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The doctor looked at me. “I know this isn’t what you want, but I can’t watch this anymore. Your baby is telling us she needs to come out. Now.”

I burst into tears.

Pregnancy was not something I enjoyed. And I have a lot of sadness and guilt about that. But while I loved that I WAS pregnant, I hated actually physically being pregnant. I muddled my way through, despite the pain that made walking, rolling over, or standing hurt starting at 13 weeks, despite the contractions that began at 15 weeks, despite the month of insomnia that made me feel crazy and delirious.

One Saturday in early November, Maya got sick. She threw up all day, had a fever, and just wanted to snuggle with me the whole day. That night we finally got her to bed, and within an hour I wasn’t feeling well.

“I’m nauseous,” I told Jeremy.

“It’s been a long, stressful day. Let’s go to bed.” He passed out immediately and within an hour I was shaking him awake.

“I can’t stop shaking. I’m freezing and hot. I have a fever and I am so so nauseous.”

And thus it began.

For the next two weeks, I barely got out of bed. I had a fever for 9 days and no appetite. I stopped eating and barely drank. I had no energy. I didn’t go to work. I called the doctor constantly and they reassured me that it was a virus, made worse by being pregnant, and to do my best to eat and stay hydrated. I went for a flu swab: negative. After a week my mom drove me to the doctor where they ran a million labs, which showed that I was super dehydrated and my body was hungry, but there was no clear cause of what was going on. A virus, they said. They gave an IV of fluid and promised it would help. I didn’t feel any better after. I just wanted to sleep and I wanted the fever to go away and I didn’t even care about missing work, or what Jeremy was feeding Maya for dinner, or that I hadn’t been able to play with her or talk to him in days. It took all the energy I had to get to the car and back into bed. I barely slept for more than an hour at a time because the fever and chills and sweats woke me up.

After 2 weeks, the fever abated. I wasn’t really better, but had to get back to work. I couldn’t make it through a full day without falling asleep at my desk. My mom had to come over after work so I could get into bed and sleep.

On a Wednesday after working a few hours and leaving, exhausted, I went to the doctor because I was having some cramping.

“You’re not dilated, and the baby sounds great. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, because you’ve had cramping and other symptoms throughout the pregnancy. Plus, you’re still recovering from being sick which could be the cause,” she told me.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to stomach pains. I sat in the bathroom with GI discomfort for a while, but told Jeremy that yes, he could get up early to go to the gym and I would be fine. By the time he got to the gym, I called him.

“We need to get this checked out,” I told him.

“Do I need to come home?” he asked. I couldn’t decide and finally told him, yes.

By the time he got home, I was having contractions every 5 minutes. I was 35 weeks along.

“I called the doctor, they said we can go straight to the hospital to be evaluated,” I told him. He looked at my hospital bag I had ready by the door.

“You’re bringing that? Really?” he half-laughed.

I looked him dead in the eye. “You might want to pack a bag.”

On the way to the hospital I threw up. By the time we got there and checked in, and got hooked up, my contractions were intense and every 2 minutes. They ran a million tests, took a zillion vials of blood, and put me on an IV.

“Let’s see what’s going on,” they said. “You might be dehydrated which could be the cause of this, and we’ll see if we can slow down the contractions. Or it could be appendicitis. Let’s give it some time.”

We waited.

I asked a zillion questions about what could be going on, what would happen if it didn’t resolve.

After a while, some of the blood tests had come back with no real information, but I started running a fever. Around that time, the contractions intensified and the baby’s heart rate got way too high.

“We’re going to watch it for a little,” the doctor told me, “But I want you to know that babies cannot sustain heart rates that high for too long. We might need to talk about changing our plan.”

I started to panic.

After being checked multiple times over the next hour, they determined that I was only 1 cm dilated and the baby’s heart rate was still in a danger zone.

“I know your birth plan outlines something entirely different,” the doctor told me. “But something is wrong, and I can’t watch this anymore. We need to get the baby out now. She can’t sustain this in the time it would take to wait and see or induce you.”

I burst into tears. “You don’t understand,” I said. “My older daughter’s birth was so traumatic and this time is supposed to be different, this is not what’s supposed to happen.”

