Missionary Ballerina

Last year I spent two days at a women’s conference in Jinja.  In one session they had a panel of long-term missionaries from the area and interviewed them about what inspired them to go into the mission field and how God worked in their lives once they were here. One woman’s story was my favorite: 

Interviewer: What made you decide to be a missionary? 

Missionary: Well, when I was younger I loved ballet, and I also loved God. I wanted to do both with my life. So I told people I was going to be a missionary ballerina and travel the world dancing and telling people about God. Of course, it wasn’t until later that I learned a missionary ballerina isn’t really a thing…

When she said that, I leaned over to my friend and excitedly whispered, “I spend a lot of my time teaching kids at Noah’s Ark ballet—I’m a missionary ballerina!”

Then and there, I unofficially made that my new title. Katie Berkman: Missionary Ballerina. 

When I was six years old, I wanted to start taking ballet lessons. I don’t remember how it came up or what inspired me to ask for it, but through one way or another my first grade Christmas present was to start taking ballet and tap lessons at Jan’s School of Dance in Morton. It wasn’t a big studio—in face, Jan had converted her basement into a dance studio by putting in a vinyl floor and covering three walls with mirrors and a bar—but it was enough for the small classes she taught. 

The other girls had started practicing in September, so I was the latecomer. At the beginning of my first lesson, Jan told my mom I could join, but whether or not I performed in the recital at the end of the year would depend on how well I could catch up with the last few months of lessons. At the end of the first lesson, she said I could be in the recital. 

For the next nine years, once or twice a week I spent the afternoon in Jan’s basement learning demi pliés and chassés and tourjetés and a host of other things I can’t spell. By the time I reached junior high, most other girls had stopped dancing in favor of sports or free time, so by comparison I was one of the advanced students. I started coming to a younger class as Jan’s assistant teacher, correcting the girls and helping Jan keep order in exchange for a lower rate on my own lessons. 

I spent a year doing special ankle exercises so my feet and ankles would be strong enough to dance on pointe. Jan traced my feet and took measurements to get just the right shoes, and when my wooden-toed slippers finally came, I was ecstatic. For a few years, I woke up at five in the morning while the rest of the family was still sleeping, tied the ribbons on my shoes, swept all the dirt in the kitchen under the rug (except on Fridays, when I swept all the dirt from under the rug into a dustpan and finally threw it out), used the kitchen counter as a barre and did my stretches and exercises. Only one time did I fall and break a cabinet door. I didn’t wear flip flops to school for years because my toes were always ugly and bloody and bandaged from those beautiful, painful shoes. I won’t lie, I was proud.

When I was fourteen, after my freshman year of high school, Jan retired. Since hers was the only dance studio in Morton, if I wanted to continue lessons I would have to drive an hour to and from another studio, which meant quitting volleyball and softball to make time for that. I loved ballet, but not enough to give up sports for it. So at the age of fourteen, I also retired from ballet. 

Or so I thought. 

When I moved to Uganda ten years later and someone asked me to choreograph and teach a ballet dance for our Christmas cantata, of course I said yes. I still loved dancing; I just didn’t do it much anymore. I had ten dancers who I remember as teenagers, only now—five years later—they actually are teenagers, so they must have been pretty young in that first dance. We practiced in a small concrete-floor hut near the children’s home and performed in the cantata that Christmas. 

In the five years since then I have choreographed a ballet every Christmas for anywhere between two and twelve dancers. And from there it grew. I have included ballet lessons as part of the children’s holiday program, where I have had a class of 25 6-year-olds that I am happy to say was not as chaotic as it sounds. I taught ballet to a class of four-year-olds in the nursery school and have had a few groups of teenagers in between. 

I quickly realized that knowing how to dance does not necessarily mean I know how to teach dancing. Thank God for the internet. I made a lot of adjustments depending on the size and age of the group I was teaching, which can be summed up in an observation I made last Christmas: 

Teaching ballet to 14-year-olds: "Point front, point side, passé, first position. Pas de bourré, pas de bourrée, arabesque, relevé.”

Teaching ballet to 4-year-olds: "Point front, point side, tree! Catch your stars--one, two, three, four--and put them down. Rainbow arms! Open, close. Open, close. Airplane right, airplane left, catch your ball!"

Last year when I was choreographing a dance for four teenage girls, for inspiration I took them to a Uganda National Contemporary Ballet performance in Kampala. It wasn’t long before I realized the word “contemporary” in the name is much more prevalent than the word “ballet,” but we enjoyed seeing different styles of dance and even used some of the moves we saw in the dance we were learning at the time. The girls’ favorite part was when the whole audience was welcomed onstage at the end to eat cake and talk with the dancers. I don’t think they talked with a single person, but they did spend half an hour dancing around the big stage in front of a real auditorium. Seeing them love dance makes my heart smile.

