by Lauren Walker
I recently celebrated my son’s first birthday. It’s been twelve months since I began this somewhat unexpected, yet unbelievably welcome, segment of my life. It is difficult to even imagine using simple prose to describe the mind-blowing process of my journey into motherhood. While I know that the memories of events over this past year will fade with each inch that my son grows, for now, the images still glow warmly in my heart.
Our story begins in a slightly seedy tourist motel, sandwiched in amongst the terracotta-tiled roofs that dot the twisted little alleyways of the Sao Tome district of Panagi—a bustling former Portuguese colony on the shores of the Arabian Sea. I had been celebrating my recent completion of my graduate studies by treating myself to a well-deserved post-thesis trip to Asia. The weight and worry of the past few months were slipping away with endless cups of sweet chai and the blistering heat. I had unexpectedly met up with an old friend, Matt, and we were both soaking up the world around us, reveling in the sensory overload presented by a journey to southern India. Traveling along the dust-choked roads, as I had always wanted to do with him, was beautiful. Then came the time for us to continue our solo journeys, and I headed north. Holed away in the snowy, high Himalaya amongst the yaks, my backpack and I trudged along trails at a somewhat slower pace than usual. Thinking I was suffering slightly from the altitude, I brushed my weariness aside. After a few weeks, however, I was becoming suspicious. So, for eight rupees, in the wall-to-wall-packed “women’s room” of the Leh hospital, I came to know of my little gift to be. Hmmm, make that morning sickness?
I returned home to Canada as planned a few weeks later, just in time for the onset of extreme early pregnancy hormonal changes. In my heart, I knew exactly what I was doing.
Explaining what it was that I was doing to the rest of the world, and trying to organize my life accordingly while in my new emotionally charged state, proved to be anything but straightforward. Luckily, as I have repeatedly and stubbornly learned, things work out as they should.
I had sublet my apartment to friends while away in Asia, and all while managing to keep the home front safe and my dog fed, they had given birth to a healthy little boy in my bedroom. In a way, the scenario made my decision for prenatal care and birth rather easy. Just call up their midwife, Jennifer, and repeat the process. So I did. It was a sunny late spring day, and we sat outside in the backyard. We talked for a while, with Jennifer calmly outlining the steps along the path to birth, and me stretching out on the grass to hear the amplified echo of my little one’s heartbeat for the first time. The tears were instantaneous.
In the following months, while I busied myself at work and with scientific research—which at times found me either running from grizzlies or filing papers—“The Belly,” as it came to be known, grew speedily. I decided to take a comparatively relaxed approach to the pregnancy and birth processes. While trained in academia to think in logical, scientific terms, I made a rather right-brained decision to let my baby grow undisturbed—minimal diagnostic testing, and no ultrasound. As I was not going to terminate the pregnancy because of a problem, I declined ultrasound, knowing there was no use in my spending many months worrying, and concurrently stressing a developing fetus, about something a test would reveal. Was I falling back on the old adage that “ignorance is bliss”? Perhaps; however, from a scientific standpoint no one could prove to me that repetitive ultrasounds would have no effect on my little one.
Making decisions such as not including ultrasounds in my pregnancy arose partly from choosing midwifery care instead of the traditional obstetric route. My midwife always explained in full detail any procedure or test typical to pregnancy, including information on their effectiveness, and effects on the baby and myself. While I do not wish to imply that obstetricians push tests on women, I do believe that often things such as ultrasounds are presented as “routine,” implying that a woman should have one regardless of whether it is needed or not. I experienced some difficulty from both my mother and Matt’s mother in regard to my decision to decline most tests. I was healthy, the baby showed no signs of being anything other than healthy, and the pregnancy was progressing along smoothly. Yet, I was often met with a barrage of questions, and ample doubt, from the women of the prior generation. “But what if the placenta is low-lying?” they asked. “It will be obvious when my waters break,” I replied. “But what if it’s breech?” they asked. “It’s not, here feel my belly—there’s its bum, the shoulders,” I replied. Would I have been compelled to spend time deciphering my baby’s body through my belly if I had had an ultrasound? I don’t believe so. Through my choices, I think I was able to develop a stronger connection to my baby.
Unfortunately, my decision to have a homebirth also was met with serious doubt from the grandmothers-to-be. In their opinion, having a homebirth was a selfish decision and I was putting the health of the baby in jeopardy. It seemed as though the facts that my pregnancy was entirely low risk, and that I lived within easy access to a hospital should there be a problem, were irrelevant. My desire to welcome my baby to the world through a low-stress, drug-free labor, in the comforts of my own home, accompanied by several certified midwives, fell on deaf ears. In the end, I had to veto the subject, as it was apparent that we were never going to see eye to eye.
