The Story (a year late)

A year ago I tried to write Simon's birth story. I started it no less than 5 times. I have thought about it for hours and hours, and finally, I thought the one year point was the right time to get it into words on a page. Even Pam England recommends waiting a good long time before committing yourself to your birth stories. But it still eludes me, this perfect birth story. I didn't realize why until I just read this blog entry on Dooce, and now I think I know.

The story (kind of graphic, pause first and consider if you really want to know this about me, and also long, being composed of many thoughts that occurred to me over a whole year)
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I was four days past my due date. It was hot and I felt the need to stretch for air in the midst of that E. Coast humidity/small apartment scene; it was like being covered with a thick blanket when all you wanted was a breeze and trees rustling overhead. I picked a fight with Brett that night, mostly because my brain couldn't comprehend his massive spreadsheet, and I was frustrated and cranky. So I went to bed, maybe around ten or so. When I woke just after midnight I knew I was in labor.
It was just starting, contractions all over the place but not regular. I woke Brett up and he graciously forgave my earlier snarky self and we quickly fell into our familiar labor partnership--me telling him what I needed and him taking care of me. That was OK for a half hour or so, but things quickly spiraled into fast, hard labor. Contractions right on top of each other, didn't I just have one? Where is the break? I need to rest. I don't want another one to start.
We drew a bath and I tried to get in, but couldn't find a groove, no position would suit me and I was so uncomfortable. More than the physical pain though, was the emotional roller coaster--I can do this, right? I've done it twice before. But this is too much, too fast, there's no break. I had contraction after contraction get away from me...I was starting to lose control and not get it back in between. I would go from the bath to the toilet to standing at the sink to the bath to the toilet to standing at the sink. Seems like an awful lot of being on the toilet for this early in labor...I wanted to push, but that seemed ludicrous an hour into things. And the back of my mind is telling me that I am crazy, that I need help that this isn't going to work. But then no, this is familiar, this is all part of it, one deep breath during that contraction. But the contractions were neverending, defying concrete beginnings and endings. And then all of a sudden I feel the head come down, and it is SO right there, and it is too much pressure and I am going to crack. I told Brett I was pushing and he said I couldn't be and I said well I am, I can't hold back, I can't help it. I kept standing up at the sink, hands gripping tight to the corners, leaning over and panting while I gathered my strength for the pushes I knew were coming. And then they were there--vein bulging, gasping, desperate pushes. Grunting, panicked, but then not, powerful, like a tornado was moving through me, I couldn't have stopped it if I tried. Burning, stretching, ohmyGodIhelpmecan'tdoitmakeitstop. And then out came little Simon's head. I hear Brett say "And...there's the head", and he caught him from behind, because for the first time in my 3 births, the shoulders needed a little push and I felt like clawing out this thing that was emerging from between my legs and I just wanted it to be over. I remember the strange feeling that this thing is me and not me also, I was touching his head and it was warm, was *my* body, but I couldn't feel it because it wasn't my body too. And out he slithered, into Brett's hands.
Then I sat down on the bathroom floor and "Oh, you're a little boy", and "Hi, there you are!" we sat there, all done, and all alone and the noises of New York surrounded us with their comforting bustle. It is one of the most intimate scenes of my life.
Like women everywhere, the moment of birth is the great eraser--the struggle you have just left behind is exactly that, left behind, overshadowed by the incredible realization that there is a new person there who didn't exist a moment before. You knew it was coming, but this, this naked, squirming, luscious little body is life itself and you are holding it in your very arms. Simon was crying and blinking at the lights and we were still hot and sweaty but the air was full of accomplishment and triumph and relief. It was so sweet. I watched the umbilical cord pump it's last pumps of good stuff into him and felt it's ropey strength. I snuggled this new little person and watched him change from being an extension of me to his own self. The whole thing took one hour and 15 minutes. There was exactly one load of laundry to wash, mostly due to the fact that we had neglected to remove the bathroom rug before my water broke. I was standing naked in my bathroom with a naked baby in my arms and the cord still attached to the placenta. There was no blood, and Simon was perfect--not messy or goopey and his little head was round and his color pink. I felt fabulous...energetic...like standing...like it was earthshattering and also just part of life.