About two years ago I also started teaching Stomp. What is stomp, you ask? Well, it is step dancing, only I thought it was called stomp and no one here knows what it is anyway so I have gotten away with the mistake for years. Maybe they will never find out. While stomp on its own was fun, I discovered that mixing stomp and ballet in one dance is better. There is something about finding a song where we can bring out both the gracefulness of the music and the heavy beat that I find fun.

But fun is not enough. Pretty good ballet is not enough. Even perfect ballet is not enough. How is this ministry? I have struggled with that question a lot as I have taught more and more dances, more and more groups, on more and more occasions. If I want to call myself a missionary ballerina, surely the missionary part of that needs to encompass more than just living here. Doesn’t it? 

It is a slow process, but I am learning. 

When I choreographed for recent cantatas, the dancers and I talked about what it means to be onstage. The cantatas are a form of evangelism where we perform the Christmas story and share the gospel message through music, dance and drama. I told the dancers that if they are representing Jesus onstage, they had better represent Jesus offstage as well. It opened up the door to address issues of disrespect, disobedience, and dishonesty, to name a few, and what it looks like to represent Jesus to the people around us in our everyday lives.

A few months ago I taught my first solo dance to one of the teenagers, Tamar. Those were some of my favorite rehearsal times ever because we could actually get personal about what we were doing. While we stretched, I had her listen to the song and we talked about what the meaning was. Since the song was about remembering God’s faithfulness and all He has done for us, we shared stories of how He has been faithful in our own lives. Before we began to dance each lesson, we sat on the floor with our legs extended in front of us, the soles of our feet pressed against each other, and we reached down and held each other’s hands and stretched and prayed. We thanked God for His faithfulness and for our bodies that are able to dance. We prayed that we would always remember what He has done and is doing in our lives. We prayed that the people in church who would see Tamar present this dance would listen to the words and be touched by them. We dedicated the dance to God as our worship, over and over. And it was. And it was beautiful. 

Often a dance is born in my head when I am listening to a song. A move or two pop into my mind, then a few more, then larger pieces of choreography and what can make it unique from the other dances I have taught. Before long I am listening to the song on repeat (I have an incredibly patient husband), half-dancing around our tiny kitchen and frantically typing up the choreography before I forget it. The only way to get the dance out of my head is to have people perform it; it never goes away on its own. 

The most recent dance to take root in my mind was another ballet-stomp. I thought I was ambitious in wanting to find 18 dancers to fill the places in my head, so I made a general announcement to all the teenagers in church… and got more than 40 takers. This has been quite the exhilarating learning experience. I knew we only had time for five lessons before we needed to present, but these dancers have shown an attention and enthusiasm that I definitely couldn’t find in the six-year-olds and I am so proud of them, not necessarily because of their dancing abilities, but because of their commitment and effort. They not only show up on time to lessons, but many of them come early! It is a whole new experience for me. 

During our first lesson, I gave them all a worksheet to take home. On one side were printed the lyrics to the song, and on the other side were a few questions about the meaning of the song and how it applies to their lives. I told them the paper was their ticket to get into practice the next week, and they took it seriously. At the beginning of practice when we stretch, the teenagers share their testimonies with the rest of the group. We get to hear from one another how God has set us free from different burdens and chains in our lives and be encouraged by the work of the Holy Spirit all around us. Some take this part more seriously than others, but the good thing is they all hear it. We begin each rehearsal by praying and dedicating that time and dance to God as our worship. I told them the first week that even if no one in church has any idea what the song is about or cares that we are doing this, as long as it inspires one dancer to recognize what God has done in his or her life and remember to thank Him for that, it is all worth it. We have one rehearsal left before we present the dance in church and I am honestly sad to see this one end. 

Possibly one of my proudest moments as a ballet teacher happened when we returned to Noah’s Ark in March this year. The schools had been preparing for Easter Carols, their school Easter program to present to parents and staff. All the students present songs, dances, poems, or skits, and in the past I have often been called upon to teach ballet or stomp. This year we were still gone when preparations started, but I came back to find that Tamar and Brenda (two of my more experienced dancers) had trained the entire fourth grade class using moves and choreography from previous dances I had taught them. It was really special to see that class onstage and know that this time I was not the one who made it happen. 

Last year for the newspaper Tamar wrote about her experience as a ballet dancer: 

“Hi everyone! I am Tamar, one of the children at Noah’s Ark. I want to tell you a little bit about ballet. I think ballet is one of the most beautiful types of dance. You don’t see it often in Uganda.  I did some ballet for the first time when I was in Primary 4 (fourth grade) and now I am in Senior 2 (a sophomore in high school). 

“Together with a few other girls I get lessons from A. Katie. She has taught us a lot of new things like arabesque, plié, tourjetté, passé, pique turn, developé and chassé. In the lessons we learn new positions and choreography and at home we have to practice and stretch everyday. 

