__
It was April, and a good friend of mine was texting me that she was certain she was in active labor with her second baby. As she told me about her symptoms and contractions, that hadn’t let up all night and they were getting ready to head to the hospital, I suddenly felt a wave of sickness and panic. I can’t do it again, I thought. I can’t give birth again. I can’t labor again. There’s no way I can ever willingly subject myself to that same ordeal again. These feelings were problematic seeing as I was already 7 weeks pregnant. As the texts became less frequent and I realized my friend was likely in the thick of labor, I kept imagining myself in her position. Was she wailing on the floor? Was her body splitting open? Did her back feel that it was breaking into several pieces? Was she three hours into pushing with no sign of the baby yet? When I received a text the next morning that her baby was successfully delivered and all was well, I was still preoccupied with my own imminent date with labor-doom. I was pregnant. Lord willing, I was going to have to give birth, no matter how much it terrified me. But I found solace in the fact that today was not the day I was required to face my fear. I still had months to go.
And so that
day, I made the only decision regarding labor and birth that seemed feasible
and logical given my fears. I decided I just wouldn’t think about it. After
all, if it worked for Scarlett O’Hara (which it sort of did), then surely it will work for me. So rather than spend
any time working through my fears and trauma, I buried all those thoughts,
lived in denial, and went on with my life, plastering a mental “Do Not Disturb” above the place in myself I stored all my thoughts of labor and birth.
__
I was 33
weeks pregnant and at the chiropractor. I had been relentless about keeping my
appointments here, even if it meant hauling a toddler to the other side of
Portland every week. I was determined to do everything I could to ensure
my labor would look different than before.
At this
particular visit, my chiropractor asked me how I was feeling about labor now
that I was well into my third trimester. “Honestly?” I laughed, “My main
strategy is just not to think about. Nothing good is going to come from me
thinking about my labor. So my plan is to not think about it at all.”
She nodded
slowly at me and then took out a piece of paper and began writing something
down. Is this a note in my chart? I wondered. “Lyndsey in denial. Seems like a
good strategy.” Instead, she gently slid three names to me across the table. “I
think you should go talk to one of these women,” she said. “They’re midwives
who are extremely gifted at helping women work through their birth traumas.”
I looked at
the names on the yellow piece of paper and sat in stunned silence. She was
giving me the names of counselors. Therapy. She thinks I need therapy! Doesn’t
she know I’m not someone who goes to therapy? Especially not for something that
thousands of women do every single day. “Here’s what I’ve found in my
experience,” she said, gathering up the remaining folders. “The people who
don’t want to think about labor, who act like it isn’t going to happen, when
their labor actually does begin, they
completely lose it. They can’t handle what’s happening to them because they
haven’t processed how to deal with it mentally. You need some tools to help you
get through. I think these women can really help you.” And with that, she was
walking me out the door. I tried to seem appreciative and not offended, and
told her I would definitely look into it. Then I made an immediate right turn
out of the office and into the bathroom because I was definitely and suddenly
crying. Crying! Why on earth was I crying? Did
I need therapy? Had Benjamin’s birth so damaged me mentally that I needed
professional help? And are there other people who have experienced the same
trauma? I hated using the word trauma to describe the process that had brought
me my son, but it felt like the right word. I was still damaged, unable to healthily
perceive of this process, to really recall it without fear.
It was the
first time I thought that maybe I didn’t have a normal approach to my birth and
that maybe I was going to have to do the hard work of revisiting what had
happened with Benjamin’s labor. When I got home, I looked up the three women’s
names that were scrawled on the Post-It note. They all claimed to have
extensive experience helping women with various aspects of the prenatal and
postpartum process, including “processing traumatic births” and addressing
“pregnancy and birth concerns.” Those phrases struck an honest chord with me. But
I have much more than birth “concerns,” I thought. Concern is when you want to
go downtown on a weekend and you’re “concerned” there might not be parking.
Concern is not the word I have for wondering if I’m going to feel like I’m
going to die for hours on end and then have to push a giant creature out of my
body.
I had an appointment
with my midwives a few days later. I told them about the birth counselor
suggestion, hoping they would think it a bit over the top or unnecessary.