I asked a few questions, but it was clear to Jeremy and me that there was no option. Our baby was in distress and they needed to protect her.

Things moved fast. They immediately began prepping for surgery, bumping out someone who was a non-emergent c-section. They collaborated and got dressed while answering my millions of questions.

“I can’t even have blood drawn without laying down and panicking,” I shook. “I can’t have a spinal, I can’t survive surgery, I can’t I can’t I can’t.”

I left my body and saw myself dial my mom’s number. “I’m okay,” I said tearfully, “But the baby has to come out. I’m going in for an emergency c-section now.”

My mom cried too, but said, “If this is what has to happen, then I’m glad they’re doing it. You are both going to be just fine. I love you and will talk to you after.”

The midwife I had been working with told me she would stay with me the whole time while the doctors operated.

In a surreal fog, they got me into the OR, got me on the table. Erica, the midwife, held my hands while they gave me the anesthesia and held on tight when I panicked that I was numb, panicked about nausea, panicked about the baby, panicked about it all.

Erica talked to me the whole time, and finally I heard the doctor say, “she’s out, and she’s beautiful.”

“Go!” I burst into tears and told Jeremy. “Please, go see her.” After a few moments I heard her cry.

“She’s breathing! She’s okay!” the NICU doctors called over.

“Maggie,” I bawled. “Her name is Maggie.”

They took her right up to the NICU and I made Jeremy go with her. The thought of her being alone caused so much emotional pain.

“This isn’t what’s supposed to be happening,” I sobbed to Erica, as they stitched me up and I lay there without my baby.

When they wheeled me into recovery, I had texts from Jeremy. “She’s okay,” they said.

Moments later, I felt hunger and thirst for the first time since I had gotten sick weeks ago. I begged the nurses for food, and devoured ice chips and cereal and crackers.

The doctor came to talk to me. “There is nothing conclusive that explains your virus or why you started having contractions. We ran a ton of tests and none give an explanation. But what I can tell you is that our bodies are incredible. And babies are incredible. And your body and your baby knew that something was very wrong, and she needed to get out so you could both be okay.”

The neonatologist came in, and I only heard pieces of what she said. Baby okay….breathing support….feeding tube….35 weeks….several weeks in the NICU…..not with you in the room….while before going home….

I began to cry again.

Maggie was in the NICU for 17 days, and I cried for the bulk of those 17 days. I don’t think there’s a way to convey the pain of not having your baby with you in the hospital, or leaving the hospital each day without your baby (let alone trying to recover from major surgery, trying to keep things normal for your toddler you have barely seen in weeks, and pumping every 3 hours round the clock to have milk for the feeding tube). The NICU experience is a whole post in itself that I’ll write some day but I think I am plenty drained for now.

She’s now this perfect, thriving 3 month old baby, who as her pediatrician says, “doesn’t even know she was born early.”

My sickness and her birth and the NICU weeks seem like yesterday and also like a surreal other lifetime.

It was hugely traumatic, but I’m healing better from it than with Maya’s birth (which I still haven’t written about), largely because I know this time that I need to write about it and talk about it. And I’m able to be so traumatized and yet so thankful. She knew she had to come out. And it happened the complete opposite in every possible way from what we wanted – but she’s here. She’s fine. She’s great.

Thankful doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Daily Gratitude

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If you follow me on Instagram (@jenkracoff) you know that for about a month now, most nights I have posted a “Daily Gratitude” in my IG Story.

Here’s the backstory.

A few months ago, my friend Heather who had some less-than-ideal health circumstances began sharing a few things each night that she was grateful for. At first I kind of ignored it, because “gratitude” is such a woo-woo buzz word. But each night she posted it and I really began to read it.

What I liked is that rather than general things (health, happiness, family) she focused on small things that typically might go overlooked. For example, less traffic than usual on the way home. Or, no line at the pharmacy.

I don’t really know when or why, but I decided to share some of my own. It indirectly made me more mindful, as I was examining little bits of my day for small moments or things that brought me joy, Kairos, or awareness. It started almost becoming a fun challenge – I would keep a running note on my phone and jot down things as they happened, and at the end of each day I’d share about 5 of them on Instagram.