“We perform our ballet dances to music with a Christian message. We have already danced twice in the church service and also during our school Christmas program and in the Christmas cantata. I hope that my friends and I keep getting better at ballet and many people enjoy our talents.” 

Tamar in her first ballet dance in 2014

Tamar in her most recent ballet dance in 2019

I had no clue that nine years of ballet lessons were preparing me for the mission field. I absolutely love the way God works. I hope and pray that for many years to come I can be His missionary ballerina. 

If you give a grandma a baby...

If you give a grandma a baby… she will say she is too thin and probably want to feed her. 

But the baby will make a mess with the food and get it all over her clothes, so Grandma will decide to change the baby’s clothes into something clean. While she is changing the baby’s clothes, she will decide to change her diaper too. 

The baby will enjoy being naked so much, Grandma will decide it is time for her to play naked for a while. She will put a towel on the floor and let the baby crawl around on it. 

But the dangerous thing with naked babies is—they don’t know how to use the bathroom. The baby will pee all over the towel, and the floor, and herself. So Grandma will decide it’s time to give baby a bath. She will put her in the basin with a toy and some soap and let her play until the baby is clean. 

When the baby gets cold, Grandma will get her out of the bath and dress her up in something nice, maybe even with a bow. 

The baby will look so nice Grandma will decide to take her for a walk to show all of her friends. As soon as they step onto the verandah, Grandma will see the johnny jump-up and decide to put the baby in there instead. 

The baby will bounce and move her feet a lot, which will remind Grandma of dancing. So she will dress up the baby like a teeny tiny ballerina. 

Grandma will want to play some music for the baby to dance to, but the speaker won’t work, so she will decide to use the piano instead. 

All this bouncing and dancing and piano playing will make baby tired, so Grandma will decide to give her some Mt. Dew. 

When she realizes that is a terrible idea for a baby, Grandma will change her mind and decide to put the baby down for a nap. But before the baby can take a nap, they need to read a story. 

While they are reading, the baby will try to eat the book, which will make Grandma think the baby is hungry…

So she will probably want to feed her. 

birth story

A few days after Patricia’s delivery, the midwife (one of our seven in the course of this pregnancy and delivery) said it would be a good idea to write down my experience in order to help process what happened. It has only been a week and already many details are blurring together in my mind, so I will start now with as much detail as I can remember. 

Elective trauma. That is what labor is. 

It is trauma on the body and, in some ways, trauma on the mind. But I knew what I was signing up for when we decided to get pregnant. 

Well no, I didn’t know what I was signing up for. And if I had, I may have thought twice about our decision to have our own child. We still would have done it, but I would have thought twice. I hope I never forget the experience of labor and I hope I can forget all of it. I’m sure reality will fall somewhere in the middle. 

Everyone kept telling me, “You’re in great shape. You have a high pain tolerance. You’ll get through labor just fine.” I wanted to believe them, so I believed them. When people asked me if I was nervous for the delivery, I would respond, “Well, if so many other women can do it, I can do it too, right?” It sounds like a way to avoid the question, but that wasn’t it at all. I wasn’t really nervous about delivery. I knew it was going to hurt, but I also knew it was a necessary part of this wonderful process. 

One of my roommates when I was in the burn unit, a middle-aged woman, told me that when she delivered her children she never cried, but that every day when they took her for wound care in the burn unit she couldn’t stop crying. Considering that, I assumed I had done the hard part—wound care—and that labor would be something less than that. 

I will just say from the start, labor was worse than I expected. 

But let me not get ahead of myself. 

I didn’t know until late in pregnancy that “full-term” was a five-week window. Apparently it is safe and healthy to deliver your baby anywhere from week 37 to week 42. That was the window where we could do a home birth in the Netherlands—anything earlier or later, and we had to go to the hospital, even if everything seemed fine. While it is good and fine to make that window known and not focus too much on the due date, it caused some psychological issues for us. We had to stop work and leave Uganda at 35 weeks because after that I was not allowed to fly. Once we reached the Netherlands, we spent a good part of the first two weeks gathering all the supplies we needed for the baby and for a home birth, meeting with the midwife, and celebrating the holidays with Christian’s family. Week 37 for us began on a Tuesday, which was coincidentally January first and the first day insurance would cover the full cost of any delivery. That was the day we started telling Norbert (our baby’s pre-birth name) it could come, and according to medicine and insurance, we were right in doing so. 

The problem with that was that the closer we got to our due date and the further we got from Week 37, the more we felt like our baby was late. We were eager to spend our time outside Uganda getting to know our child on the outside, and we would not have been disappointed to be able to go back home earlier rather than later. Every day we got a bit more impatient. We passed our time by playing tourist and trying to catch up with some of our friends in the Netherlands, but we were impatient nonetheless. We would show up to church and people would look at my ever-growing belly, tilt their head a bit to the side, and say, “Oh, no baby yet?” 

