A River of Love

I was only five years old at the time. My mother attended summer college, so my grandparents would care for me and my siblings while she was away. I was always excited to drive down those long country gravel roads that led to the Brown Church, where my grandparents’ small trailer stood. I loved the feel of the truck vibrating from the loud engine. I would impatiently wait for the truck to come to a complete halt before I would run for the river, just half a mile away. My socks and shoes were trailing behind me as I would kick them off to play in the water. 

*

I am sitting in the dark, maroon chair, holding my popcorn, excited to watch a movie. I had not been able to do so in an exceptionally long time because of my other two children constantly keeping me busy. But in this rare, quiet moment, it is just me and my mother, and my belly, swollen with my third child. I let my mind wander to when I first got pregnant with my oldest daughter, my first child. I was standing there in my blue jean bibs and two braided strands of my long hair. She wanted me to hurry and eat her soup for my baby was hungry, she would say. Grandma was always wanting me to take care of myself and eat. I am brought to reality as the lights began to fade in the dark red theatre with the white lights on the walls. I think about my baby boy and how his kicks are so powerful, as I glide my hand slowly across my belly. The belly is feeling awfully hard to the touch. I notice the contraction is lasting much too long to be a false one. I am curious, so I decide to check the time and count how far apart the contractions are and if they are consistent. Exactly seven minutes apart, so I know these are not Braxton Hicks contractions. I turn to my mother, who is engrossed in the movie, tap her arm, and say with urgency, “It’s time.” 

*

She would make the bathwater warm and would brush her fingers through my hair with baby shampoo. I loved the fresh air as I bathed in the white tub that sat to the side of the trailer. She would hum as she dried me off and put my clothes on me, before tucking us children into bed and lighting the old-time kerosene lantern. I loved to hear their sincere prayers they spoke at night. I could smell the Bengay from the room she and grandpa slept in. I remember hearing her and grandpa singing in Lakota, and would I lay there, content, until drifting off to sleep to the songs of nightingales. 

*

My daughter’s hand slowly releases my hand, as they wheel me away to the delivery room. I place my hands so softly on my swollen belly and inside, I think, we will be okay, my son. They rush me into the blue room with some clouds in a frame above the hospital bed. I lay there with a cold wash cloth on my forehead for some comfort. I felt overly excited, and I was familiar with what is to take place for the birth. I watch them hook up the IV line swiftly into my vein on the side of my wrist. I am thankful I had prepared for this moment looking at his blue baby bag. I was able to at least have some very tiny ice chips to quench my thirst while I was waiting for my husband to arrive from work. The monitor next to me is playing the sound of the baby heartbeat like a beautiful song. I am thinking of all the boy names we talked about months before our son’s arrival. As I lay there, I am triggered with thoughts of what she might have been feeling in her moments giving birth to my mother. I remember my mom once spoke of my grandma having her in this old one-bedroom cabin away from the city hospital. She told me of the winter storm that trapped them, and they had to move forward with boiling hot water and prepare for the baby. My grandma realized her water broke, leaving her no time and the only option to give birth at home. My grandpa had my mom’s brothers break down wood for the winter storm was setting in fast. I can only relate to the fear she must have felt in those final moments before giving birth. She had only her faith alone to deliver this baby safely with my grandpa by her side. I am inspired by her strength to have endured such trying, but beautiful moments with bravery and be steadfast in her faith. Yes, I am scared and filled with intense emotions waiting for the next step we need to take for this baby in my womb. I am also reminded in this moment that I will do all that I have to breathe for my son. I will do just as my grandma did, and I will rely on my own faith to bring my son safely into this world. In my eyes, she was strong in making the choice she had to make to give life to my mother in such a remote location.

*

On the riverbank, I am trying to catch these dark green frogs I am so curious to play with. I instantly love the way the soft mud squishes between my tiny toes. I can see grandma looking at me through the kitchen window. I can see the rows of tall grass almost taller than me in ocean like wave across the flat plain terrain. I remember feeling so happy kicking my feet in the mud. My grandma would love it when I got so dirty from the outdoors. I can see my grandpa, carrying buckets of water off in the distance from where I am standing. I could feel the sun beaming off my shoulders and back. I had cute tiny bibs, dirty from mud splattering from playing with my stick.  

*

The doctor comes in and notifies us that the baby is showing signs of distress on the monitor. I squeeze my husband’s hand, as I feel my heart fall into the pit of my stomach. I ask the doctor, “What do we have to do to get process moving faster?” He informs me that he will have to break the water to speed up everything. I decided to fold my hands in prayer to God, “Please keep my son and me safe.” My grandma would always tell me to pray for every hardship. The doctor comes back into the room with his equipment to break my water. With him is a nurse, who will be my person, who will hold my hand during this. Before I know it, my water hits the hospital floor with a sound like that of the river back at Brown Church. I feel this rush inside my body to give all I have left to fight for my son.

*

She would just hold me on her lap wrapped with her arms around my tiny little body. I could hear her heartbeat as my head was pressed against her chest. She would sing such beautiful melodies like the birds I would hear outside. She would always tell me to stay close by her all the time. I would always love to climb up in the trees that stood so many years at Brown Church. She would always tell me to not climb so high up because I could really get hurt one of these days. My favorite part of my day in summer months was riding in the back of my grandpa’s truck. I liked the way the air would slapped my face repeatedly, leaving light red marks on my cheeks, and the way the river had a slow current, safe enough for us kids to play in it. My grandpa would take us berry picking in the big trees a few miles drive away from Brown Church. I thought it was so fun to be standing in the back of the loud engine truck. I held my basket to grab the big, round, yellowish-red cherries from the tree, as meanwhile grandpa was driving with caution. Grandma would sit in the back with me and help me grab more cherries. I thought this was the coolest part of spending summer days with my grandparents. I would be so excited for her to make some cherry pies for us to eat at breakfast. I could see some small white caps off in the distance where the river flowed.