Instead, while I was explaining the exchange I’d had with my chiropractor, I
started crying. AGAIN. It wasn’t really a convincing narrative that I didn’t
need to talk to someone about the fear and trauma I had experienced while I
cried confusingly about the fear and trauma I had experienced. Worse, the
midwives were familiar with the counselors and spoke highly of their abilities
to, again, give me “some tools” to approach my labor. Apparently preparing for
labor is also like installing IKEA furniture. You need tools, but you’re not
sure which ones. I felt slightly panicked at this point. I didn’t want to go
talk to someone about my birth experience. I didn’t want to try to explain who
I was and what had happened and how it still impacted me. I have a hard enough
time doing those things with people I love and trust. But now both people I was
seeing regarding my prenatal care were recommending the same thing to me, and
surely I would be foolish to ignore it. I stared blankly at my midwives and in
all honesty said, “I just don’t think that’s something I want to do. I can’t
see myself going to talk to someone I don’t know.” Expecting push back for the
value of counseling, I was surprised when my sweet, affirming apprentice told
me my feelings were completely understandable and maybe a different route would
be more helpful to me. Had I considered reading and working through a book?
Yes, yes, I thought. A book! Reading a book versus talking about my deepest
fears to a stranger is absolutely my choice. I choose that option! But I had
read several books about birth when I was pregnant with Benjamin and didn’t
find them to be particularly helpful after the experience I had. She
mentioned a book I was familiar with and had seen but never read: Birthing from Within. And if that isn’t
the epitome for a book title about giving birth recommended by a midwife in
Portland, Oregon who also makes tie-dye shirts in her free time (for reals), I
don’t know what else is. They had a few extra copies at the birth center and so
I took the large yellow book home. The cover looked about how you would expect—weirdly
artsy and spiritual looking and not at all like anything I wanted to be seen
with in public. To be fair, birthing books are probably quite tame reading
material in the Portland scene. The last
time I rode the MAX, the guy next to me was reading The Bible of Witchcraft.
For several
weeks I ignored the birthing book entirely. Every time I saw it, I felt like it
was the physical manifestation of all my fears and anxieties regarding labor. I
also knew that actually reading the book was going to require a fair amount of
emotional energy and attention, and wrangling a toddler during the day and
being 30+ weeks pregnant didn’t exactly leave me feeling high on life at the
end of the day.
Finally,
when I was around 35 weeks, I devoted one of my evenings to cracking open the
book and my buried anxieties. Let’s see what kind of inner demons I’m really
dealing with. Sounds like a great form of entertainment for a Wednesday night!
I identified
immediately with the author, who, as a trained midwife and someone who had seen
and experienced a great deal of birth, ended up with a horribly disappointing
labor experience with her first child: “I gave birth to my son, Sky [because of course his name is Sky], by
Cesarean. As I was being sewn up, I mused over the painful irony, that I, the
person in my family who knew the most about birth, was the first to have a
Cesarean. ‘How did this happen?’ I wondered. ‘Was there something I needed to
know that I didn’t learn as a midwife?’ Through
soul-searching and listening more deeply to the women I was working with, I
finally understood that women have to prepare for birth in their heart and
soul, not in their head. And that giving birth is something a woman does in her
body, not in her head.”
I tried to
read the last line through tears. I felt so sad for this woman I didn’t even
know. I understood her disappointment. Few of us get the births we actually
want. And we carry that experience with us forever. It’s hard to really measure
how much one of the most defining moments of our lives, the moment we introduce
life into the world, how the triumphs or shame of that experience colors our
view of ourselves. And of course there are horrible birthing experiences—miscarriages,
still births, traumas much more severe than any I had faced in my labor with
Benjamin. He had been healthy. He had been born. And I was grateful for all
those things. But that wasn’t all I felt. Something in me was changed from that
experience, and for the worse. That evening, I felt all my old shame and
disappointment start to press through the surface. And this time, I let it be
known. I let myself grieve for what had happened during my birth with Benjamin.
It is a grief and shame that doesn’t always make sense or seem logical. I don’t
even know if I can explain it now. But some part of my identity as a mother
needed to grieve that my first real test of motherhood had seemed like a
failure. And I was worried I would fail again.
The author
stressed the importance of forgetting all the things we think we have learned
about birth and to instead to “remember our instincts.” The methods she
recommends include journaling and birth art. Well, crap, I thought. “Birth art”
sounds like the most “not me” thing I can think of. One, I’m terrible at art.
As in the worst. Two, just no. I am an educated adult woman, not someone who
makes weird subconscious drawings while her husband and child are sleeping. But
as I thought about giving up on this process and having to go talk to someone
about my fears instead of just scribbling them out haphazardly, suddenly I
found myself with a tiny notebook and Benjamin’s crayons.
I’ll spare
all the details of what I masterpieces I made that night, but the work I put in
during those hours where I let go of my insecurities about the weirdness of
what I was doing and allowed myself to really “sit quietly with all my
heartfelt questions and deepest fears” moved my heart and mind in ways I did
not expect. One drawing, in particular, ended up being one of the few items I
took with me to the birth center when my labor began. I did not know the important work I was beginning in
those evening hours at home.