What kind of a question is that? How am I supposed to answer that? “Oh yes, the baby is here, we just decided to leave it at home and in the meantime I swallowed a watermelon whole.” 

I sound a lot more humble in the Netherlands because I don’t know enough Dutch to say most of the things I am thinking. That might not be such a bad thing. 

We spent the evening of January 20th in a normal way. We ate supper, did our devotion, watched a couple episodes of Friends and I stayed up a while to reread the labor portion of one of my pregnancy books. We didn’t even bother saying anything about how this could be the last time we are going to sleep as a family of two because we knew full well that only 5 percent of babies are born on their due date, so there was a 95 percent chance Norbert would not make its appearance the next day. All in all it was a normal evening. 

When my alarm went off at six the next morning, I slid out of bed (which was a short drop because we had to raise the bed three weeks ago for the delivery, just in case) and went straight to the bathroom as usual. Halfway there, I felt warm liquid between my legs. I thought maybe I had wet my pants, but it was more uncontrollable than that. I ran to the toilet just in time to hear a splash as it came out. It felt different than a loss of bladder control, but dare I hope? I sat there for a minute, peed on purpose to confirm that it did feel different, pulled off my soaked underwear and shorts and walked back to the bedroom. I shook Christian awake. 

“I feel kind of stupid saying this,” I started. “I think maybe my water just broke… but I’m not sure.” 

That got him awake. He was alert, but skeptical. “You’re not sure?” he asked. I explained what had happened and showed him my soaked underwear, which we both smelled and confirmed it did not smell like pee. (If you think we had lost all sense of modesty at that point, just wait.) We were both still skeptical, so I decided to take a shower and see if anything else developed. As soon as I stepped into the shower, more liquid started dripping down. I called Christian in to show him the small puddles forming between my legs. “Now I am definitely not peeing,” I said with a nervous smile. 

We were incredulous. This was actually happening! After nine months of waiting, and three weeks of really waiting, our baby was coming! 

But the thing is, babies come relatively slowly. At least most of them do. So as excited as we were, we kept doing our normal thing. I took a shower and washed my huge belly for the last time, and then we both got back in bed to try to get as much rest as possible before labor really kicked in. 

While we were lying in bed (I can’t remember if we actually slept at all or if we were already too filled with adrenaline to doze off), I started getting a strange feeling low in my abdomen, like menstrual cramps. It was different than I expected a contraction to be because I had heard those tend to start in the back and wrap themselves around to your abdomen, but mine were concentrated in the front. Being as wise as I am, however (I did get a 4.0 in high school), and knowing my water had already broken, I deduced that it was in fact my first contraction. My first of many. 

Those small contractions came once every ten or fifteen minutes, just enough to be uncomfortable but not enough to wipe the huge smile off my face because our baby was finally on its way. At nine o’clock, we called the midwife’s office to let them know labor had started. They said everything sounded good so far and that we should call back when contractions were three minutes apart and lasted a full minute. We had no frame of reference for how long that would take. We asked if we could still go for a walk and do normal things until then, and the midwife enthusiastically said yes, that I should do whatever I felt like I could do. 

After that, we messaged my mom and called Christian’s parents to let everyone know today was the day. Christian called his dad and said we needed a plumber. “We seem to have water everywhere this morning—on the couch, on the bathroom floor… really anywhere Katie goes.” It took his dad a moment, but the understanding and excitement was clear in his voice when he made the connection. He came over shortly after that to disassemble Christian’s half of the bed so there was more room for the delivery team when they arrived. 

We took a slow morning, getting the last few things in order in the house. I read aloud to Christian the chapter from my pregnancy book about how to breathe during labor. The student in me was ashamed I had not reread and memorized more of it ahead of time, but I figured it was better late than never. I had to keep changing positions to try to get comfortable, but could still read through every contraction, so I considered them minor. After finishing the chapter we decided to go for a walk to the supermarket to get more labor-friendly snacks. 

You know when you go shopping hungry, and your basket fills up faster than a kid’s Halloween candy bag? That is what happened. Everything looked amazing, and Christian wasn’t going to refuse me anything—I was in labor, after all. I found chocolate cookies, strawberries, whole grain bread, salad fixings… I was so happy. 

Christian found an app for his phone to keep track of contractions so we didn’t have to write everything down and carry the paper with us. It measured the length of each contraction and the time in between, exactly the information we needed to know before calling the midwife again. Before we left for the supermarket, my contractions were regularly eight minutes apart and 30 seconds long. As soon as we stepped outside, for whatever reason, they were two- to three minutes apart and lasted nearly a full minute. Our grocery shopping dialogue was basically a repeat of, “Okay, honey, it’s starting…”—grab some food and put it in the basket, walk around breathing deeply for a while with my hands on my hips, trying to act casual—“…it’s over.” We couldn’t even shop in separate aisles because they were coming too quickly to give us time to find each other to time the next one. 

