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.

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.

Early Drug Experiences

Think about all the drugs you may have encountered since you started down the birth canal. It’s astounding how bombarded we are by numbers… (drugs that numb, that is)

It’s a bummer to be numb when you’re wanting to be humming

Shootin’ down the pike into the world you’re coming

Used to be that ether was the drug of choice

Didn’t mask the pain but took away mom’s voice

Morphine, Scopolamine later Demurral and Versed

For numbing out the moms, pulling babe out by his head

All numb and woozie-boozie, Frozen and immobile

From the baby’s perspective it is positively horrible

When you can’t use your legs and your vision is all cloudy

It takes a long, long time ‘til you hear your parent’s “Howdy.”

The world is overwhelming it’s loud and bright and scary

You might think drugs would help, but we ought to be quite wary

Of effects not listed on the neat white medication brochure

Like starting life without the power we’re meant to use for sure

What's the true cost of numbing-up the moms?

Angry little babies later want to drop some bombs.

Ether was the drug of choice in 1948. Mom was given a little mask to breathe into and the ether took her into the etheric realm of diffusion and a profusion of colored visions – trippy. Moms and babies would meet somewhere up on the ceiling – looking down on their non-participating bodies while the heroic doctor did all the work of birth – using forceps. Welcome to the world, little one, let me squeeze your head with these salad tongs… it won’t hurt …. me! 

It's a good thing humans are resilient. Still, I wonder how the world would be different if our birthing practices in the US of A were more humane. (And we wonder why our congress folk are so combative! How many wars are we engaged in currently?) Unresolved rage has to show up somewhere!

Vigil Aunties

The old aunties sit vigil near enough the laboring woman that she can sense their presence and drink their surety that everything will, indeed, be all right.

The old ones guard this sanctuary of transition with a fierceness that belies their soft bellies, sagging breasts and halos of white hair. Although their legs bear the blue-veined road maps of their long journey, they can still kick ass! They sit vigil to guard this sweet transformation of one maiden into Super Mom; of one – as yet - unborn child into a small being in this wide world. Their alternate names are doula, friend and midwife. They are fierce mama lions at the gate.

During the birth process, the perfection of the Implicate order gives us a blueprint for the perfection of the Explicate order. Sit, Stay, Be Patient. Wait. Be more patient. If only we wouldn’t muck about with natural order. The mother/baby dance that brings each human to the outside world is a precious dance. We’d best not interfere with the rhythm. We’d best hold still to hear the music and support the dance. The Vigil-Aunties sit to protect birthing mothers from civilization, but civilization, in the form of probes and machines, monitors and ultra sound, nibbles at the sacredness surrounding birthing moms - leaving stinking, fearful excrement in the corners of the room. Vigil Aunties buffer birthing moms from institutional protocols that interfere with the tasks at hand: Focus during and Bonding after birth.

Hubris of terrible proportions and devastating consequences has settled over our land. Generation by generation, women have been robbed of power over their own bodies. They’ve given it bit by bit to the erosion of the super-powerful institutions. The scales are tipped precariously, disastrously by the weight of unconsciousness. This is a wake-up call.

Those who are born violently grow to expect that violence is the only reality at birth. In this way doctors, nurses and attendants perpetuate the circle of violence. Many do not even recognize that our birth practices in the “civilized” western world are barbaric.  LeBoyer’s book of 1975, Birth Without Violence made a small but significant ripple in the birth movement; shifting our collective unconscious; allowing us to become collectively slightly more conscious of newborns as sentient beings. What might it be like to support mothers and babies during the critical bonding period after birth? What would it be like to keep them together and not interfere… not separate them, save the weighing and measuring and testing and poking for… who knows when?

Let us ask just ONE innocent human fleshling… “How do you want to be born, dear?” We’re likely to hear, “As an animal would.” Vigil Aunties guard the gate and radiate safety, allowing mom to find her inner animal and to give birth with all her instincts intact.