CREATING A BELLY CAST
by Bronwyn Preece
Many women create one—or several—belly casts during the course of their pregnancy, resulting in a lasting, three-dimensional representation of their blossoming body. A belly cast is often created with the help of other women, and may be performed during a blessingway.
The usual medium is a fast-setting plaster (less commonly, papier maché) applied in strips of varying lengths, to best capture the fullness and contours of breasts and abdomen. The woman’s torso is first covered in Vaseline, or preferably, some non-petroleum-based product of similar consistency, before the plaster is applied. This prevents the plaster from becoming attached to hairs and aids in easy removal of the cast, which usually sets in about twenty minutes. After being removed, dependent upon thickness, the cast might take upward of a full day or two to dry completely. The cast then becomes an available canvas, which can be left unadorned, or can be decorated or gessoed and painted.
The belly cast not only creates a sculptural memory of gestation, but it also becomes the foundation of many a story with which to later engage the child-to-be.
Belly cast.
by Amelie Manshadi
My name is Amelie Manshadi. I’m thirty-one years old, and my husband and I have four children, who were all born two years apart, and are all under seven years old. We live in Kamloops.
While pregnant with my first, I often had dreams of having my baby at home, alone. This was not a scary dream—it was something I almost longed for. Unfortunately, it was not responsible for two professionals to have their baby at home, and we had no midwives in town. We went ahead with hospital births. Each birth became quicker than the last, and I never experienced any complications. My third child almost came at home—we required a high-speed police escort to the hospital in the middle of the night. I only went that last time because my mother and husband forced me. My water had broken, and in my own mind, I would have preferred to have the baby in my shower than in the front seat of the van. What position would be best for giving birth in the van anyway?
Three weeks before my due date with my fourth, a wonderful midwife came into town. I did not hesitate to accept her services. The visits were not limited to a couple of measurements, blood pressure check, and assessment of problems. Rather, we had pleasant, calm visits in her cozy home office, or she would even come to my home.
All of my labors were quick, but the pre-labor was always excruciatingly long: three weeks of having everyone on edge, contractions that would come and go but that would not quite continue for long enough. One evening, I finally thought this was it, so I called the midwife. She asked if I was suffering. Not yet, I answered. So, she asked me to call her later. Well, the moment I spoke to her, labor stopped. So we awoke the next morning still with no baby.
A week later, I thought again it was time. I was suffering with contractions. While trying to cope and escape to my room, my two-year-old started hitting me and yelling. Any romantic dream of having peaceful loving children around while we brought their little brother or sister into the world was quickly squashed by reality. Thank you for letting me know now, I thought, while I can still do something about it. Off my children went to Grampa’s. I began to time my contractions and tried to walk them off. I felt good. I felt in control. It was going to be fine. My mother and I calmly and pleasantly prepared my room and bed with the labor package I had carefully kept away from our children for three weeks. The midwife arrived and checked: just one centimeter dilated . . . probably won’t happen today. Disappointment. I was overdue at that point, and my body was feeling it. I felt guilty for causing yet another false alarm, inconveniencing this nice woman who drove an hour away from her family. Of course, she was pleasant as always and helped me feel it was normal and all right.
Another few days later, I was determined not to cause any more false alarms, so I decided I would not tell anyone unless I was sure it was happening. It was a weekend, and I was with my family. We had two Baha’i Faith functions that day—a meeting at 11 a.m. with a delicious potluck lunch, and a Holy Day celebration at 5 p.m., also with a delicious potluck. I love potlucks. I packed up the kids and brought them to the first gathering. I felt some contractions, but nothing serious. By lunch, I got a few more. By 1 p.m. the kids were acting up at the potluck, so I took them grocery shopping (don’t laugh, I needed groceries and knew I wouldn’t be able to go again for a while). They were pacified by the grocery store’s free cookies. I stopped about five times during the shop because of hard contractions, but it’s wasn’t clear yet whether it was true labor. We got back to the gathering and had a nice lunch. OK, a few more painful contractions. By 2 p.m. I was really tired and decided to go home with the kids, leaving my husband behind. He called and asked me to cook the curry chicken dish he had prepped that morning. There I was—in my pajamas for comfort, cooking for someone else, and suffering, when I would have rather been resting. The kids were in front of the television.