By the time we got back (with much more food than we intended), it was time to call the midwife again. Contractions and been three minutes apart for about an hour. She said there was still plenty of time, so she was going to finish her lunch and then come over to see how things were going. Considering how quickly my contractions went from eight minutes to three minutes I thought she was being awfully casual about this whole thing, but then again she has delivered I-don’t-know-how-many babies and I had not yet delivered any, and plus I don’t like arguing with people. So I cut up some strawberries, grabbed a chocolate cookie, put on Friends and waited. 

Around two, Christian’s dad sent a message that the midwife had come to their house instead. There had been some confusion about our address since most of our mail is being sent to his parents’ house but we live in a different part of town. We had corrected it at one of our midwife appointments, but apparently it did not make it through the system. Shortly after that a midwife whom we had never met arrived at the door. She introduced herself as Anouk and asked a few questions about the contractions and how things and been going so far. 

“And you are planning on doing a home birth?” she asked. 

Why did people keep asking that? I could understand the midwife asking when we went to our first appointment here, but this was five weeks later and in the middle of labor and there was still confusion about it? 

We went into the bedroom so she could do a vaginal exam to see how dilated I was. I kid you not, that was my first lady parts exam ever. Apparently you are supposed to start getting them when you’re 18, but I skipped it I guess. 

I was three centimeters dilated. I wasn’t sure if I was happy or disappointed about that. When Lisanne (Christian’s cousin) had been in labor a few hours and the midwife came, she was already dilated eight centimeters. Her labor was a total of eight hours, and that was her first child. I had been in labor eight hours already (though it didn’t feel that long yet) and was only at three. I was average. (I have never been average.)

Anouk said things were progressing and that they take time. She was going to send another midwife to come check at five-thirty to see how things were going. Christian and I had the same reaction to that: Five-thirty? There won’t be enough progress in the next three hours to even need anyone else here? The baby is still that far away? 

Anouk left, I sat back down with my strawberries, and we put on a movie to watch. 

Janneke stopped by to see how things were going, but since progress was so slow we asked her to come back the same time as the midwife because maybe by then there would be something to help with. As the movie progressed, so did my contractions. (Actually, the movie never really progressed. It was a Netflix original called IO and it was incredibly boring—a terrible choice for getting my mind off the increasing pain.) I had read that the most important thing was to stay relaxed, so I made that my goal. First I could relax on the couch. When a contraction came, I would lay my head back and start breathing deeply. I focused on different parts of my body—arms, legs, torso—to release tension one limb at a time. Some women cope with contractions by using external distractions, but I found it easier to close my eyes and focus on the pain as I managed it. 

It wasn’t long before I was immobile during every contraction. Once when Christian went to the bathroom and one started, I couldn’t even reach his phone next to me on the couch to time the contraction. Apparently part of my being able to relax included the need to keep still. 

About halfway through the movie, lying back was not working for me anymore. I tried lying on my side and burying my head in a pillow during each contraction, but then I was just oxygen-deficient and uncomfortable. I tried sitting on the birth ball, but that took too much focus not to fall off. I squatted behind the couch, but it did not relieve the pain in whatever magical way I thought it would. I made Christian get me a bucket because I was pretty sure I was going to throw up my strawberries and cookie. I felt terrible. Hands and knees, lying down, walking around—nothing worked. The contractions came every couple of minutes and lasted a minute, meaning I was spending half of my time with my eyes closed, focused on my breathing and hoping I wouldn’t walk into a wall while I was doing that. 

I had read about the psychology of contractions in one of my pregnancy books. It gave two examples of how you could think about a contraction. One was to think of it as pain gripping you all around until you can’t handle it anymore. The other was to think of it as a wave coming over you, bringing you closer and closer to seeing your baby, and that the strength of the contraction was actually your strength. It looked nice on paper, but I tell you, that stuff was pure bull. As much as I tried, I couldn’t see each contraction as a strong wave sweeping me closer to my baby. All I could think of was the pain. It was strong, yes, but it was not my strength. I tried not to fight it, but I wanted to. I did not do too well at the psychology part. 

We had considered beforehand that a hot shower might feel nice and relieve some pain during labor. A few times Christian asked if I wanted to shower, and each time I said yes. However, then I would think about how much effort it would take to remove my clothes and then need to get dressed again afterward, and that was enough to make me change my mind. I couldn’t imagine the comfort would be worth the trouble. 

I had been in labor eleven-and-a-half hours by the time the midwives came back. This time it was another one we had never met, plus a student-in-training named Frances who needed more experience to get certified. I was sitting on the couch when they entered, and so focused on my breathing and trying to relax that I couldn’t even open my eyes to acknowledge them. They, of course, were used to that and patiently waited until the contraction was over to greet me and start talking. 