*

My mother-in-law is pressing a cold washcloth on my forehead. I am doing my breathing, slowly, as much as I can tolerate. The pain is immense. I am exhausted, and for every contraction, there is a minute apart and a minute of rest. I can feel my energy draining out of my body, along with sweat pouring out all my pores. The room is filled with nurses, my mother-in-law, and my husband. My doctor tells me it is time for me to give my final push. I watch the doctor brace himself, his foot pressed up against my birthing table with forceps in hand to help my son come into the world. This is the final push that brings my crying baby boy straight into the doctor’s arms. I nurse my son right away as soon as I get to hold him in my arms. I feel no pain as the placenta comes out between my thighs. The doctor makes sure my baby and I are comfortable before he leaves the room. I feel much relief as I hold my son. He is opening his eyes to look at my face, while also crying so loudly. A mother’s love is most unconditional. 

*

My hand touched that hot toaster for just that second, my skin fell off my tiny hand and my grandpa could not get his truck to start. He scooped me up in his arms and carried me a few blocks over to the hospital. I remember feeling his plaid shirt under my left hand holding onto his shoulder as he walked fast to the building. They wrapped my tiny hand, almost smothered in gauze. I wiped away the dry tears from earlier. Grandpa held my uninjured hand as we walked few blocks to their army-colored green house. Grandma had a pot of soup heated up for all of us to eat for supper. She gave me a huge hug as soon I entered the house. I know she felt some type of guilt, but I didn’t blame her for what happened. The very next morning we would travel back home to Bismarck, North Dakota, to my mother. 

*

I put his little blue sleeper on his tiny body, as I prepare for us to finally be able to go home. He just stares at me while I also fit him securely in his car seat. They do not recommend we put him in any type of coat, out of caution. I am excited at the thought of enjoying a nice, hot bath. I am also excited to see my oldest daughter, Dyna, and my son, Kody. We name my new baby boy Brayden because it means brave in Greek. My husband is so excited for us to all be home together again. He is taking all my stuff down in a huge tan cart that the staff brought to us. As I am packing up all Brayden’s gifts and clothes, I cannot help but feel overwhelmed with love for my family and home.  

*

Grandma would pack us some crackers and cheese for the hour-long drive back to city. She would also have a water jug for us if we were thirsty. I felt anxious to finally see my mom after being away from her. I grabbed my tiny Bible before I jumped in the truck to leave. I loved the smell of grandma’s Bengay and cold crisp air from the morning dew. I loved the way my grandma was so in-tune with my grandpa’s singing. There was my tiny little voice, singing my little heart out. I felt such joy and happiness all while grandpa drove us with the sun rising in the distance. 

*

I am finally home, walking up three flights of stairs to get to my apartment. My kids quickly embrace me as I enter the door. I am home finally to my children, all together in our tiny apartment. My mom is in the kitchen, cooking me up some soup. My husband takes me to the bed in my room, so that I can rest my tired legs. I am glad to be in my own bed again, wrapped in my big black and white comforter. Brayden is sleeping next to me in a bassinet. My mom carefully carries my soup to me, along with a cup of very hot tea. This will help me heal faster, my mother’s love turned into food. She watches Brayden as he sleeps in his bassinet. I can feel her love grow in this moment. My grandma calls me to tell me that she is so thankful I am home with our healthy baby. She sends her love. 

*

When we arrived at my mother’s, I ran right into her arms and we all had so much to tell her about our adventures. She was so happy to see us that she almost forgot our bags in the truck. I could smell the hot soup aroma from the stove for all of us to enjoy. She told my grandparents to just stay the night, for the sun would set early due to daylight savings time. They agreed to stay, and I was so happy as I rushed off to get them extra blankets–I was happy to finally be home with my family, all together again, after a long summer day away. 

*

I am watching my grandma hold my Brayden, ever so close to her heart. She has always kept many sweaters, but today she is wearing her favorite, the blue one. She has just had her nails done by the staff and she is showing me the purple color. I ask her If Brayden is too heavy for her to hold. She responds by squeezing him extra tight and saying she wants to hold him longer. I always have the most beautiful conversations with my grandma, especially now, while she is in the nursing home. I wish her memories never disappear from her and that she never forgets this moment, her eyes locked on this tiny baby boy, him staring right back at her. She always loves it when I bring her chicken nuggets and fries from McDonald’s. She sits in that chair, humming to my son and nibbling away at her lunch, reminding me of the way she would hum to me when I was small while I would smack away on the delicious food she would make me. 

*

I am sitting here, looking at my son, laying there in the sun. I am brought back to memory of the sun at Brown Church, my grandparents, and those long summer days. I think of how my mother held my arm ever so closely, wrapped in her arms as we walked to the door to leave the theatre to get ready for the moment of the baby’s arrival. I love that my oldest daughter was holding my hand all the way to the emergency room doors. I am so wrapped in my thoughts of how my grandmother loved me ever so beautiful in my life moments. I think of the quietude that surrounded me all those years ago as the sun beat down on my small body.  I will forever remember those old country backroads to what she always called home, Brown Church. That was home. I think of the love my grandma would share with me, and I feel such immense happiness as I look at my son with all these memories floating inside me. I call his name, and his head bobbles around to find my face. I can tell in his eyes that he hears my voice, the way they bubble up. Brayden, my sweet son, I will love you just like my grandmother loves me. 

I will always remember my beautiful Hunkpapa Lakota grandmother Ethel Long Elk. I dedicate this to her.