Our midwife came an hour or so later, by that point Simon and I were nestled into bed, and she helped me push out the placenta (which wasn't out yet, much like my other births), and she checked us both out and declared that all was well.
The big kids woke up and came to see him--he was, even then, a loud little thing. Then we dressed him and all of us went back to bed. The midwife, she cut a couple pieces of placenta for me to eat to help with the post-birth headache that for me always sneaks up on that yummy scene of mama-baby bonding that was going so well until the headache takes over--as the waves of hormones cascade through my veins trying to figure out what the next step is. I ate several pieces of placenta. It was, well, just like you might expect. Spongey, slippery and metallic like blood. I swallowed them with a glass of water and even now I can still conjure the feeling I had when consuming them--just that it was primal, it felt right, but it was so against my cultural inclinations I could barely do it. It did seem to help though, and I was soon sleeping next to Peanut.

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So that is the birth story. And yes, we wanted to be alone. We were hoping for an unassisted birth. But you should know that if anything went wrong we would have gone to the hospital. You should also know that with a labor that fast, even the most epidural-loving person would likely not have made it to the hospital at all, not a chance. You should further know that we made these decisions consciously and happily and it was a great joy to give birth this way, and we felt very strongly that this is the kind of birth we wanted. I went over it so many times in my mind before hand, that it was as if I had scripted it. If I were to have a hundred children I doubt I would feel the same things and have the same needs for any of their births, so I really can't say I would absolutely do it again--but it is likely. I loved the feeling of truly not treating my pregnancy as a medical event. I loved that it fit into our normal life without drama or fanfare or hubub. It changed the way I thought of myself. No childcare, no big plans or packing of bags, just a couple of people working hard in their bathroom late at night to make way for a baby. I felt strong and secure that everything was fine with the baby and with myself.
I would hardly recommend unassisted birth to anyone I know. Not because I think I am stronger or better than anyone, but because I think our culture has made most people afraid of birth so that unassisted birth would be more likely to fail. I think I was immune to this fear because I know that I prefer to labor alone and I feel safer laboring alone. During the birth of my first child I was so delighted to discover that contractions (in my body), felt like cramps. I had been expecting a stabbing-you-with-a-knife feeling, something new and terrible. Imagine my relief when I discovered that my body had been practicing coping with these sensations ever since I hit puberty. I also have read nearly every childbirth book out there, have taught childbirth classes and attended 5 births as a doula. I had done lots of research, we had discussed all sorts of transfer scenarios that would take us to a hospital, and Brett was incredibly supportive of my vision of this whole thing...and by Grace, that is the birth we had. Of course it doesn't always work out that way, and I know many unassisted birthers who transfer to a hospital or have very long labors, including labors that result in something wrong with the baby. Just like any birth, there is always the possibility that something is wrong with the baby, and yes, it definitely required a lot of soul searching to consider what our comfort level was on a host of scenarios.