“Perfect,” Frances said as soon as I released a big exhale signaling the end of the contraction. Apparently I am a very good breather. 

We went back to the bedroom for another vaginal exam to see how progress was going. Six centimeters. This time I was unmistakably disappointed. I reminded myself that I had read about that, and how the last few centimeters usually go much faster than the first few, and that offered some consolation. France s asked if I wanted to go back to the living room, but the contractions were so close together and it was so hard to get in and out of that high bed that I opted to stay in bed for a while and labor from there. 

Christian stood faithfully by the side of the bed. I held his hand and consciously tried not to crush it, or even squeeze it at all, when the pain came. He told me it was okay to squeeze as hard as I wanted, and boy did I want to, but in the interest of trying to stay as relaxed as possible (which was not very relaxed at all) I knew focusing my energy on crushing my husband’s hand would be counterproductive. So I closed my eyes and breathed and tried every position I could think of to no avail. 

What surprised me most about that part of labor was not the intensity of the contractions, but the frequency. Yes, they were painful, but I knew they were going to be painful. What I did not know was that they were going to come so often that I didn’t have time to recuperate in between. Wave after wave, one after another, and almost no rest. No relief. No comfort. I felt like I could have handled it if I had a small break to gather myself again before the next one, but that break rarely came, and when it did it was much too short. 

After a couple of hours Frances had me go to the bathroom. I tell you, balancing on a cold toilet through four contractions, waiting for a break long enough to stand up and walk back to the next room, is not an easy task. 

I tried to crawl back in bed, but every time a contraction came I was forced to stay in whatever position I found myself in, sometimes for a minute or two until the pain subsided. 

The midwife told me that if I was hungry this was a good time to eat, but I still felt like vomiting. I didn’t say it out loud, but was pretty sure at some point I was going to throw up on Christian. Nothing against him personally; he was just the closest one to my face. 

When I finally got settled back into bed, Frances checked me again and said I was dilated eight centimeters. To get things moving along more quickly, she had me lie on my left side. I’m still not sure why it made a difference, and why left is better than right, but I listened. It wasn’t long before I wanted to push, but I had not yet been given permission for that. If I started pushing too soon, I could wear myself out before it would be effective, or I could make things move too quickly and increase the likelihood of a tear. 

This was where the breathing patterns from the book came in handy. To keep myself from pushing, I did repetitions of one big inhale, then three puffy exhales. It sounded stupid, but for whatever reason it kept me from following my instincts and pushing. This lasted for I-don’t-know-how-long until Frances told me if I wanted to push, I could push a little during the next contraction. 

Push a little? I thought. If I’m going to push, I’m going to push! Turns out, it is possible to push a little when you’re scared of pushing a lot. 

“During your next contraction, if you feel like pushing,” Frances said, “grab the back of your right thigh with your right hand and bring it up and to your chest, then push.” 

During the next contraction, I gave in to the urge. It was a strange mixture of pressure and relief at the same time. It felt good to finally be doing something, instead of trying my level best not to do anything. Some liquid came out, but I don’t know if it was urine or more amniotic fluid. It didn’t matter. I was in the middle of labor and had been pantless for hours and there is no room for modesty or embarrassment in that. 

I didn’t expect the baby to come flying out right away or anything, but I was a little discouraged when Frances explained between contractions that right now the baby’s head was still high in my pelvis and my pushing was getting it closer and closer to the exit, but it would still take awhile. On average, a first-time mother pushes for one hour. Oh joy. 

We did a few contractions on my side, and then Frances let me roll onto my back and try the more traditional semi-laid-back pushing position. I found this a little easier because I was more even, not lopsided like when I could only lift one leg. Each contraction, I grabbed behind my knees and pulled them up while Frances, the midwife, and one more delivery-help-person (who also happened to be Christian’s aunt, Joke) assessed how things were going down there. Christian made some photos, but spent most of his time standing by the head of the bed, encouraging me through each contraction. 

When I first lay back, Frances coached me through how to most effectively push. “Grab the backs of your knees and pull your legs toward you. Keep your knees out, even between contractions. One is coming? Okay—chin on your chest!” I put my chin down and bore down with as much effort as I could muster. I bore my teeth and grunted. “Don’t make any sound!” Frances said. I pursed my lips and shut up. I guess if I made sound then some of my effort would be wasted on my grunt and not on my push. The next million (or dozen) pushes were silent. 

I didn’t have much clue about the progress of the delivery. When I started pushing, the baby was still far from coming out, but after some time I started wondering if we were close to being done. Or were we even halfway? At one point, the midwives started talking about being able to see the head, and I thought it must be almost over. I hoped it was almost over. But apparently between contractions the head slips back in again. It felt like two steps forward, one step back every time. 

