I have been absent from this blog for some time; mostly because I started a new blog. It was supposed to chronicle my life with three little kiddos, while also doing grad school and teaching, etc etc. Yup - three. You heard me.
Except that we lost the babe. I've debated whether to write about this or not. It's been one of the hardest lessons I've ever had to learn. And no matter how many times I think I've got the idea of living mindfully down, something happens to kick me in the ass, and forces me to reflect on the fact that I have, again, missed the point.
That's what this did. I took for granted the idea that every pregnancy = a healthy babe at the end of it. It doesn't. In fact, more than 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in loss. And because of all kinds of other personal issues that I don't really want to talk about on the internet, I feel like this is an especially important message that I need to pay attention to. One about tolerance, my biases and opinions, and being humble, among other things.
However, I do believe that everything happens for a reason. And I received two small confirmations of what that reason might be shortly after receiving the news of our loss. And so, I'm comforted by the fact that although this wasn't meant to be, the universe does have it's plan...that we are all being looked out for and that while we might *think* we know what the future will bring, this is always a mistake. The fact is, the only thing we can be sure of is the present.
Some mindfulness advice: The past is history, the future is a mystery, but today is a gift. That is why it is called the present.
A 'lil wisdom from my favorite kung fu turtle.
Namaste!
Friday, February 5, 2010
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
When Pain is the Right Answer
I'm taking a break from essay writing, course prep, and otherwise school-ly endeavors to...write another essay. Sigh.
Anyway, I want to speak to something that I came across in this month's Sun. It was a reader response letter discussing an article by Simon Critchley called 'The Good Death'. Critchley is an advocate of drug-free end of life care. He argues that it is more dignified to die without pain medication, which he argues pacifies the patient and avoids the issue of death. The writer of the response letter questioned this, and asked 'why? why should pain be seen as good?'
I can't speak to end of life issues... I'm not dead, nor have I ever BEEN dying. I'll let you know my thoughts when I get there. What I can speak to is pain and pain medication in another of life's passages - birth. There is much evidence to suggest that the baby benefits from a drug free birth - they are more active, more capable of breastfeeding, and have better breathing response rates, among other things. There is definitive evidence that a drug free birth is best for the baby, from all areas of medical research (I would be happy to provide references for any who want them).
What isn't addressed, however, is the impact a drug-free birth has on the mother. As mammals, we have a physiological response to birth - we produce endorphines and adrenaline that, when combined, help to create an almost trance-like state, allowing not only the effective 'pushing out' of the baby (a stage which is, incidentally, greatly increased in medicated births), but also a lovely cloudy effect after the birth, whereby the mother can't really recall how it felt 'in the moment' and bonds wonderfully with her baby. When we introduce drugs into the equation, they can have the effect of messing with this important biological process. Suddenly, the mother doesn't NEED to go into a trance state, her primitive brain never takes over. She is suddenly aware of EVERYTHING going on around her, is terrified, and the birth becomes a trauma instead of a beautiful right of passage. I have experienced this personally, as well as having found countless examples in the literature.
From a Buddhist perspective, the mother also looses the ability for mindfulness and awareness. Her senses and intellect are clouded by pharmaceuticles. She is no longer in control or aware of her reality in the accoustomed sense. It does not allow for a true experience, indeed it is the utter denial of the true experience.
The reader asked 'why should pain be seen as good?' My short answer... because sometimes pain is the correct response. To deny it, as an important function of your body, is to ignore some vital message your system is sending you. Only by paying attention to that message can you really understand what that particular experience is trying to teach you, and what meaning it might have in the future.
Anyway, I want to speak to something that I came across in this month's Sun. It was a reader response letter discussing an article by Simon Critchley called 'The Good Death'. Critchley is an advocate of drug-free end of life care. He argues that it is more dignified to die without pain medication, which he argues pacifies the patient and avoids the issue of death. The writer of the response letter questioned this, and asked 'why? why should pain be seen as good?'
I can't speak to end of life issues... I'm not dead, nor have I ever BEEN dying. I'll let you know my thoughts when I get there. What I can speak to is pain and pain medication in another of life's passages - birth. There is much evidence to suggest that the baby benefits from a drug free birth - they are more active, more capable of breastfeeding, and have better breathing response rates, among other things. There is definitive evidence that a drug free birth is best for the baby, from all areas of medical research (I would be happy to provide references for any who want them).