From the
different drawing prompts and questions—How do you see yourself as a pregnant
woman? What do you most fear happening in labor?—I learned I saw myself as a
weak and fearful, unattractive, and that much of my anxiety centered around the
fact that I was afraid of an unmedicated birth, even as I was more afraid of a
hospital birth. I did not solve anything concrete that evening, but I did start
to put names and images to my fears, and that gave me a better idea of what I
needed to move forward.
Over the next week, I recommitted my mind and my body to a natural birth experience at the birth center where I brought Benjamin into the world. The midwives there ministered to my heart and not just my body. One reminded me that birth experiences don’t “get much worse” than what I had experienced with Benjamin (though obviously in some ways they do). They talked with me about all my options, some of them sharing their own disappointments in the births of their children and their need for medical help and even a c-section. “Even if you choose to transport,” my dread-haired beautiful hippie midwife told me, “there’s still something empowering about making your own decisions.” And so I began to make them in the weeks leading up to my delivery. I would not give birth in the same room where I birthed Benjamin. Even the sight of the room was enough to tighten my throat. I sometimes had my prenatal appointments in that room—a large red room with a pastoral painting placed above the bed that is not centered correctly. Every time I was there, I felt anxious and obsessed with centering the picture. It was a reminder that everything about the birth experience was off and uncentered in my own mind. For my daughter’s birth, I chose a large green room with bamboo on the walls and sheer cream curtains and began requesting my appointments there. I told them I would labor at home as long as possible. I consented to use of Nitrous Oxide (laughing gas) if I felt the pain became unmanageable. One thing Birthing from Within allowed me to give myself permission to do was to set limits. If I started having relentless back labor again, I would transport. And I wouldn’t feel shame about getting an epidural at that point. And I gave myself a time limit. This time, if the new baby wasn’t here within 18 hours at the birth center, I would transport.
Thank God I would end up only needing 3.
____
It was the evening of Thanksgiving, my due date, and I was making everyone in my family crazy. Even though I was hosting Thanksgiving dinner at my house, I had opted not to actually make dinner in my largely pregnant state, and instead assumed the role of telling others how they should make dinner. I had been experiencing fairly difficult pubic symphysis pain for most of my third trimester, which basically felt like my pelvis was separating at random times of the day. The pain was particularly bad that evening as we were wrapping up dinner and heading to bed.
Since
Benjamin was over a week late, I had a similar mindset headed into this
pregnancy. So though I was feeling very uncomfortable, no part of me thought I
was headed for labor anytime soon. At about 2:30 in the morning, I woke to similar
sharp pains I assumed to be pubic symphysis. I was so tired, but managed
to heave my heavy body into “child’s pose” until the aching subsided.
Thankfully it did, and within a few minutes I was back asleep. About the fourth
time I was awoken from this process, the thought suddenly occurred to me that
these uncomfortable sensations were happening rather rhythmically and could
possibly be contractions. But they felt so different from my previous
contractions, where my whole uterus seemed to seize up and I felt the pain
throughout my whole midsection. This pain was much more isolated—as if it was
coming from a small central location. Looking back, I realize this was my cervix
I was feeling. After about 45 minutes, I decided I should time what was going
on and see if there was any reason to wake up Andrew. I had an app on my phone I
struggled to make use of in the dark and in my state, where the pain was
surprisingly getting stronger. Whatever discomfort I was feeling was happening
about 4-5 minutes apart and lasting at least a minute. This seemed an awful lot
like contractions. But I had had a similar experience in my pregnancy with
Benjamin that dissipated several hours later. So I decided I would wait to make
any type of fuss about this. But each time the pain gripped me, it was growing
stronger in sensation and I was starting to be unable to stay quiet. I was
starting to moan a bit more through the pain and trying to ride out what was
happening. I was hoping the noises I was making would naturally wake up Andrew,
but alas, we are not all such gifted sleepers. At about 4:30, a wave of
sickness came over me and I moved as quickly as I could to the bathroom.
Immediately, I began shaking. Only one other time in my life had I ever
experienced that type of trembling, and it was several hours into my labor with
Benjamin. For me, it was the moment I knew I was in labor. Something hormonal
was happening to my body and this was going to be the day I met my baby. I
cried out for Andrew, who later said from the tone of my voice that he knew
this was the real deal as well. As he steadied me from my shaking, I could not
stop sobbing. I knew that it was mostly hormonal but the fact that I was crying
made me start to feel a little scared, like I was already out of control with
what was happening to my body. I told Andrew I wanted to call my midwife.
