First Birth - part two

You may recall the last post ended with me wanting my beloved to know how transition feels and wishing I had a rope to pull. Transition being the most difficult part of the whole labor experience, I ask Mark to tell Jill, who has just arrived, that this is the diciest part! He does tell her.

What can I do? Jill asks. It’s about six a.m.

“Well, you can boil some water,” answers Lynn, who as it turns out is an office worker and not an actual midwife.

 “It’s just so ‘Little House on the Prairie’ ish,” Jill clasps her hands and disappears into the kitchen. 

The boiled water is for tea and for sterilizing the ties and scissors to cut the umbilicus. Shortly after I’ve been given Black Cohosh tea with honey to bolster contractions (they’re PLENTY strong in my opinion) and to give me some energy, (the honey does taste good and perks me up), Mark’s oldest friend Michael and his pregnant wife Cathy arrive.

When Michael is introduced to Lynn as a doctor, her whole demeanor changes - as if she’s a balloon that just got pricked by a pin. She pulls her light and moves into the shadows of the room.

I hear grunting sounds and realize they're coming from me, and that I'm beginning to bear down a little while making these strange growls. 

“Don’t push yet!” Lynn orders, coming back to herself.

She sets up her massage table and asks me to get on it. 

“What?! Why? I’d rather stay in our cozy bed!” 

“You’ll have less chance of tearing?” she suggests in a questioning tone.

Reluctantly and very slowly I begin the move as soon as a huge contraction subsides. I’m feeling every ounce of my beached-whale-self. I move  V-e-r-r-r-y    s-l-o-w-l-y. My belly is oddly shaped – very pointy out front. I’m cantilevered and clumsy, but with help, I manage to get up onto the massage table at the foot of our bed. Our dog "Fairfax", who has been on the bed this whole time sets up camp under the massage table - safely out of the way.

All the birth books talk about how helpful squatting can be during the pushing phase of labor. Gravity sucks. Let it do its job- helping guide the baby downwards toward Mother Earth. Grand Mother Earth and Grandfather Gravity are the best team for catching! 

This massage table, however, is too narrow for me to negotiate getting up onto my feet to squat without help. I have gained about forty-five pounds with this pregnancy, starting out at just to the left of 120, and at last check-up I weighed in at 163. Mark and Michael are given the task of helping me up by holding me under my arms during the contractions which are now lasting three to five minutes. The rushes are doing their job. Soon the baby’s head can be seen and felt at the outlet. Lynn holds a mirror so I can see the curly black hair on our baby’s head. I’m in love with Mark all over again and give him a big smooch. Smooching activates the oxytocin which, in turn, stimulates good useful contractions.

Humans are sexual beings. Birth is, ultimately, a sexual act. The more pleasurable physical contact the birthing couple has, the better, in terms of Oxytocin production. Oxytocin also supports bonding. Subtly, then more and more obviously these strong working contractions become orgasmic. I wasn’t expecting this! None of the books I read talked about THIS! I say nothing, in case I’m a freak of nature and  because I feel shy in front of Cathy who is a fairly new person to me, but I’m having a pretty good time at this stage of labor - to say the least. 

Perhaps my dance training has accustomed me to how it feels when big muscles are working. I’m not upset by the intense sensations. There seems to be a plethora of pleasures to perceive in the persistent and passing pressures of birth. 

Every rush brings my baby closer to my arms. My uterus is the strongest muscle in my body, I’ve been told, producing 25 to 100 pounds of downward pressure during each contraction. To be fair, the masseter muscle in the jaw can produce up to 200 pounds of pressure, but only in short bursts – like when you crack a nut. (Don’t tell my dentist!) In my mind, Womb Service wins! It may and can go on contracting at that rate of 100 PSI for hours and hours – even days!

As Above, so below. The pelvis is a mirror for what goes on at the jaw. If the jaw is relaxed so also will the pelvis be relaxed. For this reason, singing, chanting, or, yes, screaming and yelling are useful activities for a birthing mama- anything that opens her jaw opens her pelvis. 

Some of these rushes are like a roller coaster – building slowly, (going up the hill - clink-clink-clank of the chains brings excitement or dread) becoming very intense (downward rush of incredible power where screaming feels really good) and then diminishing in intensity (as when the ride levels off and comes to a stand-still). Time to rest and wait for the next ride!

My next rush brings an intense burning sensation, not unlike the “Indian Burns” my big brother used to give me by twisting the skin of my forearm in two directions. I don’t know why he called them that, but it felt torturous no matter what the name. This burning feels purposeful, but it would be nice to have some counter pressure from the outside. I remember reading in Raven Lang's “Birth Book” that warm olive oil compresses applied to the perineum help thin and stretch the tissues without tearing. It's similar with clay on a potter’s wheel; the pressure of your hand on the inside of the clay pot must have counter pressure and support from  your hand on the outside of the pot or the edge will tear off and fly a good distance.

By this time, the orgasmic quality of the rushes has given way to the sincere burning of crowning, my arm-pits are pretty sore from being held up with each contraction and my legs are tired. We’ve been in this pushing phase for a little over two hours. Lynn consults the X-Ray Dr. Schoeber required the last visit we had with her. I was shocked and resistant to have one, but she said, “No X-Ray; No Homebirth with me.” She had us over a barrel.

“You’re almost there!” Lynn holds up the mirror again as a way of reassuring me that the end is near (so to speak). I can see our baby’s glistening crown in the center of my bulging crotch. I touch the curls and coo to this hard-working being. “Soon you’ll be in our arms, little one. Just a little while longer being squeezed.”

The next thing I know, Lynn is standing at my side and rolling her forearm down my belly from the fundus (top of the uterus) toward my navel. Instinct takes over. I whack her arm out of the way.

“That hurts!”

“Your baby’s head is stuck on the ischial spines,” she says, and rolls her arm down my belly again – three more times.

I glare at her from beneath scowling brows while Mark and Michael hold me up. She steals a furtive glance at Michael, who is here as a friend, not as a medical doctor. He’s a gastroenterologist, so deals with different though adjacent parts, and is the least judgmental person we know. Still, Lynn is obviously shaken by his presence.

“Let’s try pressure on the pube?” she offers hopefully.

She eases me onto my back with my knees skyward and my feet on the table. She presses directly on my pubic bone toward the table. This is intended to widen my pelvis side to side so the baby’s head can navigate around those bony prominences that poke into the pelvic bowl.

Lynn’s maneuver seems to have worked. With the next contraction there’s a tremendous whoosh and that astonishing, dusky scent of amniotic fluid again – as if Mother Earth herself has opened and given us access to the Great Mystery.

I see Mark at my feet with a bluish looking football in his arms and a look of total wonder on his face. “She’s a girl!” 

The umbilical cord is connecting us.

I see Michael with a look of concern on his face. He moves to blanket our daughter, whisper to my beloved and encourages him to put the baby to my breast to keep her warm while Michael and Lynn busy themselves with my below navel parts. Mark sits on the edge of the bed looking pale and sucking on ice-chips.

Holding this miracle in my arms, I don’t count fingers and toes. I know for certain she is perfect. I love the way she smells, feels and sounds. Her black hair is damp. She is pinking up. Birds are singing outside. It is 8:06 a.m. Eight hours of labor and we are parents! Mark and I look into one another’s eyes and we’re both crying. We look into our daughter’s eyes and she says, “Oh, THAT’S what you look like! You’re all wet!” 

We’ve asked for no silver nitrate in the eyes, no heal pricks to test for PKU, no removal for weighing or bathing until we’re ready and no cutting of the cord until it stops pulsing. We’re just here: Three people in love with life and awed by its perfection.