What isn't addressed, however, is the impact a drug-free birth has on the mother. As mammals, we have a physiological response to birth - we produce endorphines and adrenaline that, when combined, help to create an almost trance-like state, allowing not only the effective 'pushing out' of the baby (a stage which is, incidentally, greatly increased in medicated births), but also a lovely cloudy effect after the birth, whereby the mother can't really recall how it felt 'in the moment' and bonds wonderfully with her baby. When we introduce drugs into the equation, they can have the effect of messing with this important biological process. Suddenly, the mother doesn't NEED to go into a trance state, her primitive brain never takes over. She is suddenly aware of EVERYTHING going on around her, is terrified, and the birth becomes a trauma instead of a beautiful right of passage. I have experienced this personally, as well as having found countless examples in the literature.
From a Buddhist perspective, the mother also looses the ability for mindfulness and awareness. Her senses and intellect are clouded by pharmaceuticles. She is no longer in control or aware of her reality in the accoustomed sense. It does not allow for a true experience, indeed it is the utter denial of the true experience.
The reader asked 'why should pain be seen as good?' My short answer... because sometimes pain is the correct response. To deny it, as an important function of your body, is to ignore some vital message your system is sending you. Only by paying attention to that message can you really understand what that particular experience is trying to teach you, and what meaning it might have in the future.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
So much has been going on around here that I don't even know where to begin in terms of a post. The husband not only started school this week, but started school in a totally different program than was previously planned. I started school too, but that's no surprise. The way these grad years are progressing, I'll be in school for the rest of my life. I did start a new chapter this week though, teaching (finally!).
Anyway, I had a whole post idea prepared, but somehow just can't seem to get my mind in order to write it. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about more existential questions than I usually explore. I wanted to try to flesh out some of those ideas here, and get feedback from others, but I just don't think now's the time.
Anyway, I had a whole post idea prepared, but somehow just can't seem to get my mind in order to write it. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about more existential questions than I usually explore. I wanted to try to flesh out some of those ideas here, and get feedback from others, but I just don't think now's the time.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Thought for Today
Old friends pass away, new friends appear. It is just like the days. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful, a meaningful friend, or a meaningful day.-Dalai Lama
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Sebastien's Story
As a doula and childbirth educator I hear more than my share of horror stories about labour and delivery. I often lend a supportive ear when women share their stories with me, almost as a sort of catharsis...a right of passage, perhaps. Our society expects birth to be an ordeal. We've come a long way from the days of our grandmothers' childbirth experiences. In birth, as in everything else, they were expected to comport themselves as ladies. Drugged and drowsy, they were restrained and relieved of the 'burden' of birth - a doctor took over and delivered the baby, often while the mother was unconscious. They didn't talk about what they went through, and there was a sort of cultural amnesia about childbirth. Times have definitely changed. Today, we can watch television broadcasts of women in agony, screaming uncontrollably as a baby rips its way forth, crying, into the world. Sometimes, a doctor steps in to manage the process again, only this time with surgery ('and not a moment too soon! This woman couldn't have given birth anyway!'). What we see and hear, nearly every time a birth is discussed in our contemporary culture, is a dramatic retelling of a painful, scary, medically managed trauma.
In researching the topic for my final masters project, I came across a book by K. Martens and Heidi Harms called In Her Own Voice. It's a collection of birth stories from mennonite women in Manitoba. In their introduction they examine the idea that these horror stories about birth are all the contemporary woman hears. During the authors' own pregnancies, when they went looking for positive birth narratives, they couldn't find anything. In my own work I've committed the same search and I have to agree - with the sad exception of a few volumes of fringe publications, most literature published about childbirth is a terrifying amalgam of warnings, close calls, and praise for medical science. Sadly, less than 1% of women (according to a recent national survey) experience birth as nature intended (Declerq, 2002). As a childbirth educator, I've made it my mission to share the positive stories about birth and mothering with as many women as I can. In their book, Martens and Harms say that there is enough meaning in every birth, as in every death, to warrant the telling. Thus, what follows is the story of the birth of my son, Sebastien David, born as nature intended, with no drugs, doctors, or hospitals - just a team of wonderful women and faith in the human body and the spiritual nature of childbirth.
