Never Broken: Songs Are Only Half the Story (38 page)

Riding motorcycles reignited my love for traveling. I had gotten so burned out by touring, but seeing the country from a bike made traveling feel free and fun again, like riding a horse—you could smell the rain coming and the hay fields freshly cut. The singular focus it takes to ride a bike safely is similar to meditating. You can think of nothing but the road unfolding before you.

Each morning we looked at the map and made the day’s plan. It was spontaneous. If we liked a town, we stayed a few days so Ty could fish and I could write. I began to write poetry again, something I’d stopped doing when grieving over the separation from my mom. I had been so busy after that, getting out of debt and saving a nest egg, that words just never came, and it felt good to see them coming back, and to write about the land I was seeing around me. Nature was again the best medicine. I also wrote about Ty. I was madly in love with him, and while I sensed he
was dealing with an inner war of emotion, I had no doubt we would make it through. We took our time exploring rivers and canyons and mountains. One stunning, sunny morning we rode into a box canyon in Telluride, Colorado, the snowcapped peaks keeping watch over the tiny hamlet nestled with Rockwellian charm in its valley. I knew instantly I would have this town in my life for a long time. We stayed several weeks before heading north. We saw wolves, bears, and buffalo in Yellowstone, and rode into Montana before turning around and slowly heading home. By the time we made it back to Texas it was fall. We moved into my large studio to begin a remodel of Ty’s ranch house. The relaxing effects of the trip soon gave way to some of the recurring strains since we’d gotten married. But I did get pregnant.

Being pregnant was the best time of my life in so many ways. It felt like the opportunity of a lifetime. I studied which foods build great healthy babies, and being able to apply what I knew about nutrition and herbs to pregnancy made it feel so worthwhile. It was an honor and a privilege to create and house and give birth to a baby. Every day I spoke to him, wrote for him, and sang for him. After about six months I had doctor’s orders to take it easy because I was having overactive Braxton Hicks contractions and quit traveling and playing gigs at all. As I was homebound in my studio, I decided to do my second indie release and make a children’s record for my future son. It was fun to think of little fables and stories that would teach morals and lessons to him when he was old enough to understand. I wanted to make it a CD that the parents would enjoy as much as the kids. There were songs about loving him forever, about the magic of stories and books, about not being afraid of the dark, about celebrating the differences in each of us rather than condemning them. The record was called
The Merry Goes ’Round
.

One of the first things I did when I found out I was pregnant was call
Lee. He had stopped working for me in 2001 and gone back to Louisiana, where he was raised, to care for his dad, who was suffering from lung cancer. When he left, he told me that if I ever had a baby to call him and that he would come help. We had lost touch over the ten years that had passed, but I found him in Louisiana. It was so good to hear his voice and to share my news with him. I asked if he still wanted to help, and he said he was coming. I was so excited to see my dear friend, and knew it would be so helpful to have that support as a new mom—I still did not have many real friends in my life and was a bit isolated. Plus he was an amazing cook, so I would be the luckiest girl in the world. Lee packed his belongings (including six chickens!) into a U-Haul and arrived a few days later. He moved into a small house on the ranch and we spent hours catching up. He had no idea what all had happened in the aftermath with my mom, and when I told him, he held me and we cried together. It felt so comforting to have him by my side again.

My pregnancy was uneventful except for one moment when I was six months pregnant. I was driving my car from town back to the ranch when out of nowhere a heavy metal brushfire truck T-boned me. The fire truck had blown through a stop sign while responding to a meadow fire and without looking absolutely smashed into us. I barely had time to brace as I saw the bright green truck out of the corner of my eye. The next thing I knew, I was coming to, my air bags deployed all around me. I felt my tummy immediately. It felt okay. I was confused, unsure what had happened exactly. My car was so mangled the door would not open. The firemen in the truck that had hit me used a crowbar to pry me out. I was not bleeding. I knew my name and where I was. I was visibly pregnant and they kindly gave me a coat and sat me down. The firemen said they’d called an ambulance and asked whether there was someone I wanted to call. Oh. Yes. I should call Ty. I needed to keep my blood pressure down
and focus on whether I could feel the baby move inside me. I kept one hand on my tummy while I dialed Ty. When he picked up, I said hello in the eerily calm voice I use when I’m under extreme duress. “I got in a car crash. I am fine. A fire truck hit me. I’m waiting for the ambulance. I am fine though.” “Goddamnit Jewel, you have that ultra-calm voice—how bad is it really?” He was at my side within minutes. I was sitting leaned against the cab of the truck, and when I saw him, my tough exterior cracked slightly. I whimpered in half-shock. “I don’t know anyone here. I don’t know any of these people,” I told him, tearing up. I have always had fear and anxiety around strangers if no one I know is with me, especially in a vulnerable situation. I act calm and strong until someone safe is there and then I will quietly turn into a puddle of tears. Ty held me and kissed my forehead and asked if I felt okay. I still hadn’t felt the baby move, but I felt like he was okay when I closed my eyes and focused on taking long, deep breaths. I didn’t let myself get worked up or go there. I did not want the boost of adrenaline or the chemicals produced by shock to make it to the baby’s bloodstream. The ambulance came, they loaded me up, and after they’d checked my pulse and blood pressure, I remember one medic saying, “God, your vitals are not elevated. It’s like your body doesn’t believe you were in a crash that bad.” I was looking at the roof, doing my meditation. That’s one thing about abuse or trauma—small things will trigger you, but in an actual crisis you often stay quite calm.

