Wait for sentencing is as uncomfortable as childbirth
Giving birth can be uncomfortable and hard. I know — I’ve done it four times. But when I hear someone telling a pregnant woman that childbirth is awful, I get annoyed. Hard is not the same as bad. In fact, the distress tolerance skills I learned in childbirth have helped me to tolerate discomfort in other areas of my life.
Like when the news broke last year that my husband, Joseph Harding, a Florida state representative who had just been sworn in for his second term, was being indicted by the federal government for a financial crime. That was hard.
How did I not need to be checked into a psychiatric facility when I saw my husband’s face on all of the TVs at Planet Fitness? I’ll tell you how: I remembered something my midwife once told me during a contraction: “This is hard. You can do hard things.”
My life suddenly felt like a series of contractions — one painful wave of crisis after another. Contractions signify the first of several phases of childbirth. The federal criminal process also operates in phases, it turns out, and understanding that helped me to cope.
In early labor, the contractions, or waves, become consistent. My cervix begins to dilate. We call the midwife. The highest priority in birth is regulating the central nervous system, since everything flows from there. I have time to catch my breath and prepare for the next wave. I know I can do anything for 60 seconds. Between contractions, I fold laundry and scrape the milk-glued Cheerios from the coffee table. I remind myself that two things can be true: I can feel pain, and I can tolerate it.
On Dec. 8 of last year, my husband reported to the courthouse as requested and resigned from public office. Two things were true: It was difficult to watch, and it was the right thing to do. Barely two years before, we had leveraged everything we had — physically, financially, emotionally and spiritually — for his campaign.
Next, we were both forced to resign from our day jobs, leaving a family of six with no income. My husband assembled a legal team. I kept doing the laundry and house cleaning.
During active labor, contractions intensify in duration and frequency, bringing my baby closer. The baby and I are being monitored. My cervix dilates to 10 cm. I beg my midwife to tell me how long it will last. I remember my doula’s text, “Let each birth unfold with its own uniqueness.”
As the case against my husband unfolds, he takes a plea deal. All I want to know is whether he is going to be incarcerated. The legal team communicates in facts, with no words of comfort — probably a good thing, since they charge by the hour. My aunt sends me a photo of my husband, with the awful haircut, from the TV in her living room. There will be no trial.
The phase of childbirth known as transition is the part where I vomit, shake and scream things like, “I can’t do this! I don’t want to do this!” — to which my midwife replies, “You’re already doing it!” The birth team does what’s called “holding space,” meaning they journey alongside me without judgment as I slide into labor and other unknown destinations, completely willing to end up wherever I need to go.
At home after the plea is entered, life suddenly seems quiet. The rhythms have paid off. We have new jobs — and a sentencing date. We are holding space for each other.
There comes a point during birthing when the mother must push. I envision what has to happen — head, shoulders, knees and toes — and I want to resist, but I know we’re past the point of no return. I must surrender. I collect myself, feel the baby’s head engage and I let my body do what it was made to do. I don’t even waste energy making noises. I just do my best to embrace what’s next. My water breaks, and the baby’s head appears. My arm muscles are exhausted from bracing against the sides of the tub. I keep telling myself to stay limp and it soon will be over. I push once more, and the baby’s body fully emerges.
As to my husband’s case, the dominoes have already been stacked, and we need to let them fall. We surrender to this reality.
After birth, my baby lies at my breast, but we are not finished. Contractions will soon resume, the midwives will massage my deflated abdomen and it will be uncomfortable again, because the placenta must emerge. There is risk of hemorrhaging, infection and placental abruption.
It’s like sentencing, when the judge delivers my husband’s punishment. It is uncomfortable and hard. Yes, there is risk. We’re not there yet.
On Oct. 19, I watch as my husband, perhaps for the last time, speaks publicly in a government building. The judge delivers a sentence. Two things will be true: I will be uncomfortable, and I can tolerate discomfort.