Finally, I gave in and I made my three important phone calls. My husband: “Honey I won’t be coming back for the gathering tonight, I think this is happening.” In retrospect, I guess I was not clear enough. He said he’d be home shortly to pick up the chicken since I couldn’t bring it in. My mother: “Mom, I’m suffering.” She said she’d be there right away, but that she was up at the lake and Dad was away with the truck. Midwife: “I’m suffering, but no they’re not five minutes apart yet, still eight to ten.” She said, “OK, I’ll finish up here, then I’ll head over” (twenty-minute drive plus finishing up). I hung up, and this time instead of stopping everything, labor kicked it into high gear. My contractions started to double peak, with less than a minute of relief in between. I was alone. Alone with my children downstairs watching television. I wondered, What do I do now? I had faith that everything would work out, and my people were on their way. I chose to not call again. OK, now I’m suffering, I thought. I went back and forth to my bedroom, not knowing what to do with myself for relief.
My husband arrived—with a guest. A lady I hardly knew. I didn’t want her there. I felt angry at my husband for doing this. She was the first to arrive for the gathering, and he hadn’t wanted to leave her there alone. She saw how I was suffering, and knew the baby would come soon. My husband didn’t seem to get it—he told me later that he thought I couldn’t be that close because I wasn’t in bed. I walked back and forth and suffered through my contractions in private, and the lady followed me and touched my belly. I was not happy with this. My husband asked whether he should stay or go. I sent him away to drive the lady back to the gathering.
I went to sit on the toilet, since that’s where I needed to be with my other labors. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Nothing alleviated the pain. My mother arrived, took one look at me, and having been there for my three other labors, knew from my look that it was happening! Then plop! My water broke. OK, I thought, this is it. My babies had always been born within five minutes of my water breaking. There I was. No midwife. No husband. Couldn’t hear the kids—thankfully, my father had picked them up. My mom was there. I walked over to my bed and got on my hands and knees. I wanted to slow down my labor and give my midwife and my husband a chance to get there. I panted and put my bum up in the air and my face down in a pillow. Meanwhile, my mother called the midwife’s cell. She was seven minutes away. We told her to hurry because this baby’s coming!
OK. I’m being tested now, I realized. I wanted to give birth alone, at home. Is this really what I wanted? Yes, I decided. My body was made for it, and I could do it. After all, it’s not the midwife or doctor that delivers the baby, it’s ME! They just catch and make sure we’re both all right! I was panting and trying hard not to push. I could feel the baby slipping down in the birth canal, almost there . . . despite my efforts to hold him back. Finally, I surrendered. Professional assistance or not, this baby was coming. I slowly allowed a bit of pushing. I told my mother. I heard the midwife. I was changing my position, I didn’t even look up. I felt the baby’s head slowly come out (well, slower than with the other kids) and his head was suddenly pushed hard against my thigh. Babe slipped out. And suddenly, it was done. I didn’t want to move. It was a boy. He was slipped below my dripping body. A perfect little boy. A few minutes later, the midwife gently pulled on the placenta and it was done. No complications. I slowly turned over and thanked my mother and midwife, and was relieved to see my husband had also made it just in time. My husband got to cut the cord, after it stopped pulsating. Not quite the way we had planned or hoped, but is it ever?
I felt so thankful and happy to be in my own calm room surrounded by my people and a loving healthcare professional. I wasn’t worried about germs, interrupting nurses, or loud cleaning staff. I had my baby with me, and I was going to sleep well that night.
The midwife showed us the placenta—no problems. She mentioned that when turned inside out, it looks like a tree of life. It does. It’s amazingly beautiful.
A couple of hours later, (short for me, long for them) my children and father arrived to greet their new little brother Raphael Ali Dehghan Manshadi. They were ecstatic and wanted to kiss him. We had our first family pictures taken. What a joyous event.
We had had the second homebirth in our town. What a privilege to have had a midwife.
We cannot plan the perfect birth and expect it to happen, or we will inevitably be disappointed. What we can do is have strong faith that everything will work out for the best, and any complications will be dealt with responsibly, with the mom and baby’s needs and wants remaining the priority. Plans A, B, C, and D.
The placenta or “tree of life.”
Raphael and Amelie.
Amelie is a stay-at-home mother with a degree in nursing who is actively involved in the worldwide Baha’i community. Her husband is a pharmacist and runs a pharmacy in Kamloops.