At my ob-gyn they took a sonogram. I was so eager to see his face and see his little heart beating. The nurse spread the gel neatly on my belly while I wanted to scream, “Just hurry already!” I kept my mouth shut and my eyes on the screen. Out of the gray static appeared the beautiful face of my baby, sucking his thumb. He was all right, the doctor said. Ty and I were both so happy. On the drive home I got a call from my frantic publicist, who explained there were photos of the wreck already on TMZ. Thankfully the story had a happy ending.

•   •   •

I
GAVE BIRTH TO
K
ASE
T
OWNES
M
URRAY
on July 11, 2011, in Stephenville. I was a week past due, which is quite common with a first baby, and had gone in for a routine checkup. The doctor checked his vital signs in her office and the next thing I knew I was being rushed to the hospital for an emergency C-section. I went right into my super-calm breathing mode. My blood pressure remained even. I listened to the doctors and made all the decisions necessary. Ty, however, was a nervous wreck. He was weaving back and forth on his feet, like he did when he was competing. I was given anesthesia and could feel the knife cutting into me, and tugging and pulling deep into my body, but felt no pain. I could hear the wet sound of them taking my intestines out and setting them on a table next to the doctor. I could hear the doctor’s voice intensify as it came time to pull Kase out. It was surreal and strange. I just kept waiting to hear my son’s cry. Ty could see everything, and when they pulled Kase out, they handed our son to his father. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry. He showed Kase to me and I could see his little mouth pursed and making sucking sounds. He was not crying. He was hungry. He was healthy and hungry and absolutely the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The doctor sewed me up and put me in a recovery suite, where my vitals would be monitored for an hour. It was the longest hour of my life. Kase stayed with Ty. I asked if they could bring my son in, and the nurse watching over me said no. I wanted to stab her with the pencil she was fiddling with as she read her book and go running in to see my baby. Instead I focused on the ceiling and tried to stay calm. I was so excited to meet my son I nearly jumped out of my own skin.

Finally I was rolled in and saw Kase all bundled up. His hair had been washed and Ty was sitting in a rocking chair holding and talking to him. Finally I got to hold him and smell him and see his cloudy gray newborn
eyes. I was eager and determined to breastfeed but had been warned it was actually a learned skill and took practice. The umbilical cord had been wrapped around his neck, but despite this, Kase was a strong and healthy baby and he was just as determined. Breastfeeding him in those first hours was heaven. It was the best of everything that nature and nurture had to offer. It felt like what I was made for. I stared down at his little kitten hands. He was impossibly small. His ears were as thin and soft as rose petals. I wept with joy to have my very own baby. I can’t help but weep now as I write this. I loved him impossibly more than I could have ever known. He slept on my chest for the three days I was in the hospital, and I stayed awake to make sure he was breathing. His small panting breaths rose and fell with my own. All was well with the world.

Ty was so nervous driving the car home that his knuckles were white on the wheel. I could tell how much he loved this baby. Both our hearts forever changed.

After the pain meds they gave me post-surgery the first day, I didn’t take so much as an Advil. I didn’t want anything to get into my breast milk and contaminate Kase’s little system. I ate like an athlete competing in the breastfeeding Olympics. Lots of avocado and fatty acids to help his brain develop. Herbal concoctions for colic and upset tummies and black walnut extract full of rich minerals to help his teeth and bones to form. As my milk came in, I could not believe how many hours in a day would be dedicated to feeding him and me. I was a human milking machine. I slept and ate and fed Kase. There had been times I worried and wondered how on earth I would know how to be a mom when I’d never had a good example. But when it happened, I felt my heart swell with love and ability. I knew my son. My instincts were intact and my curiosity would let me learn what I did not know.

MILK AND LAVENDER

you fell asleep

in my arms

this evening

you had your

evening feeding

in your usual

fashion

looking at the

burlap lamp shade

as it swayed

rocked by the unseen hand

of the air conditioner

you fidget

with your left hand

the more tired you get

it starts with a curious exploration

feeling my face

playing with the tassel

on my sweater

but as sleep overtakes you

the herky-jerky motions

increase until

you flop your whole arm wildly

I grab your tiny hand

wrap your finger

to make a fist

around my thumb

then fold my fingers

over yours

let the weight of my arms

hold your own firmly

against your belly

this quiets you

and you relax

and begin to

eat in earnest

looking at me

your eyes grow

so heavy

you shake your head

as if to wake yourself

fighting sleep

but the warm milk

and holding you close

lull you into

such a sweet

serene state

until the nipple

pops

out of your mouth

I straighten my blouse

lean back into my chair

cradle you close

and kiss your cheek

repeatedly

while you sleep

I can’t stop staring

you are completely relaxed

your mouth

puckers and pooches

your cheeks droop heavily

your eyebrows like

bows empty of an arrow

I stand with you

still nestled in my arms

turn the light out

hover over your crib

but cannot bear

to put you down

and so I stand there

in the dark

straining to see

your shape

in the dwindling light

swaying back and forth

bending over your

sleeping form

to kiss your temples

that smell like