Here are some examples, in case you aren’t on IG: The joy Raven gets from knocking things off the counter; when Maya and I stop in silence outside to hear the birds chirp; Turmeric tea; 20 minutes to myself; stretching out the arches in my feet, the moment when the sky clears and the sun comes out.

It’s been about a month and I’ve kept up with it almost every night.

Here is what has NOT happened: I haven’t stopped feeling exhausted or frustrated. I haven’t stopped sometimes bursting into tired tears or needing to take a deep breath when everything is too much. I haven’t felt happy all the time. (Duh.)

Here is what HAS happened: I’m more mindful. I look forward to finding those moments each day and noticing things that a month ago I would’ve ignored. While I do sometimes blanket statement (“Today was a rough day”), because that’s life and I’m human, I am much more aware of smaller moments and can identify wonderful things in spite of other difficulties.

The other very cool thing is that I have connected with many, many people over this. Each night, at the bottom of my gratitude sharing, it says “What’s yours?” And each night, several people (sometimes the same ones, sometimes different ones) send me a message telling me what they are grateful for. I have gotten no fewer than 10 messages from different people telling me they have begun being more mindful of those little moments as well, because of having read mine. (Heather, credit to you – look at how you’re paying it forward!!)

When I first started blogging the best thing was connecting with others and this is having the same effect.

So, whether you write it down or post it or think it or share it with me, I encourage you to think each day:

What are you grateful for? What brought you joy today? What made time stand still, even for a brief moment? There are big things, and maybe you’re grateful for your family, your children, your health, your job, your house. Of course. But notice the little things. The little moments. They’re there, even on the roughest of days.

A list

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Things I didn’t know when Maya was a newborn that I knew with Maggie (in no particular order or importance):

  • I can survive even when I’m exhausted. I am superwoman.
  • There are other ways to soothe first before nursing every time she fusses at night
  • If she cries for a minute, she’s okay
  • Other people can hold her or do things for her and she’ll be okay
  • Swaddle as long as possible
  • Find other mothers to talk to who are In It also
  • Sound machine is a necessity from day one
  • It’s okay (and good) to not nurse on a perfect every 3 hour schedule
  • I am not neglecting her if I don’t talk to her every second of every day
  • If blowouts happen it could be a diaper sizing issue
  • Managing my postpartum (and regular) anxiety is crucial and worth it
  • I am a great mother
  • It’s okay to not love every minute of every day. It doesn’t mean I don’t love my daughter.
  • Every single mother has some level of a hard time even if they don’t talk about

What do you know now, that you wish you knew then?

Do not be afraid

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There are a lot of things about parenting that I don’t know and make up on a daily basis. But there are also a few things that I know with absolute certainty are ways in which I want to parent.

One is to do everything I can to ensure that my kids don’t grow up being afraid of their own difficult feelings, but even more so, not afraid when others have difficult feelings.

When I was in college, I spent time with a friend and her two kids, the older of whom was 3 at the time. My friend’s friend was dying and it had been an incredibly emotional time. I was over their house when they got the news, and my friend cried and cried. The 3 year old said, “What’s wrong, Mama?” Her father, my friend’s husband, in a very well-meaning way, said, “Nothing, honey. Mommy’s fine.” And my friend told him, “No.” Through her tears she explained to her daughter that she was sad because her friend had died and when people die it makes us sad. Her daughter thought about it, and they hugged and chatted some more, and it was all okay.

That memory is etched into my brain. I decided right then and there, that was how I wanted to parent, too.

I don’t want my girls growing up afraid of their parents being upset. And the only way to work on that is to not make us being upset a big, bad, scary, hidden thing. And one way to do that is to not hide it. Because I know someone is wondering, no, I don’t explain to my 2.5 year old everything going on in my life and show her the depths of my anxiety at times or explain to her the ins and outs of medical issues or work problems. But when it’s obvious that I’m upset, or tired, or frustrated, I let her see it, and I talk about it in simple terms, and consequently? She already isn’t afraid. For example:

“You crying, Mama?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“I’m so tired. You know how sometimes when you’re tired you get grumpy or cry?”
“Yeah. Let’s go play.”

