My Two Births-Part I

I had two very different births.

Here’s my first.

When pregnant with my first I was completely uneducated about my body. I remember sitting in childbirth class at the birth center we had chosen, and the midwife handed us diagrams on the first day to fill out and turn back in. Things like “where is your cervix on this page? The womb? The umbilical cord?” Pretty basic stuff. I knew almost none of it. My husband got a better score on it than I did, by far. You’d think because I had committed to an unmedicated, out of hospital birth I would have been more knowledgeable. But I wasn’t.

So I found myself learning all about my own reproductive system from my birth instructor/midwife [and husband, apparently]. At that time, I thought the umbilical cord went from my baby’s belly button to the inside of my own. (?!?!??!?!?!?!?) I couldn’t tell you what the placenta was for to save my life (despite having non-consensually seen a friend’s goat give birth during a play date when I was a child and seeing the placenta come out and thinking it was the ugliest baby goat in the world). You’d think after all that I might’ve done a little digging. But you’d be wrong.

What made me choose that birth setting? At that point in my life I hadn’t quite transformed into the hippy-dippy, crunchy, granola weirdo I would become. I was just an average gal, fresh pregnant with a terrible fear of hospitals and medicinal side effects. When a drug says “less than 1% of patients experience side effects” I was ALWAYS that 1%. So I was pretty convinced that IF I went to the hospital to birth, I would definitely ask for an epidural, and then I’d DEFINITELY become paralyzed. Along with all that fear, this birth center had the absolute coziest birthing suites. The queen size bed to sleep in with my husband after the hard work of labor, the local Portland restaurant food delivered, the bath I could have with my daughter before being discharged…mmmm….so dreamy. I’d get that white milk bath full of flowers exclusively for my photo op before going home, damn it!

I read books (but not that many, I hadn’t figured out how to work around my dyslexia at that point), attended the very informative childbirth class and just had a butt load of unearned confidence. I was also really trusting my husband who was confident that we could do it without medication. He promised to read the books too (and I think read even less than I did), and be with my every single contraction. So we went for it.

The pregnancy was pretty blah. I had lost my sister in law whom I had been care taking for over the past two years to cancer during my second trimester. My gestational diabetes diagnosis was a big blow, because if I didn’t manage it with diet and exercise, I’d be risked out of staying out of hospital for my birth. But what I lacked in education about my pregnancy, I made up for in sheer stubbornness and determination. I never had a high blood sugar reading after that.

Late in pregnancy I lost my mucus plug one night. I was 100% convinced it was both A) the nastiest thing that I had ever created, and B) a money-back-guarantee that I would go into labor that night.
A was correct, B was not.

But a few nights later, at 2am I was awoken by my first real contraction. Plagued by Braxton Hicks all the live long day for weeks, I was wary of this first contraction, but once I had another one, I could tell it was the real deal. It just feels different. I woke my husband up immediately, as if the baby was going to slip out without him getting to use any of his hard earned labor coping skills. But alas, we were young, and still mostly [still] uneducated about birth by this point. Everyone we called to tell I was in labor would say “Congratulations! How far apart are your contractions? Oh, 15 minutes? I’m going back to bed.” I was shocked and horrified. I was in LABOR. HELLO?! Can I get a little attention here? Maybe some counter pressure for the contractions I can still easily walk, talk and partially snooze through? The excitement of early labor kept me awake much more than any prickles of pain I was feeling by that point.

Still, I barely slept. And of course if I wasn’t sleeping, neither could my husband be. So we stayed awake all night, mostly just waiting. The contractions definitely didn’t feel cozy. But in light of the active labor contractions to come, they were period cramps by comparison. To be fair to me though, I do have endometriosis and my period cramps were pretty hellish. The sun came up, and still no baby. So I walked around my town, trying to get the contractions to come on longer, stronger and closer together. Which they did, as long as I kept walking. I completely exhausted myself. I’d almost missed the whole night of sleep, and I wasn’t eating and resting, but instead trying to “bring on” labor. I had a previously scheduled appointment with my midwife that afternoon and was convinced that by the time I got there, she’d tell me to settle in to give birth. I asked her to check my cervix (which I totally knew the location of, by the way!), sweep my membranes and also just quickly give me a cesarean so I could go to sleep already. I was 2 cm dilated (never, ever, ever, ever tell a first time mom who’s been “laboring” for 14 hours that she’s only 2 cm dilated. I don’t know what you should tell her instead. But literally anything other than that). I was devastated. But she swept my membranes, and soon after my water broke. She still sent me home, which felt like next-level betrayal, but of course she was right to do so. My contractions were still like 8 minutes apart at that point.

On the drive home, active labor kicked in. We turned around, and by the time I got back inside the birth center I was really hurtin’. Those sweet lil Braxton Hicks-esque contractions that kept me up all night were child’s play. I was IN it now. I had made my bed, there were no epidurals, nothing coming to save me, I had to lie in it now. I remember being in the waiting room of the birth center while they readied my birth room and bath. I was feeling so overwhelmed by the rushes, I started taking my clothes off so that as soon as they opened the door I could get in the water. I locked eyes with the other massively pregnant woman awaiting her own prenatal appointment (and impending doom), and communicated non verbally that she was making a huge mistake. That to give birth was, like, not at all fun. To not walk, but run to the nearest hospital and check to see if they still offer those Twilight births they did in the 50’s where they just knock you out and you wake up with your baby somewhere else in the hospital probably accidentally being switched. But it wouldn’t even matter because you’d never even know. And at least you wouldn’t be living this hellscape of an unmedicated active labor!!! I’m pretty sure she understood the assignment. I never saw her again.