And then I got tired. So, so tired. People talk about the pain of labor, but they don’t talk about the effort. I would have been happy to lie there and be in pain and have contractions wash over me again if it meant I could stop pushing so hard. Every contraction consisted of three pushes. The first was always my best with all the energy I could muster. When I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, I exhaled, took another big inhale, and bore down again. By the time I repeated it for the third push, sometimes I wondered if it was even worth trying, because I had so little strength left to give it a good push. 

I had no sense of time. Frances said for first deliveries the mother usually pushes for an hour. I had no idea if I had been pushing for 20 minutes or two hours. The pain was so intense and the effort took so much out of me that sometimes I would go three or four contractions without even opening my eyes. I just wanted it to be over. 

“Christian,” I said, “I know when our baby comes I should be so excited that we have a baby, but I feel like I am mostly going to be excited that this whole thing is over.” I was losing perspective. But I think that’s normal. 

A bit later: “Christian,” I said again, “the rest of our children are going to be Ugandan. And adopted.” I meant it. 

Christian faithfully stayed by my side the entire time, bless his sweet little heart. It was not an easy task (well, easier than mine) because he had to stand by the bed for hours and hunch over to get close to me. He did his best to comfort me in the small ways he could, and depending on the moment it helped or it didn’t. Sometimes rubbing my back felt nice; sometimes it was just one more stimulus when my body was going through too much and I would bat his hand away. People said before the delivery that at one point I would scream at him that it was his fault or he needed to get out of the room. They said I would not mean it and that he should stay there and remember I didn’t mean it personally. The closest I got to doing that was one time in the middle of a contraction when he had leaned in to encourage me. He was counting my breaths during the contraction, but he was so close I felt smothered. I quickly said, “I need you to get your face out of my face!” And he did. What a sweetheart. 

I started getting to the point where I didn’t know how much longer I could keep this up, but I wasn’t about to say that out loud. That would be like admitting I couldn’t do it, and besides, what was my other option? We weren’t in a hospital with pain medication, and even if we had been, I knew it would have been too late for it anyway. I briefly wondered what I wanted to prove by not getting an epidural like so many other people I know, but again, it was too late to reconsider that, and I had already committed to adopting any future children. 

Between contractions, I started praying. Every single time I had a few-second break, the prayer went as follows: “Thank you, God, for this child. Please give me strength. And please let this next contraction be the last one.” It sounds calm when I write it, but in my head I was practically sobbing the words. I kept telling myself if I gave it my all on the next push, maybe our baby would come and it would be over. 

I told myself that for a lot of pushes. 

It’s a good thing I didn’t know how long it was going to take, or I would have been thoroughly discouraged throughout most of labor. During every push, Frances was by my side yelling, “C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon!” and “One more! One more! One more!” It wasn’t specific or articulate, but somehow it helped. 

After a lot of pushing, my contractions started getting further apart again. To be honest, I may have missed a couple. The pain was so constant that a couple of times I thought, Is this another one? and since it wasn’t totally clear to me, I gave myself a rest and didn’t push. But that only happened once or twice. Frances had me lie on my left side again to try to speed things up. After a few pushes I could go back to my back. It still felt like we were close, yet so far away. The midwives talked forever about seeing the head. They tried to show me in a mirror, but so little was visible I again found it discouraging. I pushed. And I pushed. And I pushed. 

I had read that when the baby is crowning, you are supposed to stop pushing for a short time to give the vagina time to stretch out and not tear while the baby comes out. I think Frances  explained that to me during labor, but I can’t remember for sure. Every push, I kept waiting for her to tell me to stop because then I would know we were almost finished and I could muster up the rest of my strength for the final push. 

She did not tell me to stop. 

At one point I think Frances said she was going to cut me, but I wasn’t aware of much at that point. I just needed it to be over. I couldn’t be quiet anymore. I could do the pushes, but at the end of every one I gave a loud grunt/shout/intense exhale before gathering myself for the next one. I was loud. And despite my previous fears, I didn't care one bit what the neighbors heard or thought. 

After one particularly hard push, I couldn’t help but scream. The midwives were busy, but I still wasn’t sure what was happening or how far we were… until all of a sudden they placed something big and grey and slimy on my chest. Our baby had come. 

I cried, partly out of relief and (more than I expected) out of joy at seeing our child for the first time. I was so happy to stop pushing and instead look into my baby’s eyes and see this tiny human being we had made. It was making a mess on my shirt, but I didn’t think about that. I held it in place and looked incredulously from its little face to Christian and back again. This was what all of that was for. 

What a stark contrast from the agony of labor to the combined relief and joy in seeing our baby face to face for the first time. I think there are very few times in life when two such intense emotions coincide in an instant. 

After a couple of minutes, I came to my senses a little bit and asked, “What is it? A boy or girl?” I will never forget the moment after that. All four people in the room—the midwives and Christian—all looked at each other in silence as if they were waiting for someone else to give the answer. Finally Frances said, laughing, “We haven’t checked.” 

