One month ago I was laying in bed with a tight round drum of a belly, snuggling a sweet Sparrow and her far-flung limbs. 41 weeks, 1 day, and every morning waking up with a strange delight that I made it through another night still pregnant. I didn’t mind going “over” and despite my many despairings earlier in the pregnancy, I felt peaceful about relinquishing a year to change and finding a new rhythm. I loved the extra week I had to enjoy both of my already-born babies and to glory in the anticipation of meeting Baby Tarzan. I even got an extra week of work in! I was laying on my side cradling these two babies, one outside and one within my body, when I felt my water gently break. It was around 7:45 AM. The first thought I had was a pinch of disappointment that I was starting out with waters broken, but it also felt good to be waking up with fresh energy after a whole night of sleep. I sprang from my bed and dashed to the bathroom, crowing to Jonathan that something was finally happening. Getting up and moving caused more water fall, soaking my basketball shorts, and almost immediately I had a very sharp, jagged contraction that made all the weeks and days of gripping my tightening belly during a practice surge and declaring, "Oh my! That was a hard one!" seem like a total joke. When it's real, its unmistakably real.
I remember leaning over the bathroom counter and groaning, thinking I had to get my contacts in and find pants and text everyone! It was like one of those "choose two" diagrams. So I opted for contacts and texting, first apprising everyone it would be "Sometime today probably" and telling Katie to "get ready casually" and then shortly after revising the message to "if you want to be here GET HERE NOW!" There is some total silliness here that I wish were not part of my story, but I kept having to delete old texts out of my mailbox so I could read new ones, which was taking me forever because of course there are those texts I don't want to part with, so I was scrolling back through months of old texts so I could delete them and read my new messages, and meanwhile the surges were already rolling in and slamming me and I felt impatient; couldn't my body appreciate that I had to take care of some ward business before we moved on to the main speakers? I was using all my brief in-between surges time to text and I still hadn't found any pants and this became more and more distressing to me as I realized people were almost going to be there, and I didn't want to spend the next potential many hours pantsless. My phone kept chiming with messages and distracting me. It was absurd. I finally texted everyone one more time, a message I thought was clear and instructive, explaining that I couldn't find any pants, and to text Jon. I had meant to text Jon if they had any more questions, but hilariously, a lot of people took it to mean that Jon wasn't home and I needed his help. To find pants. Ha! So some of them began helpfully trying to locate him and inform him of my problems. “She needs pants, Jon! She can’t find any! Where are you?” I ended up just putting my wet basketball shorts back on, because I am hardcore, just like the pioneers.
I needed to be in my body and just with my body and stop trying to manage anything else. As soon as I tuned in I was surprised at how spicy the surges felt already, and I regretted my water breaking and removing the cushion that softened the edges. What I remembered from my surges during Sparrow's birth was this delicate crescendo, like a musical scale of building pressure, a sharp, shrill peak and an ebbing away with kind relief. Instead of a musical scale, these surges felt like gut punches of peak--peak--peak--like someone leaning on a truck horn, blaring. In a physical sense, it felt very loud, in my body. I remember trying to quiet my mind down, keep my body still, accept these sensations, but they seemed so strong already that it was difficult for me to connect with them. Part of me wanted to wiggle away and avoid them for awhile longer; not yet, not yet. Another wise part of me remembered that there was no way out but through, and I told myself, you can do this. (“It’s a unix system...I know this.”)
PHOTO CREDIT: Katherine Loveless
Richelle and Shanlee were there with their serene excitement and began the comforting bustle of setting things up. Richelle checked on the baby's heart rate and explained she didn't feel the need to check me because I seemed to be laboring well. A few more gut-punch surges and I moaned that I thought I would get more of a break in between, and asked to be checked. 7. 5. Katie cheered for me. I started to feel perplexed about where my support people were; I'd made it this far completely untouched. I felt disoriented and confused. I wanted Jonathan to come be close to me, I wanted the fearsome swelling pressure in my pelvis to go away. I was annoyed that the vacuum cleaner was in the middle of the floor and I disliked seeing it there whenever I opened my eyes. They told me that the birth tub wasn't ready and they weren't sure it would be in time for me to have the baby; I said in that case I wanted to go labor in my room and started to make my slow way there. The surges were so fierce. I remember hanging onto the back of the couch and swaying my hips, and the midwife's assistant Shanlee came and pressed on my back, and it felt so merciful! I managed to walk into my room, arms wrapped around Shanlee and Jon, and when I got there I dropped to my hands and knees during a surge, and remained there for the rest of my labor, just collapsed on the floor between the wall and the bed.
Sparrow had been sleeping, tilted forward with her mane of wispy hair face down on the pillow, but my moaning and humming woke her up. She was a little distressed and called out for me. I remember seeing her face pinched with worry to have all these strange people in her room, but she slipped off the bed and into my arms and I sat up against the wall and held her and submerged myself in that insistent tightness. Mary and Diana were suddenly there, and their presence made me feel like a bright light had turned on. I was comforted just seeing them. My dear friends and sisters were floating in one by one. Kayte was near my face, such a warm and graceful presence. Laurel hugged me when she arrived and even as deep as I was, I was so happy to see her! She was tearful and told me she had been sobbing in the car on her way to my house because she was afraid I would have the baby before she got there. I'm so glad that didn't happen...I still have an ache in my heart from missing the birth of Laurel's daughter, the only chance I could have had to support her as she has done for me so many times.