Since I was about 30 minutes from the birth center and she was 45 minutes away, she told me I needed to contact her as soon as I had any signs of labor so that we both had enough time to make a decision about what needed to happen. Obviously I hadn’t called her when the contractions had started because I wasn’t really sure I was in labor. But it was go-time in my mind now, and I wanted to establish communication. Between contractions, which were still coming pretty frequently, I called the woman who had been by me during my darkest hour in my labor with Benjamin and who had safely brought him into the world. I knew I was right in calling my midwife, but I also realized I had very little information to give her. I knew she was going to ask me specifics about my labor pattern, and I hadn’t been timing contractions with any real consistency since they had started a few hours ago. Sure enough, she was looking for evidence that things were really moving forward. I was in and out of the phone call, working through some growing contractions, and hoping my inability to have a fluid phone call with her would indicate to her things were moving quickly. One thing I was able to communicate to her was that the contractions felt very low, and that I had been physically ill. “Do you think you might just be sick?” she said. The question knocked me a bit, and looking back I see why she felt the need to ask, but at the time, I worked to keep condescension from my voice. “No. No I don’t think I’m sick. I think I’m in labor.” I handed the phone back to Andrew. I heard him agreeing to track contractions for the next 20 minutes or so and then to call back.
Since I was about 30 minutes from the birth center and she was 45 minutes away, she told me I needed to contact her as soon as I had any signs of labor so that we both had enough time to make a decision about what needed to happen. Obviously I hadn’t called her when the contractions had started because I wasn’t really sure I was in labor. But it was go-time in my mind now, and I wanted to establish communication. Between contractions, which were still coming pretty frequently, I called the woman who had been by me during my darkest hour in my labor with Benjamin and who had safely brought him into the world. I knew I was right in calling my midwife, but I also realized I had very little information to give her. I knew she was going to ask me specifics about my labor pattern, and I hadn’t been timing contractions with any real consistency since they had started a few hours ago. Sure enough, she was looking for evidence that things were really moving forward. I was in and out of the phone call, working through some growing contractions, and hoping my inability to have a fluid phone call with her would indicate to her things were moving quickly. One thing I was able to communicate to her was that the contractions felt very low, and that I had been physically ill. “Do you think you might just be sick?” she said. The question knocked me a bit, and looking back I see why she felt the need to ask, but at the time, I worked to keep condescension from my voice. “No. No I don’t think I’m sick. I think I’m in labor.” I handed the phone back to Andrew. I heard him agreeing to track contractions for the next 20 minutes or so and then to call back.
My pregnancy app, complete with contraction
timer was all set up and ready to go. But for whatever reason, my
former-military husband opted instead to track contractions using
his Timex watch and a green notepad and ballpoint pen. I have completely forgiven him for turning on and off the light every minute while I was in labor to write down something my phone could have told him effortlessly. Completely. But at least we were able to call back with more
information. And my midwife agreed—minute-long contractions, a few minutes
apart, for several hours now—I was in labor. She asked me if I wanted to head
to the birth center now, but I was terrified going too early. Last time I
arrived at the birth center thinking my baby would be born shortly, I spent 26
hours in labor before Benjamin made an appearance. I was worried about the
mental struggles I would have if I arrived at the birth center and was in early
stages still. So I decided I would labor at home for another hour and then go.
It was now Friday morning, around 5 a.m., and I was concerned about traffic
driving into Portland. I didn’t want to leave for the birth center during rush
hour and be screaming at people during their morning commute. But about 30
minutes later, something in me shifted. I had to get out of there. I needed to
be where I was going to have my baby. I wanted to be with my midwife. I told Andrew I wanted to go. Now. As if
we were just planning a Saturday morning outing, he informed me that he wanted
to shower first. Not what one expects to hear when she tells her spouse she needs to go deliver her baby now! He reassured me he would be lightning fast
and we would be on the road in 15 minutes. He had set a time frame
and I held onto the fact that we would be leaving soon. He later told me, and
understandably so, that he was also still affected by my birthing experience
with Benjamin, where he spent a full day helping me labor, and wanted to be
showered and prepared in case we were in for another long haul at the birth
center.