I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how pregnancy, over the span of one or two generations, had become such a medical process. How had women become so disconnected from natural birthing—instead expected to deliver in sterile environments with a multitude of pain medications to remove themselves from the process? When had it become the norm to hand over your instincts to a doctor, rather than to listen to your body and the life growing within it? How did the practice of midwifery care get lost in our North American culture since my grandmothers’ time? It was reassuring to have the support of other women making birthing choices similar to mine in Victoria. However, I was also aware that in many other Canadian communities, the choices that were available to me were, sadly, not available for other expectant mothers.
The final weeks of my pregnancy were both restless and comforting. I was becoming increasingly anxious to see my baby, but was enjoying having luxuriously long baths accompanied by my churning belly, and countless slow bike rides along the ocean, attempting to get some semblance of weightlessness. I was sure my baby was coming early as it sat extremely low during those last few weeks.
About ten days before I was due, I started feeling contractions. Initially I panicked. My mind began to race. But I hadn’t made my belly cast yet, I hadn’t made that lasagna to put in the freezer yet, and I didn’t have a mirror for the birth yet—so much for remaining calm. I decided to call Matt. In true sitcom fashion, he was out at the bar. I tried to convey my urgency, in all matters of impending birth, and the need to make a belly cast, over the din of the bar echoing through his cell phone. He replied, in an annoyingly rational fashion, that I should just relax, take a bath, and wait to see how things progress, as they had instructed us in our prenatal class. I reluctantly hung up the phone, and did as I was told. The contractions persisted, however, despite relaxation techniques and a trip to the neighbors’ to watch a movie. The contractions continued through until morning, when the three of us—Mama, Papa, and Baby-to-Be—went to our last prenatal class. In a rather surreal state, I sat through the following hours of instruction on labor while in labor. We were convinced that it was the day. Alas, the contractions decided to peter out late that evening. The baby was locked into position and ready to go, but for some unknown reason was waiting to make an appearance.
The following days saw me in some sort of labor purgatory. I don’t think I have ever been so aware of my body as I was during that time. I remember watching my belly squirm, able to make out a protruding foot here, a restless fist there. I strained to hear, like the faint rumblings of a long-lost cave dweller, a sign of impending arrival from the deep.
My mother had arrived from out east the day before I was due. It was my sister’s birthday, and upon her request, I told “The Belly” that this couldn’t be the day as she wasn’t sure about having to share her birthday. With that decided, my mother took to spoiling me the whole day, declaring that we had to squeeze in activities that she missed doing after the arrival of her children. So, we lazily had all our meals at fine restaurants and took in a show. Confident that I had had one final day as “Lauren—alone, unto herself,” she sent me off to bed.
I awoke in the wee hours of the morning feeling rather uncomfortable—not uncommon to those late in gestation. The familiar tightening of my belly had returned and I thought, somewhat scornfully, to myself, “Yeah, yeah, sure,” and went back to sleep.
Apparently “The Belly” didn’t agree with me, though, as it soon woke me up again. The contractions were not particularly painful, but something would not let me go back to sleep. So, I waddled up to the bathtub, poured myself a sip of wine, and tried to soak myself into a sleepy state. Returning to bed, however, I was still too uncomfortable to close my eyes for any length of time. I gave up, and decided to make the call to Matt. He answered and agreed, in rather sleepy tones, to come over. Upon arrival, he promptly went back to sleep. However, I was too antsy. So, I got up to leave Papa in peace for a while—he would need his rest as well. I took another warm bath, then curled up with a book in front of the heater in my kitchen on a birthing ball. I read for a while, slowly rocking with the contractions. After an hour or two, my eyes felt droopy enough to go back to bed.
I awoke again near dawn. I looked out the window to see the beginnings of a beautiful coastal fall day. The fog was of the pea soup variety, and as I lay there feeling my hard rock of a stomach, I could hear the continual droning of foghorns out on the Strait. The contractions had subsided somewhat, and so, after some discussion, we decided to give the process a little jump-start with a natural oxytocin boost (a.k.a. orgasm therapy).
Luckily, our hard work paid off, and the contractions picked up a bit of speed. After a leisurely breakfast, my mother came over and we trooped out to take the dog for a walk. As we meandered along the harbor, I kept my hands planted on my belly. Things were still very much in the early stage of labor—contractions about eight to ten minutes apart—and as long as I kept strolling along, they were not particularly painful.