Christian picked up our baby from my chest to announce whether we had a boy or a girl, but it was harder to see than we expected. For one, newborns that fresh are lumpy and strange-colored and have slime and gunk all over them. And then there was the umbilical cord hanging down between its legs, obstructing an easy view of the area we needed to see. After moving the cord and inspecting the area, Christian announced, “It’s a girl!” 

I cried again. I had hoped for a girl so badly, but was always scared it would be a boy and I would start out motherhood by being disappointed. I knew I would love a boy to the moon and back, but we had both longed for a girl. Now we had one! 

Someone asked what her name was, and we immediately replied, “Patricia.” We had decided to name her after my Grandma Pat, a woman whom I fully respect, admire, and love, and someone I hope Patricia takes after (apart from her stubbornness). We had our little Patricia Mirembe after all. 

The midwives did the Apgar tests, of which I was only partially aware, but Patricia scored well. 

Joke placed Patricia near one of my breasts and got her started suckling right away. Then Francis told me I had torn during delivery (they never got to the episiotomy as planned) and needed to be stitched up, so I handed Patricia to Christian and scooted to the end of the bed and didn’t bother about the mild pain they were causing because I was so enraptured by the sight of my husband holding our little daughter. I was so relieved, and so happy, and so in love with both of them. 

Janneke came in to see her granddaughter, and we started calling family members to tell them the good news. Once I was all stitched up, everyone else left the room so Christian, Patricia and I could have some alone time—our first alone time ever. We couldn’t stop smiling. Christian stood next to the bed and we thanked God for a successful delivery, then prayed for Patricia, her future, and our family. What a beautiful start to life with the three of us. 

After about an hour I was allowed to get out of bed and shower. There was a lot of blood everywhere I went, but no one seemed concerned about it, so I figured it was normal. I felt weak. My legs shook. My head spun a bit when I stood up. My stomach still looked six months pregnant, but instead of the tight, round belly of pregnancy it was squishy and flopsy and full of organs that had yet to remember their rightful places. I walked like a cowboy. I felt strange. But I also felt wonderful, because after getting out of the shower and getting dressed, I saw Christian carrying our baby. Our daughter. Our Patricia. And that was the most beautiful thing I could have imagined. 

Patricia Mirembe Berkman came into the world on her due date: January 21st, 2019. An average first-time labor is 15 hours; ours was 16, from 6:00 a.m. to 9:57 p.m. when she was born. She weighed 3.7 kilograms—8 pounds, 4 ounces. (She was bigger than we had hoped!) It felt like she had a head the size of a basketball. It looked like she had a conehead the size of a normal baby head. She was 50 centimeters (20 inches) long. For the first twenty minutes or so, her lands and feet were blue. That has since changed. She had ten finger and ten toes, which Christian counted twice just to be sure. 

I found out the following day that Patricia came out with her hand by her head and the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck and wrist, pinning her arm up in an awkward position. That is a big reason why the delivery took so long. It was an easy fix by the midwives—two fingers under the cord and they were able to pull it over her head and rectify it—but it jostled Patricia’s shoulder a bit on the way out, which is why after birth it took a long time before she cried. She was in shock. (I’m sure the rest of delivery was no picnic for her either.) I was happy to have been aloof to that situation during the delivery because I probably would have worried and possibly panicked. I was so pleased with the midwives and help that we had and how (relatively) easy they made the whole process. Frances, still a student, was so confident I would have assumed she had been doing it for a long time. 

The midwives left around midnight, and Christian’s family went home shortly thereafter. It was only the three of us left in the apartment. I was a little scared, being held so responsible for keeping another human alive and at the same time so incapacitated from giving birth that I could hardly get out of bed by myself. Christian brought the rest of the chocolate cookies to bed and we had a snack, having skipped dinner in the midst of everything. Then he climbed into bed next to me and we fell asleep around 3:00 a.m., listening to Patricia make sucking sounds and coos from her bed next to ours. It was crazy, not feeling her kick me in the ribs while I fell asleep, but instead listening to her breathe. It had been a long, long day, yet it felt like all of a sudden everything was different. 

The next week was filled with uncomfortable sitting, almost fainting on the way back from the bathroom, blood clots the size of a grapefruit, engorgement when my milk came in (which felt like carrying wrecking balls on my chest for two days), pain during nursing, pain during sitting, pain during standing, having to literally pick up my floppy stomach and carry it with me when I rolled over in bed… but every day things got a little bit better. For the first two days or so after delivery, I didn’t want to think about that day. Like I said, it was trauma. But they say in time you forget, and I can already see how that is true. I have written this so that I might not forget, but at the same time I am happy to forget most of it. The only reminder I really need is this sweet baby sleeping in my lap as I write, and I know that for her I would elect to go through that trauma all over again.