The Barebones Reality of Childbirth

Wow, have I been thinking about this one for a while. Reeling, really.

Almost three years later and this picture still gives me goosebumps.

And it began to occur to me--why, once our babies are born, do we just sort of go on as if labor and delivery never happened? Why, once a mother moves through this wildly brave and transformative experience, is she not interviewed at length about her story by every single person she meets? As a culture, we just focus on how cute the baby is, on the new life. We struggle to face the deep, raw, gritty stuff--just as we like to ignore our own mortality, our mental health issues, our basic human pain. We like to put on the blinders when it comes to anything that makes us really have to feel something. There are drugs to deal with any of that, right?

When I was pregnant, I was terrified of labor. Terrified. I interviewed every single mom I knew about their experiences, and as I sat there listening to their courageous (and oh so distinct!) narratives, I remember thinking, Why don't people talk about this stuff more? Like, all the time? This is fascinating!

As a natural skeptic, I was prepared for the worst. I figured my labor would be literally the most painful and ridiculous thing that had ever happened to me.

And ... it sort of was.

It started with just some leaky amniotic fluid. My water didn't break--it dripped. So my midwife came over and checked it out. "We will have to induce labor," she said, "because we cannot risk an infection once the sac opens up." So we did. Castor oil, acupuncture, and some other little random herbs I can't recall. A lot of waiting.

The contractions began slowly. They built up slowly enough that I could actually tolerate the waves of intensity. I would literally moo like a cow and grasp onto my husband for dear life as they got to their peak. Like menstrual cramps, but times maybe 10 million.

All of this was actually fine. I mean, it was ridiculous, but it was fine. I was just using all of my mindfulness training and yogic breathing to stay totally tethered to the experience, because I knew that if my mind drifted away and separated from it, calling it "too much," I'd be begging for the hospital and for an epidural.

So it was a funny moment when, around midnight, I asked my midwife if I was fully dilated.

"The baby's head is already at the bottom of your vagina!" she exclaimed.

I was floored. I had just been so immersed in the experience that I didn't even really consider that it was all headed somewhere (there are a lot of puns for you to insert into that last sentence, lol).

So, I guess it was time to push. And I figured, given how quickly (the dilating had taken maybe 6 hours?) things had gone so far, that I'd have my baby within the hour, in my own bed, at home.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I just kept pushing, and pushing, and pushing, and my little baby's head just kept bobbing forward, back, forward back, every 3 or so minutes, for the next FOUR HOURS.

There were so many times within those four hours when everyone--me, my midwife, her assistant, and my husband--considered getting up and going to the hospital. But every time the thought came, a huge contraction would come, and I'd think "this has gotta be it." At one point I even put on a jacket to go, but then another wave came, like a freight train into my pelvis, and I bent over myself on the floor in the living room, mooing, screaming, "This has gotta be it!"

Nope!

Oh, and interspersed into all of this was a tremendous amount of diarrhea. Castor oil is no joke, in case you didn't know. My husband is an incredible human being who deals with bloody animals regularly (he runs a business as a butcher) so he was totally unfazed by all the messy shit going on. He wiped it up gladly, happy to have a job while I sat there and mooed, closing my eyes and going as deeply into myself as I could, just to stay in the game.

So finally, at about 4 am, it was my saint of a husband who finally said to all of us, "We are going to the hospital! This is ridiculous!" and he ushered us out. I remember buckling down on the gravel in my front yard as another freight train came to visit. Then again in the car (I was laying down curled up in the back, midwife holding my hand, husband driving as fast as he could) on the way, then again in a wheelchair as we rushed into the gates of the maternity ward.

When I finally got into the hospital bed, someone said to me, "We will have to take off your dress." I remember the dress--a purple dress I had bought years before that somehow made the perfect labor outfit. Comfortable, flowing. I really loved that dress.

"JUST CUT IT OFF!" I remember shouting, eyes closed, to no one in particular. Next thing I knew, my purple dress was all cut up in a pile on the floor. But honestly, I didn't even see it. I don't think I opened my eyes more than a few times during that whole scene, because I just had to keep focusing on my body, or I would just give up. I think at one point I even said, "If this keeps going, can I get an epidural?" and the midwife just laughed. "Oh honey," she smiled, "you are so beyond that point. This baby is right here!"

And within about 15 minutes of receiving Petocin--the drug that helps to strengthen contractions--the reason we had to go to the hospital in the first place because midwives are not allowed to carry it--little Zoe was born. They quickly had Lucas cut her umbilical cord and plopped her onto my chest. A little, slimy, squirmy, screaming, precious little nugget, fresh out of my belly. I gasped and cried in surprise and delight--just such an incredible moment. Any of you mama's know exactly what I mean. I was so in awe, I even forgot to see if my little baby was a boy or a girl for a good minute or two.

And I guess the rest is history. She nursed, cried, cuddled, and most of all, slept. My husband took off his shirt and held her skin-to-skin. We had a few visitors--close friends, grandparents. I ate and drank like a freaking beast. I cried. I was so tired, so blown open, so engulfed by it all.

And just like that, I was a new mom.

And other than a few close friends, no one asked about the labor. It was just something that happened. A thing of the past.

I think, after going through something like that, people really need to stop, to listen, and to offer a tremendous amount of accolade and respect to a woman. I will give credit to my husband, that's for sure. "You are a warrior goddess!" he said. That meant a lot. And my midwife: "You were so kind to everyone through all of it!"

These comments matter. When we go through something like childbirth, and we are literally torn apart, with a new identity (motherhood!) forged for us on the other side, we need some affirmations, some acknowledgement, some listening.

I write this post in the spirit of bowing down in deep respect to all mothers. We need to share our birth stories. Forever! Even 20 years later, ask your friend or your sister or your own mom about the birth stories. It is healing to share them. Thank you for reading mine!