Over the
last few hours, I was growing louder with my contractions. My parents were just
down the hall and I was surprised my mom had not made an appearance. I imagined
her nervously restraining herself, feeling torn between giving me my privacy
and wanting to help her child in pain just out of arms reach. Andrew went to
get my mom so I would have someone to hold onto during contractions while he got everything together to go. When my mom entered the room, I could immediately see relief on
her face. I had been right—she had been awake for the last few hours
listening and debating whether she should come help. I could tell she was glad finally to be asked to assist. I was laying on the side of the bed, and she was
kneeling on the floor, gently stroking my hair, and assuring me during the
height of contractions. It was an important moment for me. Fear was creeping into my heart and my mind as I was coming closer and closer to what was
going to be required of me to get this baby out. I did not want to give birth.
But here was this woman, holding me now, who had done the same thing for her
daughter 32 years ago. She had done the hard work of giving birth to me, and
now it was time for me to do the same for my daughter. I felt connected in a
long chain of women who have faced and persevered in the face of the great
calling of giving life. And by the time Andrew reappeared, I found a bit more
resolve to face what was ahead of me. There was some hustle and bustle in the
house now that both my parents were up and aware the baby was on the way. My
dad knelt beside me and held my hand and prayed over me. I was surrounded by
people who loved me, and it’s strange how even though physically and mentally I
was somewhere else, fighting a battle against pain and fear, my heart and my
spirit were strengthened by the love of those who loved me.
Now that
Andrew was ready to leave, I stood up from the bed in between contractions and
started to make my way around the bed. But then I remembered. How could I have forgotten the person I had revolved the last two and a half years of my life around.
“Benjamin,” I said. A wave of grief struck me. I started to kneel back down. Things
were never going to be the same when I left this house today. He was never
going to be so small. He would never have the same measure of my attention
again. I was leaving the world we had known and that we had created over these years
and I could never reenter it. The relationship to the firstborn is so powerful.
It may seem a disproportionate response, but that grief seems fresh—even now, knowing
what a blessing that new baby was to our family and how much joy there is in a
sibling relationship. But in that moment, I needed to see my two-and-a-half-year-old
baby one more time. I needed to hold his small body and look at his delicate
features and soak up a few more moments of time while we were still “us.” I
started to weep because I knew I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t wake him up. I knew I
wouldn’t be able to be quiet at this point of my labor, and that my pain and my
emotions would scare him. The moment had already passed. I was across the
threshold of becoming a mother of two. I did the next closest thing I could
think of and asked someone to grab the stuffed kitten Benjamin and I had bought
for the baby last month. He often practiced holding the kitty and rocking the
kitty to sleep in preparation for his baby sister. I wanted to hold the kitten
in a way I couldn’t hold my son at that moment. Andrew seemed to understand. He
told me Benjamin would be fine. But it wasn’t him I was worried about. It was us. The
us that would be forever be different.
I’ll always
remember my parents buzzing around as I tried to get down the stairs. It was
pouring rain outside and my dad hurried outside, trudging around in wet socks
just so he could flip the car around so the passenger door was closest to me. I
was moaning a lot during contractions, trying not to yell and wake Benjamin or
the neighbors. My mom would later tell me she thought I was dying or in serious
need. Apparently in her day and age, you were taught to stay quiet during
contractions, and my unrestrained noises made her think something wasn’t right.
Nope. Sorry, mom. Just tapping into the primitive female inside me! They helped me
out the door, got me in car, and stood huddled together in the rain while we
drove into the night.
At this
point I was still shaking rather violently. We made it
to the birth center, only having to stop one time because I was certain I would
vomit if we moved for one more second. Andrew pulled up along the curb and
opened my door and I heard the soothing sound of my midwife’s voice: “Lyndsey,
honey, you’re going to have a baby. We’re all ready to go and we’ve got a warm
bath for you and a quiet room, sweetie. Let’s get you inside.”
Surprised
they expected me to walk (was I also supposed to solve quadratic equations at
this point in my labor?) I sat unmoved in the car for quite a while. After a
bit more prompting and the help of my midwives, I miraculously (to me!) made it
inside. They led me to the large green room. It was romantically dim and I
could see soft steam rolling off the tub. It was still dark outside but dawn was quickly approaching. I felt myself let go just a bit. I
had made it. I eased onto the queen-sized bed, lying on my left side, knees
together, and Andrew laid down next to me, facing me. I would not move from
this position for the next three hours, opening my eyes only a handful of times
until Rebecca made her full entrance into the world.
It was about
6:45 in the morning now. One of my midwives kept repeating to me, “You’re safe
now, Lyndsey. You’re safe. You can have your baby. You made it. You’re safe.” I
appreciated the sentiment of this—I was indeed where I was going to have my
baby, and I suppose the safety aspect meant I could relax and not worry about
having my baby in the car. But it also made me feel like I had made it to the
safe area of a war zone, or was delivering a baby in an episode of the Walking
Dead. I was safe from Portland traffic, so that was something.