They opened the door and I dove head first into the tub, (probably. I don’t remember). You know why I don’t remember? Because of something beautiful called “Labor Land.” That’s what happens when you find your rhythm, ritual and relaxation in labor. Your body does it’s work, while your brain is like “hey girl, it’s actually just going to work better for us if you like…totally tap out. Yep, just like that, don’t mind us. We’ll just be over here getting this baby out.” This is why you ask VERY minimal questions, talk very little, and require very little mind engagement from a woman in labor. Let her do her thing. The more you call her back to reality, the harder it is for her to find and camp out in Labor Land. Your mind kind of goes quiet and gets out of the way while your body does it’s work in tandem with the baby. When a woman chooses an unmedicated labor the most important order of business is to get her here. If she can get here, she can do it. But if she doesn’t find this space to go to, she’ll go from pain with a purpose to suffering, and that’s never okay.

Back to me: Of course I was still conscious. But I don’t have a ton of memories from that time. I remember moving from the tub, to the shower, to the bed, to the tub again. I remember a room full of faces that loved me, and hands that held me. Prayers breathed over me. I remember my husband in the tub with me, holding up my body because I was so tired. I remember cursing myself for walking around town when I could have been resting. Calling people and anxiously awaiting this intensity like a fool when I could have been sleeping. But most of all, I remember the smell of that GOD AWFUL burrito someone gave my husband to eat, which he did, right next to me in the tub. I think he ingested maybe one single black bean before I removed his paternal rights. At which point he either went to the car to eat it, or just stopped all together, I don’t remember. But eventually all was well, I welcomed him back into my tub and graciously allowed him to squeeze my hips non stop or the next 5+ hours.

At some point, my body went from the “oooooooooooh’s” and ‘aaaaaaaaaaaaah’s of transition contractions (freakishly long, but about as painful as active labor) to a bit of a grunty sound at the end of each contraction. Like reverse puking. And 20 minutes later my baby was born.

Just kidding, it was like 3 hours. Which sounds pretty horrific. But again, labor land. I mean I don’t remember particularly loving every minute, but there’s something relieving to be able to push a little. It somehow felt better. I pushed for half my life (which is actually probably one of the most frustratingly normal things for any first time mom, regardless of being medicated or not. Your pelvis just needs a minute to adjust to an entire whole human to work it’s way out). And then all at once (after 22 hours), she was there. In my arms. So beautiful (but you know, still looking like an alien because it’s a newborn and while at the time they are incredibly beautiful, a couple months later you look back and are like '“woah. Glad that worked itself out.” ) I was finally DOOONE. Oh sweet baby Jesus, thank you for letting me be done. But I wasn’t done. There was too much blood in the water, so I had less than a minute with my precious little alien-angel before they pulled me out and discovered a tear that was beyond the scope of a midwife to repair. So I was transferred to the nearby hospital. In the ambulance, I remember telling the EMT “hi, please give me all the drugs. Thanks.” and then I don’t remember a lot after that.

The repair was rare and complex enough that all the doctors agreed it would be better to wait for a gynocological surgical specialist to come in the next day to do the job. So they packed me up with gauze and said something like “keep your knees together, REAL tight.” And you know, it was okay. My midwife was with me, everyone from the birth center met me at the hospital, my husband and my baby were there, and it really was okay. It wasn’t what I wanted or planned. But that’s life. And this life with my new little love had just begun. I loved her, deeply, and it was so weird because I knew her already. Somehow I knew her. I knew what she needed, and I knew I could give it to her. I was disappointed for sure that I wasn’t tucked into that cozy queen size bed with my husband and Por Que No chips and guac at the ready, but I had this baby. And I was safe. I had always been safe. My midwife knew right away what to do when it wasn’t going typically. From birth to the hospital only 20 minutes had passed, and even then my injuries weren’t life threatening. They waited 12 more hours to stitch me up. I was informed all along the way. I was held lovingly and gently. My choices were honored. I could have been traumatized by the shift in plans and complications. But I wasn’t. I was given an opportunity to grow in resilience, because while my body held physical trauma, my heart was safe.

I went home a few days later, did some fairly extensive pelvic floor physical therapy (which honestly every single child bearing woman should do, no excuses), and I was okay. My daughter shed her alien vibes, and developed her daddy’s beautiful brown eyes. I was tended to by my mothers (mom and step mom) and my husband who took every single second of time off he was allowed. I spent long days nursing and sitting and enjoying that little baby. She was a vessel by which I could transform. And transform I sure did. No longer were mucus plugs, belly button stumps, and placentas gross to me. They were life giving and they brought me to my daughter. I loved to hear birth stories after that. I would aggressively hunt down women from church, at parks, and library baby hours for details on their births. “And THEN what happened? But how did you FEEL when that happened?” And I began to notice something. Women who’s births were much “smoother” than mine, had felt worse about their experience than I had. I didn’t understand. She had a vaginal birth, with a successful epidural and no tear with a healthy baby, but she felt traumatized. Why? Often I discovered it was because of a lack of control, informed consent, and emotional safety in the birth room. She didn’t like her nurse, or her husband had no idea how to help, or the doctors just did stuff without explaining it to her ahead of time. That all seemed like stuff that was preventable! I could help with that!

So now I do.

And yes, I chose to birth out of the hospital. But I was sure glad to have one available to me when I needed it. I had a beautiful out of hospital experience, I got to see what my body was made of. And I was lovingly cared for in the hospital too. Both are part of my story, and both options are so valid and should be respected and honored. People often think doulas want all women to give birth at home, unmedicated with only the aid of essential oils, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. I respect all choices for how women want to give birth.

See Part II for more.