Twins!

A boy and a girl were born last week to a young woman I’ve known since she and my older daughter were in Kindergarten together. Mom and dad are doing well. I’m so proud of this new mama who carried nearly 12 pounds of babies long enough to make them healthy, strong kids… not an every-day-sort-of-occurrence!  Often twins are delivered before full term and most often (in the United States) by Caesarean Section as our medical establishment has lost the art of breech delivery. (Although, Ina May Gaskin, midwife and co-founder of The Farm in Tennessee, was invited by Harvard Medical School to come teach there and re-introduce the lost art of breech delivery to their obstetrical students! How cool is that!?! I'm waiting for the benefit of that knowledge to reach our birthing institutions.)

Ah, but these sweet baby twins... I can imagine them peeking over the edge of Baby Heaven and selecting this particularly perfect pair of parents to nourish and nurture them. These babies are loved and adored and are really, really wanted.

While the little guy is spending some extra time in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) his sister visits regularly which seems to perk him right up. Mom and dad and the grandies are there too, of course, as regular visitors. The community surrounding the new family is sending lots of love, light and wishes for a swift acquisition by the little guy of the necessary suck/breathe/swallow response – so he may join his family at HOME!

I’m thrown back to the birth of my first daughter and the power of that tiny being to transform us - OVER NIGHT - my husband and me from ordinary people into PARENTS!! Yikes… that’s a lot of power! I loved that she got to call the shots about when labor should start! When she was fully cooked, which was three weeks sooner than our “due date,” she released a hormone that triggered related hormonal changes in me – initiating labor. Thus, her entry into the world began with an act of power. Here’s an accounting of that birth.

Before I go into labor we walk down to Josephina’s Restaurant, just a few blocks from home, for deep dish pizza and salad. At bedtime I’m a little uncomfortable, but chalk it up to pepperoni. Trying to get comfortable in bed is like trying to move a beached whale on the sand. (Whales and overly-pregnant women need  water to counter-act gravity!) It takes a while to settle in, but finally, I drift off to sleep.

 I awaken from a dream in which I have a really strong contraction and ask my husband’s Auntie (who is in the dream) if that was, indeed, a contraction. Auntie El nods her head vigorously. The next thing I know I’m heading into the bathroom (outside the dream) with amniotic fluid spilling down the insides of my thighs. If you’ve never had the privilege of smelling this miraculous substance, I hope some time you may. It’s amazing -sweet, earthy with a hint of cinnamon or nutmeg. I grab my journal and note the dream, water breaking and time of that first contraction– midnight. 

The journey I’ve been preparing for has begun. I am so excited. I get back into bed quietly, so as to let my beloved sleep as long as possible. I'm going to need his support; sleep is good. I lie here tracking the rhythmic squeezing of my giant belly. When it seems as if the squeezes are getting closer together and lasting longer and longer I rub Mark’s back and say, “Darlin’ I think this is it… let’s call Dr. Schoeber.”

Mark leaps out of bed and, similar to Dick van Dyke on his 1960’s TV show of the same name, during an episode depicting the birth of "Rob" and "Laura's" son "Ritchie," he spins around the bedroom turning on closet lights, grabbing clothes, comically dressing himself and stubbing his toes. I love him so much in this moment, I could burst. Unlike the "Petries" (Laura was played by Mary Tyler Moore), we are not going to a hospital. We are staying right here at home and waiting for the doctor to come to us.

My cowardice around going to a hospital made opting for a home-birth an easy choice for me. Fortunately, my beloved and my mother, each of whom has concerns about home-birth, never let me see their doubts. They whisper to one another in corners of rooms out of my earshot.

We call Dr.  Schoeber’s private number about four a.m. only to get her answering machine. (This was before cell phones became ubiquitous.) By five a.m. Lynn, the office worker for the Doctor, arrives. She tells us her comical tale of going to the correct number one street over. A bewildered elderly gentleman answered her persistent knocking and when Lynn kept insisting there was a baby being born there and to please let her in, the gentleman kept insisting that no, there was no baby being born here… and what was the address anyway. Lynn realized her mistake and finally came over to our house. 

She hates to be the bearer of bad news, but the truth is that Dr. Schoeber is not going to make it to the birth. We find out later that day that she’s on a binge. We had no idea she is an alcoholic! What a perfect recapitulation of my childhood betrayals! Being let down by the ones who are supposed to care for you and keep you safe is a big letdown, but the forces of labor have put me into the eye of a hurricane. Nothing matters more than staying focused on these huge events called contractions – some are gentle waves; others are more like mini tsunamis. Resting between them is essential. I have faith in my body to do this job for which it has been preparing since before I was born! Just think, the egg that became me was inside my mother when she was growing inside her mother, my grandmother!

As part of our birth plan, we call our friend and former neighbor Jill who really wants to see a normal birth. Her own daughter was born by C-Section eight years ago.  Next, we call Mark’s oldest friend Michael and his four-months-pregnant wife to come over.  Michael is a Medical Doctor, a Gastroenterologist. He is to be there as friend, not in a professional capacity. Jill arrives first. I’m in transition. Socks off, socks ON, damnit, night gown AND fricking socks OFF – RIGHT NOW, goddamnit! 

Transition is the hardest part. It means the last couple of centimeters of dilation are happening. My cervix is being pulled open by the contraction of my uterus, like one hell of a big smile and the sensations are amazing but come so fast it's hard to manage by breathing deeply. I get pretty cranky - here on the threshold between “passive labor” and “active labor.” Active labor, I've been told,  is when you get to use muscles other than the involuntarily contracting uterine muscles. You get to use your leg muscles and abdominal muscles and anything else that seems useful to push this baby OUT into the world from your formerly dark and quiet center.

“Please tell Jill this is transition and it’s the hardest part,” I tell Mark while squeezing his hand so hard I can see his fingertips turn purple in the morning light.

“I will, my sweet, I will.” He’s stroking my hair with his free hand. It feels alternately reassuringly soothing and maddeningly annoying depending on which part of transition is up: with Shock/Freeze I feel numb and cold; with Fight/Flight I feel extremely irritable, hot and like I want to deck someone.

An image of an ancient Huichol wood block print comes to mind. Woman in labor holds a rope which is hanging from a rafter. The other end of the rope is tied around her husband’s testicles. With each contraction she pulls the rope so they can experience the joy of childbirth together! I want that fricking rope right NOW! I love him… and… well, I just want him to know how this feels…

To be continued.