You see? Super easy. We label our feelings for her. She is used to hearing Mama and Daddy explain that they’re frustrated or tired or having a hard time. She’s seen us cry and watches with curiosity but not fear. She asks questions and we answer. And she says similar things, too, now.

I’m sad. I’m having a hard time. I’m grumpy. I’m fussy. I need space. I need to snuggle. I need Mama. I want Dada.

I don’t know much about parenting – but this I know in my core we are doing right.

On healing.

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You know when you’ve wrapped up a project or assignment and you’re psyched it’s all done until all of a sudden you realize you forgot to do a part of it and you freak out?

That’s how I’ve been feeling.

Glennon Doyle and Nadia Bolz-Weber talk about sharing from the scar, not the wound. This is something that took me many, many years to learn, but during the adulthood phase of my life, I’ve gotten good at it. I’ve learned to not write and share until something has passed, so that it’s not alarming, but more just facts that other people can read and relate to and feel less alone from.

Now, there is a time and place for sharing from the wound and I firmly believe that. Especially if you have a person or two you can talk to and unload to and be real with. That’s healing.  And, I think sometimes it’s okay to write from the wound, when it’s real and honest and not scary and would not make someone panic but might make them think, “Oh! It’s not just me. I’m not the only one who struggles/is still healing/has these experiences.”

So that’s what I was thinking could come from writing this. Just a little dose of being real, for the sake of being real, for the hope of connecting a thread from my heart to someone else’s.

I’m just going to tell it like it is:

I am well aware that healing is not linear and can take a long time. It’s just….it took a long time. A very long time. And I did so much work on so many things, and finally felt very healed. But I think I naively equated “healed” to “never struggling ever again.” And so when I started struggling again, it wasn’t just that it was intense feelings and thoughts, but the extreme layer of shock and self-judgment: How could this possibly be happening? I never once in my mind foresaw this as a possibility. Which is stupid. Idiot. Yes, I preach self-love and acceptance and all of that, and yet all I can feel for myself is embarrassment and shame. And that’s just the real truth.

I am having an intense influx of food and body thoughts for the first time in many, many years. I am very aware of why. But that doesn’t make it easier. It is distressing to me when every time I eat, a voice in my head that I haven’t heard in a decade whispers things that my brain latches onto. It’s not about acting on the thoughts – I am not. It’s that their mere presence takes up valuable real estate that I had back, and want back, and lead me to wonder, Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Is it possible this could be a thing again? I never thought that could ever happen. It feels out of my control and it’s scary.

With bad luck around timing, I have additionally been on edge with some trauma-related things coming up for me. There is also a clear reason for this, but it is also not making it easier. You can cognitively know things and talk yourself down from them and rationalize in your brain all day long – but if it’s stuck in your brain and your body, it’s harder to shake. I again had that second layer of judgment and worry here – I thought I was past this. I did the work. It never occurred to me I could struggle with this again. I thought I was healed. Again. Out of control and scary.

I did a very nice job ignoring it all and pushing it aside for a little while, but we know how well that  goes, right? So, unsurprisingly, it all took up residence in my body. And it wasn’t until I was having the start of panic attacks again for the first time in a long time, until I was feeling my skin crawling, until I was getting nauseous for no reason, until headaches were starting, that I realized/decided, Oh, right. The body always tries to tell us something. I guess ignoring it isn’t really an option.

It will all straighten out, I know that. I worry it won’t, but I also know it will. Blips and valleys are not the same as backslides, and you can never really be back where you were because you’re always healing and moving forward.

So what is the point of all of this, there is should always be a point, right?

Well, I guess it’s to remind you (and me) that blips happen and once things get easier they aren’t always easy every single day forever and that doesn’t mean you’ve failed, it just means that’s how it goes. And that ignoring and stuffing things away rarely (never) works. And that you have to try really hard to not judge and not panic and not despair, because that just adds to an already difficult situation. And that you are not alone, and you are not crazy.

Slow, sweet summer.