Magical doulas, knowing hands, they pressed against my knees and even at that awkward angle it relieved so much pressure! I felt like a broken doll whose limbs had come off and they were pressing them back into the joints. It was lovely, and I held my sweet girl against my belly; she was the perfect size to give me some counterpressure against my abdomen. I was so grateful for her gentle resting there. She was utterly calm and seemed to understand some kind of solemnity about what was happening, she just clung tightly to me and whispered, "Mama. Mama. Baby?" and patted my belly and snuggled me. Those moments are so precious to me. Whatever happens in the rest of my life and my relationship with Sparrow, if I never have another little daughter, if she grows up and despises me for awhile, whether or not I ever hold her while she has her own babies, we will always have that unbelievable pocket of time when she loved me and I absorbed her kindness with my wide open raw heart and it was so terribly sweet. My life, what an incredible piece of life to experience. I remember my sister Diana exclaiming, "I am never going to forget this! She is so beautiful!" Sparrow was somber, and tender, and just rocked with me.
I crawled forward and collapsed on my hands and knees again and my doulas circled around me. One of the things that touched me so much, looking at the photographs later, is that at every point of my labor there is a circle around me--whether it's one or two people curled around my body or six or seven performing those merciful acrobatics, I was completely cradled by these women. They are so powerful! Every single one of them believed in me, every single one of them brought an energy of confidence and joy. I felt encircled by their laughter and open hearts; I could feel them melting at my childrens' sweetness, feel them aching with me, especially those women who understand the poignancy of birth, I could feel empathy from their hands, strength from their muscles. I realize that my experiences giving birth are probably the times I have been most able to release my concerns about reciprocity and social balance and just accept touch and holding and rescue, maybe that is why those moments are so dear to me, it's not a natural space always in my life. Such kindness! Everyone deserves such kindness. I needed every single touch, every single hand. They talked to me, vocalized with me--which always makes me feel absurdly and childishly special--and laughed at my “labor jokes.” I wish I could remember some of them.
I remember being there on my hands and knees and seeing Sparrow's dear little feet in front of me, as she hugged me, rubbed my neck and patted my head. She was my Littlest Doula. The pressure in my belly and pelvis was tremendous, this heavy pressure that sagged and stayed between surges. I tried laying on my left side, which I've never ever done in labor before, to see if that felt better, but it made me feel confined and a little panicky. My body wanted to be upright and grounded. I twisted a piece of my back in trying to get up and clever Moh and Laurel or Laura rubbed it out. I asked if there was any way someone could support my belly and some lovely gracious person found a rebozo. Oh sweet rebozo! They took turns standing and pulling up while the others squeezed my hips, pressed down on my shoulders and back. They had hotpads on my back and cold cloths on my neck. I was still present enough to describe and ask for what I needed. Such is the skill of my doulas that there were whole increments where they were working with such precision and energy that they took the entire brunt of a surge away. There were whole delicious spaces of 20 or 30 seconds I felt completely normal--even while experiencing surges.
I remember being there on my hands and knees and seeing Sparrow's dear little feet in front of me, as she hugged me, rubbed my neck and patted my head. She was my Littlest Doula. The pressure in my belly and pelvis was tremendous, this heavy pressure that sagged and stayed between surges. I tried laying on my left side, which I've never ever done in labor before, to see if that felt better, but it made me feel confined and a little panicky. My body wanted to be upright and grounded. I twisted a piece of my back in trying to get up and clever Moh and Laurel or Laura rubbed it out. I asked if there was any way someone could support my belly and some lovely gracious person found a rebozo. Oh sweet rebozo! They took turns standing and pulling up while the others squeezed my hips, pressed down on my shoulders and back. They had hotpads on my back and cold cloths on my neck. I was still present enough to describe and ask for what I needed. Such is the skill of my doulas that there were whole increments where they were working with such precision and energy that they took the entire brunt of a surge away. There were whole delicious spaces of 20 or 30 seconds I felt completely normal--even while experiencing surges.