Around lunchtime, we dropped my mom off and returned to my apartment. We decided to make some calls. I sat on the phone for a while with Jennifer and her student Brenda, talking my way through contractions. They figured things were still a long way off, but said to keep them posted. We also called my doula Mila, and she agreed to come over.
I decided I was most comfortable outside and moving around, so when Mila arrived, the three of us headed to the beach. The air was still over-saturated, painting the west coast winter landscape in surreal hues of green and gold. As we ambled along, I would inform Mila of the onset of a contraction, and she quietly kept track of them. As we were approaching the apartment, Mila quietly remarked that the contractions were five minutes apart. I stopped for a minute and realized that they were, indeed, starting to get on the painful side of life.
So, we decided to get down to business. We cranked the tunes, rolled the birthing ball into the living room, and had ourselves a contraction party. With Mila’s sure fingers providing a constant pain-relieving massage on my lower back, and Matt’s steady shoulders to lean forward on, I worked my way through each contraction by either rocking on the ball or standing up and swaying back and forth in a slow dancing motion. Matt called Jennifer again and let her know that things seemed to be progressing rather rapidly. I was still able to talk and relax somewhat between contractions, however, my thoughts were becoming increasingly inward. I began to visualize the sinusoidal pattern of the contractions, and marveled at my body’s ingenious way of progressing me along the birthing journey, adjusting me to each new level of pain.
As my labor progressed, the focus point of pain moved down my belly toward my pelvis, following the baby’s path through the birth canal. I was continually returning to the washroom to empty out my compromised bladder. The time came for me to grab for a bucket, and my final meal of oats made its way back up. All was relatively well coordinated until two rapid-fire contractions coincided with the requisite bathroom trip and a need for the bucket. Luckily, Mila was on the ball and kept me in the right position at the right time to incur the least amount of mess to my apartment or myself. I think that was one of the many moments I had along the way when I was overwhelmingly happy to be in my own home surrounded by space, my music, my comforts, my mess.
Soon I was no longer able to sit or stand through a contraction. They were coming in waves, and the few in-between minutes of relaxation I was able to enjoy the hour before were gone. I dropped down to my hands and knees on a few pillows. It was at this point that I began to become detached from the world around me. Focusing on each breath, and the need to keep breathing, consumed my thoughts. Mila remained at my side, massaging my back with a constant stream of encouraging words. Matt, at this point, seemed to be fluttering about in an increasing state of panic. The phone rang several times, once a telemarketer, to which Matt kindly explained that this perhaps wasn’t the best time for me to come to the phone. I remember Mila asking again when, exactly, were the midwives going to be here? I think the three of us were beginning to wonder if we were going to be delivering the baby alone. Another phone call to Jennifer revealed that she was stuck in traffic on the highway. “Lovely,” I grunted.
Just when I thought I couldn’t get any friendlier with the floor, transition hit. I rapidly lost any significant ability to communicate verbally, and though my eyes may have been open, I was unaware of seeing anything around me. My focus had turned completely inward. The mind, and the womb, connected. I had entered the fabled Laborland.
Matt opened the apartment door to find the student-midwife Brenda standing there, alone. Legally, she wasn’t able to enter until Jennifer, or the backup midwife, Lily, arrived. Back on the living room floor, I was trying my best not to entirely bury my face in the pillows. I managed to keep breathing by mimicking Mila, who kept her face right up beside mine, breathing on my cheek. Soon, however, it was all I could do to not freeze up in pain and groan. My only task in life at that point was to breathe, and yet it seemed like such a monumental feat.
Then, suddenly, the door swung open and in walked Jennifer, followed closely by Brenda and Lily. If it had been possible for me to breathe a sigh of relief, I would have. There was a flurry of activity around me while they set up equipment in the kitchen. They asked me in which room I wanted to give birth, and where the supplies were. Somehow, I communicated the key word of “bedroom,” and I was quickly lifted up and escorted there. I fell back down onto my hands and knees on my bed. Brenda examined me and told me I had about a centimeter to go until full dilation. The next contraction seemed to take care of most of that as its accompanying wave of pain induced a rapid breaking of my waters, all over poor Brenda.
And then, there was calm. As my body moved its way into the final stage of labor, I was given a moment of relief: dilation down, only pushing to go.
At that point, I was completely emotionally removed from my surroundings. Eyes closed, I was well aware of what was going on around me, however I could not fathom communicating vocally with anyone else in the room. With the onset of pushing, the contractions spaced themselves out again. I lay down on my side with Mila stationed on my left and Matt on my right. I kept both their hands firmly clamped in mine, as if drawing reserves of strength from them with each push. I remember thinking about how nobody had really described to me how to actually push the baby out, yet here I was doing just that. My body was on its own course, no need for my mind to contemplate the method.