My midwife
and two apprentices were there, all in a sunny mood. My main midwife asked me
if I wanted to be checked for dilation. I was afraid of hearing news that would
leave me dejected (like when I was in labor all night and then arrived at a
3…like last time). But something inside me felt very connected to the process
of what was happening. I felt certain I was advancing in labor. I felt I knew
when I needed to leave for the birth center. And I felt certain things were
going to move quickly. I expected her to say I was at a 6. And this time,
thankfully, my instincts were right. “You’re at a 6, Lyndsey. You’re going to
have a baby today.” But I already knew that. This was just more confirmation
that my body was doing what it needed to do. And so far I was hanging on for
the ride. No mental breakdowns yet.
The midwives told Andrew they were going down
the hall to prepare breakfast and asked if he would like some as well. “What are
you all making?” he asked, and I heard some of the sunniness creep into his own
voice. Everyone was having a happy time talking about a sunrise breakfast of
pancakes and sausage, while some of the rest of us were starting to feel like
screaming from contractions that somehow managed to feel sharp and stabbing,
and dull and aching all at the same time. The midwives had left to enjoy some
tea and cheery cooking time and I diva-like told Andrew that I needed someone
here with me to put a hand on my back and to help me with labor at all times. I
know the midwives were trying to give me my privacy to work through my labor,
but I was scared and felt like I needed the quiet, watchful presence of someone
who believed things were still going as they should be. When the midwives arrived
back at the room, they had a large serving plate piled high with pancakes,
eggs, and sausage. I remember yelling something
about the sausage needing to get out of the room and that Andrew did not need to eat anything right now or do anything other than help me. I think he managed to surreptitiously eat between contractions (I do not actually know since I never opened my eyes). And thankfully, I was in a pretty consistent pattern
by now. Contractions came every couple minutes, I would hold onto one of
Andrew’s hands with
both of my hands and grip his hand as hard as I could as if I was channeling
the pain and tension out of me and into him. When the contraction ended, I
would let go, and completely relax. Often my mind would go blank. I would even
fall asleep sometimes. This was a massive improvement from my first labor with
Benjamin where I endured debilitating back labor that never let up. There was
no rest between contractions, no time to refocus or recenter. It was just
relentless pain. I had prayed for a more consistent labor pattern like the one
I was currently having, and I could understand for the first time, the major
difference it made to have any type of a rest period between contractions. At
times there was still back labor and it would cause two of my contractions to
basically be strung together with no break in between. Here I would yell for
someone to push on my back, but it hurt if they pushed too hard, and they later
said “it was a finger’s touch” to indicate the amount of pressure I actually
needed. I think the touch factor helped me focus on something during the pain
that was seemingly everywhere at the time.
They asked
me several times if I wanted to get in the tub or if I wanted to change positions
or do anything other than lay on my left side with my eyes closed. But all I
could manage to do was shake my head. One of the mantras I had picked up from Birthing From Within that served me well
in my labor journey was one of eliminating all superfluous words or movements:
“Relax. Breathe. Do Nothing Extra.” These were words I breathed in and out of
my psyche during all times of rest between contractions. This is why I never
moved from my position and why I barely spoke. I wanted to do NOTHING extra
because I did not know what would be required of me on this journey—how long I
would be in labor and how hard the pushing stage would be—and I was not willing
to waste one iota of my strength on anything (other than occasionally
condemning people for bringing steaming pork into my birthing room). I didn’t
want people talking to me. I didn’t want people touching me unless I told them
to. I wanted silence and to be left alone, but not physically alone. Unlike
Benjamin’s birth where in order to get an epidural I would have agreed to never
watch The Bachelor again or not buy Starbucks or any number of promises I would
have regretted later, my birth with Rebecca is one that likely would have been
a natural birth even at a hospital, simply because the prospect of someone
interacting with me was intolerable. And any physical requirements to move or
to sign something would have been equivalent to someone asking me to name and
alphabetize all the states in the US.
I was focusing on my mantra and praying between contractions and managing to stay on top of my labor. Until of
course, I wasn’t. The pain was increasing with each contraction and I was aware
something was starting to change in my body. I heard someone offer to check my
progress and part of me wanted to hear that I had made measurable, numerical
progress, but since that would have required me to talk or to move, none of
that happened. One thing I really hated about my labor with Benjamin was how
often I vomited. It seems to add insult to injury to be in labor and also
trying to find a convenient time and way to throw up during a contraction. I
had felt nauseous throughout most of my labor, but things were starting to take
a turn. “I’m going to throw up. I’m going to throw up,” I started repeating.