I felt suspended, it was so hard to stay there, knowing I was close but having to endure being on pause until it was time to move on. I kept saying, I don't feel pushy, I wish I felt like pushing. I blew air out slowly and suddenly remembered my playlist. Someone ran to turn it on. We listened to the first four songs, I'll never forget. Coldplay's The Scientist was the first song, and is connected to some deep hurt for Laurel. She said "This song pwns me" and she cried there at my side, wiping away her tears while she continued rubbing my back and stroking my hair. I said, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I love you. Her pain and my pain. There was nothing to do but be in it. I remember Diana saying blithely, “This is a perfect song for birth! ‘It’s such a shame for us to part.’” The next song was The Mother We Share (Chvrches) and then Karma Police, which filled the room with some kind of fresh, confident energy. Everyone asked if they could sing and I said, please, please do! While I was making this playlist and for the days before the baby was born I felt like I was craving Radiohead like some women crave food, the songs were physically nourishing to me. I murmured and mouthed the words while everyone belted them out. “This is what you get!” That song carries just the right attitude for the emotional space I was in. I loved listening to Jonathan sing, "I've given all I can, it's not enough..." "For a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself..." Letting myself focus on the words grounded me a little bit. I think singing at births is so powerful because it's simultneous support and self-expression. Holding the space can feel so heavy and it helps release tension and lets the birthing woman hear your voice and feel so aware of your presence. It was good and even though I was in such a physically challenging place of waiting for the baby to move down, it was one of my favorite moments of my labor! I told everyone that Karma Police was the theme song of this baby's conception.
The next song was "No Surprises," which is a pretty cynical song to be born to, although the line “this is...my final bellyache” is pretty great. At some point I tried pushing again and felt that familiar but still shocking sliding, widening feeling of the baby sliding down. Warm, insistent, relieving. It was so vulnerable to be pushing out a baby with everyone clustered around my body, no water to shield me. But I also felt comfortable enough (and ready to be done) to do it! I felt like an animal. A purposeful, quiet animal. I felt steely and determined, quiet and blank. I told myself I would push through a count of ten in my own mind no matter what it felt like and then I would pause. I got the head out by the count of seven and took a rest to breathe; I heard gasps and cries of “Slow down, slow, slow, slow!”
Someone was exclaiming they had no idea I was pushing and someone else was saying, "That's how she always does it." I said that I like to be a stealth pusher and not tell anyone what I'm up to so I don't have to manage their expectations, I don't have time for that. Jon crawled over closer to me and we embraced, he kissed my face. I asked for Chai and Sparrow to be brought back in, and they were so beautiful to me, my little sacred children of my body. I kissed them and kissed them and showed them the baby. I felt dizzy with not knowing.
The hours after my baby’s birth are so warm in my memory. My friends and sisters climbing on the bed with me, talking and laughing, processing the experience. He was born at 10:28 AM, making the total labor from first surge to the placenta being delivered a little under 3 hours. He weighed 8 lbs 2 oz (my tiniest baby, and my latest baby!) and his aunt Diana cut the cord. I felt delighted, and relieved. I wanted to talk about how rough and all-encompassing my experience was, I wanted to talk about all the women who have ever lived who have given birth, how I worried and ached for them, and I wanted to explain how my heart was exploding with love. Laurel, Laura, Mary, Diana, Katie, Kayte, Sarah, you are and always have been so dear to me. Thank you for being connected forever with this sweet day. Thank you for holding and creating sacred space, for singing, for your comforting words. I heard or felt every one.
It is overwhelming to give birth three times in less than four years. I know I'm far from the first to experience so many pregnancies in quick succession, but it has taken a lot from me. I also know how lucky I am. I feel so grateful to have three healthy babies. I don't want to take it for granted. I don't want to pretend that I'm immune to devastating experiences. I don't know why we have been so lucky and why each of these times I got to wrap my arms around a healthy, squalling infant, but I honor all those women who felt every sensation that racked my body, some for so much longer, and without kind hands on their backs, and never got to hear a cry, never got to feel the relief because even after all that enormous work their bodies were flooded with panic. I thought of the women who are abused while giving birth, who birth with injured bodies, who are insulted or shamed or alone. I felt humbled to the core of my soul that my body had worked mercifully, for the kind humans who flocked to me and threaded their fingers through my hair, pressed with all their strength on my heaving body. There was a rock of horror I didn't fall off of, I was held, I was cradled, I was honored. I believe every woman who goes through this process deserves that, even if they would feel overwhelmed by the phalanx I had in that tiny space, too many hands, I believe everyone deserves gentleness at that time. And my heart was pierced for those who didn't experience gentleness, but the opposite.
I talked with Katie about the photos she took...I told her they have a National Geographic feel, probably because we actually are creatures being photographed in our natural environment. They are different from my other homebirth photos, more chaotic, all this sheer emotion and intensity smeared against our wall in this tiny space, my kids wearing motley clothes, the hair I slept in. Everything about it was sudden. There is something glorious about capturing the unpreparedness of that day. There was nothing posed or staged, just this collapse into the labor that completely captured me and the good souls who swooped in to help carry me through, and then at the end we met this baby who lived in me an extra week and hopefully will be with me and Jon in all of our days of this sojourn together.
We were unprepared from the beginning to accept this new life. I never thought I could possibly feel good about it. But just like his birth, I worked very hard, I went through something transformative, and I was healed and uplifted by friends swooping in to hear me and support me I am thinking of so many, but especially of Sarah and the blessingway/kitchen remodel she organized. It changed my heart from famine to feast. I also realized (again) during this pregnancy that Jonathan is my truest friend. He knows me, and he accepts me. I love my newborn son. He is Good. I love my life even in this time of transition. I feel very young, and very old, very strong and very human. “How strange it is to be anything at all.”