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I hate slowing down. I always have. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be as busy as possible. I always had a pit in my stomach on Fridays, knowing I had two full weekend days that were going to be slower and more relaxed, without work/school/schedules to keep me busy and occupied. For 9 summers I finished the school year, had one week off, worked full time all summer, and one week before school started again. Everyone told me I was crazy. I loved it. Those interim weeks were the hardest ones of the whole year.

Clearly there’s a lot to unpack there. Namely, a realization about which I am doing some soul-searching: maybe my love for being busy isn’t just a personality trait, but was a long-standing avoidance technique. The busier I was, the less time I had to think about difficult things, feel difficult emotions, etc.

Two summers ago was the first one I wasn’t working, but I had a newborn and I was a mess, and everything was a mess, and the days just passed somehow. Last summer was HARD. Maya was at a tough age. 14 months wasn’t young enough to just do anything (though she was never that type of baby) but not old enough to do a lot of things. She woke most days at 5:15 for the day, and despite my best efforts, napped once for 45 minutes. The days were long, I was so bored and so lonely, I cried a lot, and I was elated to go back to work at the end of August (let’s not even get into the guilt I felt about that).

This summer, I was fully prepared that it might be difficult again. But it has been nothing short of GLORIOUS. Maya is at the most wonderful age. We’ve slowed down and I’m enjoying it so much. She sleeps until a reasonable hour, we chat over a long breakfast, we have conversations and jokes, we cook together and run errands together and go places together, and it’s FUN. (Note: don’t get me wrong, you know I’m not the type to sugarcoat. There are moments I’m exhausted and feel like I’m going to lose my mind, but I’m talking overall here). She is an active little girl and we usually do something in the morning or afternoon, but during the opposite half of the day we often just end up outside, because that’s where she wants to be, running around our driveway, watering the flowers, going for a walk around the block, splashing in the water table, finding bugs.

“Yook at that, Mama!!!!!” she says all day long, pointing at things and telling me what she notices.

It is so different from when she was younger. She will now play alone for stretches of time, she actually takes naps (most days!), she doesn’t scream if I’m not holding her, meal times are long and leisurely, and I begin each day excited rather than filled with a sense of dread (being honest here. If you’re a new mom and feel that way – I freaking get it. All babies are cute but not all babies are easy. More on this another day).

And for the first time ever, when I looked at my calendar and realized that in 2.5 short weeks I’ll be back at work, I felt so sad. Time is rushing by and I just want it to slow down. And I was shocked. I have NEVER felt that way. I usually count down until the days the craziness starts again. But man has this summer been wonderful.

I think I’ll always default to loving being busy, because that’s how I’m wired, and plus, who doesn’t like to avoid other life stressors and difficult emotions? But I have learned that I CAN slow down, I CAN love it, and this time with my daughter has been more special than I ever imagined.

Lightly while deeply

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“It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me. So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling.” (Aldous Huxley)

Someone posted this quote the other day and I keep re-reading it; particularly the lines, “Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.” This struck a major chord with me.

As a Major Feeler and Super Empath and Highly Sensitive Person (I made up most of those titles), it truly never occurred to me that I could feel in any other way but intensely and deeply. It’s just my wiring, and I have accepted and embraced that over the years.

But this. Wow. Maybe even though I feel everything deeply, I can just dip my toe in the deep feeling rather than going underwater and drowning. Maybe I can feel the fear or despair or sadness or disappointment but not step into it, not let it drag me down like quicksand.

And maybe for someone who isn’t wired the way I am, you’re thinking, “Um. Obviously. Just…don’t let feelings take hold of you that way. Why would you?”

The answer, of course, as I’ve written and spoken about so many times, is that it isn’t a choice. When you’re wired this way, you no less choose to feel your feelings than you choose to feel the wind or the sun on your face. So in a lot of ways, it feels non-negotiable, that there IS no control over it at all.

But this quote – I don’t know, you know how sometimes people can say something or you can wonder something, but it’s not until you hear it in the right way at the right time, and then it finally clicks?

I can feel lightly WHILE feeling deeply. It’s an AND, not a BUT/OR.

I can try, I won’t always succeed, but I can try to embrace it without letting the quicksand pull me down. I can feel it but stay in the shallow end. I can experience it but just dip a toe in it.

It just made sense.

Feel lightly while feeling deeply.

New mantra.