And immediately there was a large, cold steel bowl beside my face. I quickly lifted
myself onto my elbow and began to violently vomit, simultaneously breaking my
water. Talk about a fun feeling! Perhaps no stranger physical phenomenon has
ever happened to me, besides of course pushing a giant baby out of my body. “I
think my water just broke,” I managed to mutter before I rolled back to my left
side to resume the only position I decided my body would ever be in again.
“Oh you sweet girl, you’re right!” I heard my midwife say, as if I had just
announced her favorite essential oils were buy one get one free. These
interactions stick out to me in my labor because there is such genuine kindness
in them. Only a mother or a midwife would call you a “sweet girl” and celebrate
your water breaking as if it were an exciting gift. The difference in our moods
always highlights those moments for me—while I feel like I’m dying, my midwife
knows I’m about to bring life into the world. She has the perspective I so
often lack while I’m in the trenches of the pain.
With the
vomiting and water breaking, I assumed I was in transition. I threw up a few
more times and found myself holding the steel bowl to my face because I found
the cold relieving. I will never be one of those women featured in birth books
who look beautiful while in labor. Here I am, covered in sweat, continually
groaning in pain, literally hugging a giant bowl I just threw up in. The pain
was increasing, and if I would have labeled the last few hours of contractions
as an 8 on a scale of 1-10, now we were starting to reach that level 10. I was
starting to scream a bit more through the contractions, starting to become more
fearful about what was happening to me, and starting to drown in the pain. “I’m
dying. I’m dying,” I groaned as a contraction waned. I didn’t think I was
physically going to die, I thought I was not going to survive feeling the pain
I was feeling for much longer, whatever that meant. Maybe like in Harry Potter
how Neville Longbottom’s parents are actually alive, but forever damaged from
experiencing the Cruciatus Curse, unchecked. I was going to be like them. (Harry
Potter is always applicable, even in labor.) “That’s good, Lyndsey.” My midwife
offered. “That’s a normal feeling.” I could also feel my hips pushing apart and
my bones ached in a way I had never felt before.
“You’re
going to start feeling a lot of pressure down there, Lyndsey. Move into that
pressure. Go to that pressure.” For all the weird language I feel like these
midwives offer sometimes, I knew what she was talking about. Soon I was going
to feel an urge to push and I needed to follow those instincts and not shut
them out. And it seemed like only a few minutes later the feeling came upon me.
But there was only one problem: pushing would require me to move from my left
side and possibly open my eyes. Since that was obviously impossible, I decided not to mention I felt the urge to push and wonder instead if it is possible to
deliver a baby on your side with your legs closed. I decided it was. I betrayed
myself in only a few minutes as the urge grew stronger and I was starting to
panic: “I feel like I need to push,” I said, urgently this time. My midwife was
at the foot of the bed. “Ok, Lyndsey, that’s great. You’re going to have to
move onto your back to do that,” she said, as she gently tried to lift my top
knee to roll me over. “No, I can’t,” I whimpered and continued to clutch at the
bed with both hands. My midwife
was thankfully still operating in a world of regular physics where people can
move if they choose to and assured me I could in fact roll over. After
kindly encouraging me a few times with no results, she shifted her voice to include
a bit more instructing and a bit less asking. Since I trusted this woman almost
implicitly at this point, I was able to listen to her voice in some ways over
my own body. So with great inward drama, and fear, I moved onto my back for the
first time in 3 hours. And once I finally did it, once I finally moved myself
into a position to birth, a shift occurred in me. There were a lot of
encouraging words offered at this stage, but I didn’t need them. I had been
here before. I knew I was in the last stage of labor and that I needed to show
up here and finish what was required.
Whereas
Benjamin’s birth required over 3 hours of pushing, Rebecca’s required only 6
minutes. 6 minutes. It happened so fast in comparison to what I was expecting. I had pushed 3, maybe 4 times and her head was out. I knew I had to push only one more time and this whole thing
would be over. And so I did. My midwife pulled her out. For the first time since my labor had started, I eagerly opened my eyes to see my dark-haired, whimpering daughter placed
on my chest. I closed my eyes and slowly laid my head back. Feeling her warm
body on me, listening to her soft cry, I wept. “I did it.” I repeated. “I did it.”
And I had. I had survived the thing I most
feared. I had come to the other side, and my mind and my emotions were still
whole. And so I sobbed softly that the thing, the birth, had passed. I had done
it. I felt such immense gratitude towards my midwives and Andrew and God. And however self-congratulatory it sounded, I gave myself that moment to celebrate that with their help, I had accomplished, no, beaten, this thing that I was worried
would damage me forever.
