a mother’s drive to produce life can surround even a dead son. To this day, I remain honored to have borne witness.

  Labor began at about ten in the morning. We called Paige, a sassy, redheaded Texan who was to join us on our journey. Paige is a mother of three—all birthed at home—two of whom are twins. She has a down-home woman’s wisdom about her, and Jennifer wanted her wisdom in the room. I needed it, too.

  She came to our house and we spent the day together. We played Yahtzee and cards and watched a movie. We timed Jennifer’s contractions, Paige helped her take a bath, and I pressed my hands upon her lower back as each painful wave struck. We acted as a seamless team.

  About eleven that night, Jennifer’s water broke. The fluid pouring out of her body was brown. Paige and I said nothing, but panicked with the worry of meconium in the amniotic fluid. If a baby empties its bowels in its sac, it creates a toxic environment that can be life-threatening. Jennifer sensed our concern and, through the haze of her accelerating labor, told us not to worry—she somehow knew that all was fine. The brown water turned out to be from William’s sac. We were encountering the first signs of his death.

  Her assurances, however, did not help the nearly thirty-minute ride to the hospital. Neither did the fact that Jennifer’s contractions were just over two minutes apart. As I was checking Jennifer into the birthing ward, I looked over my shoulder to an image I will never forget—Jennifer, propped up by Paige’s sturdy presence, her body beginning to heave her dinner. With tears of love in my eyes, I paid homage to her fierce determination.

  Things were moving fast. After Jennifer quickly got settled in a bed, I realized I had to piss like a racehorse. Thankfully, the bathroom in her room was accessible, and I started to catheterize myself. I kept going and going. When I was just about finished, the doctor came in to check on Jennifer. From the bathroom, I heard him say, “Better start pushing, William is on his way.” There I was, in the bathroom with my pants down, and my son
was being born. No use feeling bashful, I rushed out into a room full of people. I literally watched William’s birth with my pants down. It seemed fitting somehow.

  One, two, three pushes from Jennifer, and William is out. His body is small, only three pounds and two ounces. He looks so little in the doctor’s hands. His eyes are closed and his arms are crossed over the front of his body. I do not see particulars. I see only my son, the one that decided not to come. Jennifer looks and smiles as her tearful eyes hand him silently over to me. Motherhood pushes her on. She has another baby to birth, and it will be a long night. William is my charge now. In some ways, I think he always was.

  This is the moment I cannot anticipate. What will it feel like to touch my firstborn? William is wrapped in a blanket and handed to me. This has been such a long road I have been traveling. I am rejoining the group at yet another level—by entering an ageless club of proud fathers. Yet my passage is through death. The paradox, the struggle of my life comes fully to bear. This is the moment where the silence in me could have broken in either direction. I am vulnerable, I am lost, and I am in love, all at once. As I bring William against my breast, my life is being defined. He is warm … how could he be warm? How could death be so beautifully warm? I look over at his mother, lost in the work of delivering her next boy. It is she. It is her love that surrounds our child. She has been giving and protecting his life even through his death. I feel a mother’s strength, but also our humanity. We are living, loving creatures, traveling through both life and death. Our drive for light permeates even the dark. In this moment, I have never been so in love with life … and so unafraid of dying. Life and death are not opposites. They are partners in the same belly.

  In a twin birth, it is best for the second to happen quickly after the first. Apparently, as the time between births grows, so does the risk to the second child. The good news is that Paul is definitely on the move across her belly—like a fish just barely surfacing. The movement of the skin on Jennifer’s stomach marks his travels. The doctor informs us that this behavior is not uncommon. Twins share cramped space. Take one out and it’s a party in there. We watch Paul basking in his newfound freedom. Then the contractions hit; the walls of his palace close in around him, but he is undeterred. Paul continues his roaming.

  The night wears on. Jennifer’s labor stalls. Despite Paige’s magic tricks and the labor-inducing drugs, the contractions never reach birthing velocity. Paul just won’t present in the birth canal. He is having too much fun.

  Not so his father. Despite my communion with William, my fear of death still lingers in the room. I need this other boy to live. Paige and Jennifer know everything is fine, but I need confirmation. Hour after hour passes. I move between holding William and fixating on the monitor following Paul’s heartbeat. William is taken away briefly, given a bath, and returned to our room swaddled in blankets. I begin to have doubts. In the early morning, I detect a smell. I am horrified and crushed. I turn to Paige and say, “Maybe William should be taken away. I think he is beginning to smell.” Paige asks the nurse to leave briefly and comes to me, crying and smiling. “Matt, that is not William you’re smelling. The nurse has really bad BO.” We break out laughing. Jennifer joins in, as she has been struggling with the nurse’s smell all night. Lifted from my hole, I go over and pick up William and kiss his little head.

  At ten the next morning, the doctor recommends a cesarean section. We are relieved. Jennifer is exhausted, and we need Paul to join his family in the outer world. Enough with clinging to your mother, I tell him.