The atmosphere in the room was akin to a party. Between contractions, the midwives chatted and joked around. “Am I really lying here birthing?” I thought. At the onset of a contraction, I would let out a low moan, and the room would grow silent. The midwives would raise my one leg, and encourage me to push. After I grunted my way through the wave, they would gently lower my leg back down, and I would slip back off into my own little world. I could hear the strains of another birthday party at my downstairs neighbors’ apartment, and I remember hoping that their music was turned up loud enough to drown out my pushing vocalizations. Between contractions, the midwives would listen to the baby’s heartbeat with the portable monitor. It was as steady as a metronome, and seemed to encourage me along. Come on Mama, I’m fine, you just keep pushing, OK?
My little one was indeed in a bit of a rush. I wasn’t pushing for very long before the head began to poke out. I remember Jennifer saying that the baby would be born at nine o’clock. “Sounds great,” I thought, “but what time is it?” Luckily, somebody read my mind and asked the question. It was ten minutes to nine. Having some reference to time soothed me; it was indeed going to end soon. As if on cue, my body replied with what I can only describe as the most painful act I have ever experienced in my life. The crowning. Was this that “ring of fire”? Yes, my friend, it does indeed burn. I remember Matt yelling something along the lines of “Oh my God, Lauren, it’s a head!” and Jennifer managed to pry my hand away from Mila so I could reach down and touch it. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that what I was touching was indeed a head. Not wanting to remain in that position for one second longer than necessary, I pushed with all my might. Then, like the cork on the champagne bottle we had cracked oh so long ago to announce the pregnancy, my little babe’s head popped out to join us on the other side. With my audience of encouragement to help, I managed to push out the rest in the same contraction, and let out an enormous breath while my little one took his first one in. It was 8:59 p.m., and he was here.
The following moments—the start of my life as two instead of one—are somewhat blurred in my memory, no doubt as a result of both utter elation and complete exhaustion. There was a little cry, not too much, just enough to inform us that he was fine and glad to have finished his journey. Jennifer did a quick wipe and brought the babe up to my chest. Matt and I lay there in complete amazement at the perfect little pink body between us. In my pe riphery there was a flurry of activity, instructions to keep pushing out the placenta, cord tying and cutting, etc. My world, however, had shrunk down to the few centimeters of face lying at my chest. Matt and I watched in amazement as it nuzzled me gently and quickly found my nipple despite its exhaustion and closed eyes. It suckled for a few minutes, and then promptly fell asleep. After a few minutes, Jennifer turned to Matt and me and asked, “So is it a girl or a boy?” In that little bubble of absolute newness, we had yet to explore lower than the belly button. We quickly pulled back the blanket to reveal a rather well hung set of balls. Ah, my boy.
With all immediate things under control, Matt left the room to call my mother. He found her in the hallway outside the apartment. Unable to wait any longer at her hotel, she had walked over. By some sense of motherly telepathy, she had shown up no more than five minutes after the baby was born. As Matt ushered her in, I was being repositioned for the nasty task of stitching. To this day, I can still remember that moment of tearing when he crowned. Ouch, to say the least. Envisioning the bloody mess of me that my mom must have been confronted with, I called her over to sit beside me at my head, above the mess. The stitching was by far the most unpleasant part of the whole birth (just when I thought the pain was over . . . ), but with a beautiful little baby on my chest, continued midwife humor, and a little local anesthetic, it got done. Jennifer then pulled out her fish scale and weighed him. We measured his length and head, and Brenda felt for the testes (two, check). Then it was time for champagne and a toast to the most beautiful baby I will ever lay eyes on.
Soon the swaddled little one was handed off to Nana, and I was led to the bath to clean up a bit. I again had one of those moments of homebirth happiness—I could waddle naked and messy through my living room to the peace and quiet of my own bathtub. Matt brought the champagne as well as some ice cream, and I feasted while I soaked. I distinctly remember looking down at my mushy Buddha belly, ice cream in one hand and champagne in the other and thinking, “What just happened?” With no baby in my belly, nor one in my arms, it was all a little confusing. However, once dried off and escorted back to my bedroom, I was reunited with my baby, and we snuggled down under the blankets of my freshly made bed.
A rather quick two hours after delivering, my birthing team had everything cleaned up and put away. They said their goodbyes and reassured me they would be back in ten hours to check up on us. My mom soon followed suit. Then, in the quiet of the approaching midnight, it was just the three of us left in the warm cocoon of my bed. Mama, Papa, and Babe. Let the journey begin.
Lauren holds an M.Sc. in geology and is a teacher in the Comox Valley on Vancouver Island