In the end, this is what felt right--I hold Ina May Gaskin up as my hero of birthing. I believe in her statistics, I believe that there is value in being conscious during labor and birth and in listening to your heart and trusting your body's ability to bring forth life. I thank Brett for his tireless support of my vision, for knowing what to do when and for composure and compassion under pressure. I also appreciate him for actually catching Simon, as I have this nagging little doubt--if he wouldn't have been there right then would I have let him drop on the floor? I like to think not, but I don't remember any synapses in my brain firing in a direction that would have mobilized my arms into proper position. I also didn't realize until after the fact the significant amount of pressure lying on the shoulders of the Unassisted Birth Person's Partner...really all decisions at any point, all organization, mobilization, details, childcare, interpretations, payments etc. would have been on his shoulders if things had happened in almost any other way. Wow, that is a tremendous role to play in our culture. Brett was a superstar. I also owe some gratitude toward my Dad. He and I may disagree on substantial items, like politics and war and cities and money and probably many more. But there is this part of me that stands firmly facing one way while others rush in the other direction, and I don't really care what other people think or why they aren't going the same way as I. And I know that that part of me comes from my Dad, just like the part of me that secretly wants the cat to get the mouse or the baby to taste the hot sauce. I don't think my Dad will understand this in the same way I do (if only because he hasn't read Magical Child), but to me, this desire comes from being bonded to the matrix of the Earth, and wanting things to be the way they will be, without putting make up on them and calling them something that they are not. It is the way of the world, and while our Emotional Selves and our Monkey Minds get in the way all the time, there is something very satisfying about What Is. My Dad can compartmentalize like nobody else I have ever met, and while that is not always an asset, it is an incredible life skill to be able to pull out at will. I find myself spending inordinate amounts of time coaching one of my own kids on exactly that, on a daily basis. Those two pieces of me that I learned from my Dad (not caring what others think and wanting an experience to be simply what it is) are the pieces that made me want to have an Unassisted Birth, and I am so grateful that I did. In fact, one day, when I didn't think I had it in me to listen to the shocked horror on the other end of the phone to yet another person who thought I was seriously insane for even considering not having a midwife, I talked to my Dad, and he was the only voice of support and even understanding besides Brett that I had heard. It was great, and it meant a lot.
That I even hired a midwife in the first place was more about crisis management than anything else. If I had transferred to a hospital during labor and had had no prenatal care, I would have been flagged as strange or negligient and likely opened up our whole family to a child services investigation. I can't believe that is true, but in New York City, it is true. Also if I didn't have a copy of the prenatal bloodwork on file I would not have been allowed to nurse the baby once it was born. So we compromised, we found someone who would be only backup for us if we agreed to 3 prenatal appointments and the bloodwork. She was amazing and wonderful and a great addition to our lives.
Lastly, with this birth story, I must mention that my heart goes out to those of you who have lost babies or who had labor or hospital experiences that left you traumatized, in pain or having lost a part of yourself. I must borrow a line from The Business of Being Born and say that I wholeheartedly agree that "maternity care in the United States is in crisis." It really is. And while I did go through a substantially annoying "natural birth" phase in my past, I am over that now. If anyone needs to tell me how horrible I was then, please do so. It only takes one woman who wanted a natural birth, tried for a natural birth and found herself on day 4 exhausted, despairing and making other choices to realize that "natural birth" doesn't mean anything in our country. The last thing that woman needs is to feel like she failed after she suffered. If you are swept along by a raging river would anyone say it was *your* fault? Yeah, maybe you shouldn't have stood so close to the edge, but that river? It's a monster...you really had no way of knowing what you were dealing with.
So, to bring us back to the top of the circle, I must mention that I don't identify with "freebirthers" any more than I identify with a majority of homeschoolers. I didn't know how to write this where it wasn't going to be about pushing my birthing agenda. Because, you know, I don't have one. I wanted to birth this way and I did. Parts of it were hard and scary, but really, no more so than the traditional way of birth in our country, just different. Also, I don't pretend to suggest that it always works the natural way and neither was I trying to prove something. I'm not even going to give you links to unassisted birthing pages because I couldn't find a single one that felt like me. Most of them, IMHO, are terrible. Embarrassing and not advancing any cause that I find myself aligned with. I love Dooce, and I read her all the time, but when she discusses "freebirthers", for the record, I don't even feel like she is talking about me, but maybe she would disagree. I'm just someone who had their baby at home by herself, by choice. This used to be something that women did as a matter of course, and I think they were, as a whole, much better off back then (maternity care-wise).