  As the father, I am present during the C-section. Jennifer is given a spinal block, so she is wide awake. A surgical screen separates her head from the rest of her body. I am positioned at the juncture so I can see the surgery and talk to Jennifer while making eye contact. At one point, I am literally watching the doctor’s hands pulling out her guts when Jennifer turns to me and says, “You know, I could really go for a cheeseburger.” I am now witness to the greatest moment of mind-body disconnection that I will ever experience. The only possible reply I can muster: “That’s my girl.”

  In only a moment’s time, I watch Paul being pulled from Jennifer’s belly, his cry becoming audible like sound emerging from a tunnel. He is beautiful and healthy. I watch him have a brief newborn physical examination while Jennifer is sewn back together. He passes brilliantly and is taken to get cleaned up. I hear Jennifer’s command, “Don’t let that boy out of your sight! Bring him to me as soon as you can.” As I ride up in the elevator with Paul and the nurse, I am the proud father of two.

  Later, William and Paul and Jennifer and I are physically in the same room for the only hours we ever will be. I am struck by the calm, the beauty and ease with which we are a family. Paul in Jennifer’s arms, William in mine, we are happy as we drift off into the silence of sleep.

  Paul is almost four now, and the office in which I write this book is a studio built across our driveway. I hear the garage door open and his feet lightly hitting the pavement. It is through the silence that I feel him approach. I am both outside with him as the crispness of October touches the sweetness of his face and inside typing hopeful words into the dulling glow of my computer. As his pace quickens up the wooden ramp, I feel his presence enter my body. It is the strings of silence that connect us, like strands of stretching taffy. He is the continuation of life, and I am grateful for the opportunity of living.

  The door opens. “Papa, when are you coming in?”

  “In a minute,” I say.

  Paul walks sheepishly across the floor and stands next to the desk drawer with the Life Savers in it. As he plops a piece of candy into his mouth, his brown eyes sparkle. “It tastes good, Papa!” The silence within me smiles because I know that he is right.

  Afterword

  I

  Life and death traveling as partners in the same belly—an experience that we have shared through the story of the birth of my sons. It is not just my story, however. It is an energetic truth that is occurring right now in this moment. You are living and dying simultaneously. This is the story of our aging consciousness. It is both the beginning and the end. It is a paradox of our existence and it gives me reason for hope.

  Life and death, silence and action, emptiness and fullness at the same time—these are inward features of everyone’s life. They are truths that do not lead to answers. Instead, they invite us to believe in and appreciate our own experience. When we do, when we carefully listen to what we experience, the next story begins, the practical one, the story of what happens beyond waking.

  II

  What moves a person to action? After the birth of William and Paul, something shifted in me. Up until that point, I had been diligently practicing yoga and teaching an adaptive yoga class at the Courage Center, but my mind-body musings had remained abstract and philosophical. This was a means of self-protection. I was willing to tell other people about the nature of minds and bodies, but I lacked the strength to share my personal awakening, to make my insights come alive. That changed when William’s body was warm, when Paul’s crying became audible, like sound emerging from a tunnel. There are moments in life when it becomes necessary to do something more, when strength is no longer the question, but only what needs to be done. I needed to let my experience be the teacher. I started to write Waking in the month following the birth—March, 2000.

  The problem was that I didn’t really know how to write, at least not something people would want to read. I was trained to write as an analytic philosopher, but knew nothing of telling a story. For the most part, analytic writing is stripped bare of beauty and description. It employs rigid language as a means to hold down abstraction. The value is placed on creating an impersonal voice that can convey a sense of objectivity. It is useful for its purpose, but does not typically lead to a page-turning story.

  In those first months between March and June of 2000, I fumbled around writing what is now Chapter Two—waking up from my coma and the description of the acc
ident scene. I also wrote a whole chapter that is now reduced to the opening sentence of Chapter One—about my nickname Jolly. These writing experiences were enough to convince me that I needed further instruction. I signed up for the first Duluth Writers’ Workshop at the University of Minnesota Duluth, a nine-day course in the town of my childhood. There were three independent sections in this workshop: poetry, fiction, and memoir. Ironically, I signed up for the fiction section. My reasoning was that I needed to learn how to tell a story. Apparently, I still hadn’t grasped that I needed to tell my story and not someone else’s.

  As luck would have it, the fiction section was cancelled. The workshop organizer convinced me that, given my submitted sample of writing, I would be better off in the memoir section. This is how I met Patricia Francisco, my writing teacher, first editor, and now close friend. Patricia is the person who showed me how to fall in love with writing. I particularly remember two conversations early in our relationship. In one of them, Patricia told me that I was “a ripe piece of fruit and my story was long overdue.” With these simple phrases, she let me know that I was ready, and that I had a story worth telling. She also gave me a gentle sense of urgency—my story should ripen no more.