I remember a
postpartum midwife comforting me after Benjamin’s birth, as I wrestled with the
trauma of that experience, telling me that “success in labor is just getting
your baby out.” And I could never accept that idea. Why then did my labor feel
like such a failure? Why was I forever changed and damaged by something I
should deem “successful”? With Rebecca’s birth I was finally able to realize
what success looked like to me in labor: It didn’t necessarily mean a birth
center birth, or an unmedicated experience. I had had those things with
Benjamin and they didn’t comfort me. Success, for me, was coming to the other
end of the birth experience with my mind and my soul still intact. Not just
getting my baby out, but keeping my peace. Of course all labors feel difficult
and overwhelming at times, but I think there are labors that swallow you whole,
that take your mind and your well-being and drown you in pain and fear, and even
when the baby is out, it’s hard to know if you ever really came back up for air again.
Someone asked me recently what the worst day of my life was, and my mind
immediately went to the time in June, 2014, where I labored from dawn to dawn
with my son, and something in my soul shattered. If you asked me what one of the
best blessings in my life is, I would also say my son. He is the best. My love for him is immense. But
isn’t that what makes it all so much more difficult? Trauma is usually the
result of something terrible and unwanted. But what do you do with trauma that
brought you such happiness? Trauma you have to choose to face again if you want
more of that happiness. How do you find the courage to revisit those fears and
gamble with a similar outcome? All birth takes such immense courage because the process and the outcome is never guaranteed. God had given me the courage and perseverance to face this battle once more, and I rejoiced that this time around, I as
a person, was still that same woman on the other end of my birth.
Those
feelings of relief and accomplishment and gratitude quickly turned to elation
as I took the time to inspect my baby. Here I did feel empowered, holding her,
recognizing my own ears on her, and I said, “Her name is Rebecca. Rebecca Evangeline.”
I wasn’t giving the midwives information, I was announcing I had just
brought life into the world.
And she was
such a sweet life. Wide-set eyes just like Benjamin, wavy dark hair and dark
eyes, and the longest and most feminine-looking fingernails I had ever seen.
She weighed a healthy 8 pounds 2 ounces, and nursed immediately and then laid contentedly
between Andrew and me on the bed with the stuffed kitty we had brought for her.
There were
some postpartum difficulties (the cramps, I tell you...). But for the
most part, my early hours with my newborn daughter were extremely gratifying.
When my family, along with Benjamin, showed up a few hours later, I was
energized and talkative, high on adrenaline from the whole experience. I had to
be reminded I was recovering from a serious physical ordeal and not to overdo
it. We spent one night at the birth center, mostly for the amazing takeout they
have delivered and so I could try to remember all the things you forget about
tiny babies, like how to put a newborn diaper on a baby when you’ve been
dealing with size 6 diapers and a two-year-old. But by the time it was the
morning of the next day, I was ready to recover at home and get to know my new
daughter.
___
I went back to the birth center a few weeks later for a check-up with Rebecca. We had had our own set of struggles (girlfriend can scream), but were adjusting well. My midwife walked me back to the large red room where I had given birth to Benjamin. As I sat nursing my newborn daughter, staring directly at the off-centered picture above the bed, I realized I felt no fear or anxiety sitting in the same place I had once dreaded. This room was emptied of its power. I looked around the space, and whatever part of me that exists, whatever part of my soul or mind that bears any markings of the word "birth" or "labor," or any impact from those things, those parts were more intact than ever before. Rebecca’s birth had chased some of those shadows away. I could sit peacefully in the room that had been the location of one of the worst days of my life just a few years ago, and hold a precious new life in my arms.
Sometimes birth changes us. It makes us different people. This time, it made me better.
___
I went back to the birth center a few weeks later for a check-up with Rebecca. We had had our own set of struggles (girlfriend can scream), but were adjusting well. My midwife walked me back to the large red room where I had given birth to Benjamin. As I sat nursing my newborn daughter, staring directly at the off-centered picture above the bed, I realized I felt no fear or anxiety sitting in the same place I had once dreaded. This room was emptied of its power. I looked around the space, and whatever part of me that exists, whatever part of my soul or mind that bears any markings of the word "birth" or "labor," or any impact from those things, those parts were more intact than ever before. Rebecca’s birth had chased some of those shadows away. I could sit peacefully in the room that had been the location of one of the worst days of my life just a few years ago, and hold a precious new life in my arms.
Sometimes birth changes us. It makes us different people. This time, it made me better.