The Beginning
In late April of 2008 I was a new mother, engrossed in the task of raising my new daughter, only 4 months old. I certainly wasn't expecting to become pregnant again, and was happy with our little family of 3. But, one morning I woke up and recognized that particular brand of 'unwell' that those who have experienced morning sickness are familiar with. There was no mistaking that feeling, and even though several pregnancy tests told me I was wrong, I knew our lives were about to change again. Finally, on May 2, after several days of testing, over and over, two lines appeared. It was official. I was pregnant again.
During this time I was studying to become a childbirth educator. The birth of my daughter, a typical North American medically managed birth, helped me to see that there must be a better way to bring babies into the world. My first experience of labour was a terrifying one - I felt robbed of my personhood, simply a number on the conveyer belt of the maternity ward - get woman in, get baby out, move along. There was no feeling or reflection about the magic that is childbirth. This amazingly personal, spiritual moment was shared with a team of people I had never met before, in a sterile room full of beeping, angry machinery. When it was over I didn't get to cuddle with my new family, I was given a sleeping pill and told to rest...ignore the euphoria and adrenaline I felt at having given life to a brand new person. My husband was sent home, away from his drugged wife and lonely child. No, this was not right, and there had to be a better way. I wanted to find that better way, and to share it with others.
When I saw those two lines appear on that morning in May, I knew that this was going to be something special. This was my chance to prove that I could do it - that WE could do it, my baby and I together. I would honour the heritage of the countless women who had gone before me in childbirth, coached on by their mothers and midwives. I would be brave and strong, and do this for my children and for all the women who needed to hear that it CAN be done, that they could do it too.
My pregnancy progressed as well as one could hope. I gained weight slowly this time, with no adverse health effects. We recruited the same midwife as helped me through my first pregnancy, and she encouraged my desire for a home birth. The other midwives in the practice were less optimistic about my chances, after all, the birth of my daughter had not gone according to plan. They all expected my son to arrive early too, and were very vocal with the idea that I shouldn't set my heart on a home birth. But we stayed true to our convictions, and despite a few days of contractions coming and going, I made it to 37 weeks - the official beginning of the allowable timeline for a home birth to take place.
During this time, because of a rental shortage and an unfortunate run-in with a mouse infestation, my husband, daughter and I had been living in my parents' house, in two small bedrooms. Our birthing room was to be the corner bedroom, an 8 foot by 10 foot space, with my office and our bed all crammed in there together. The windows of the room, which were set opposite the bed, looked out onto our back garden. In the winter, everything but the tallest trees were covered by rolling snow drifts. Once we put our bin of homebirthing supplies into one of the room's corners, there was very little space left. It wasn't the most ideal place for a birth - the space barely accommodated myself and my husband, never mind our birth attendants and their tools. But we were certain that a home birth was the best choice for us and our son, and the lack of space was simply an inconvenience.
Days after the 37 week point in my pregnancy, Lando, my favorite dog, got sick. I spent most of my days tending to him and helping to make his last days more comfortable. In the week leading up to Christmas, I began having small contractions and my cervix began preparing for the birth. We anticipated my son's arrival in the coming days, a little ahead of schedule. However, Lando soon took a downward turn, and my energy again became focussed on him. The stress of saying goodbye seemingly stopped the labour, which had never taken a strong hold. The day after Christmas, Lando passed away. We all expected that now, being allowed to focus on my child and our impending task, I would go into labour.
Days passed with no changes.
Where we were originally concerned that I wouldn't make it to the 37 week guideline, it now looked like we would end up with another, unexpected problem - a pregnancy gone too far post-dates to be allowed a home birth. My midwife and I began to talk about medical induction. It was a conversation I never expected to have. Together, we decided that if I hadn't gone into labour on my own by the morning of January 6, 1 day into my 42nd week, then she would begin induction procedures. However, before doing anything so drastic, she cautioned, I should try some castor oil as a way to start things along at home. I agreed, and on the morning of January 5, I had a shot of castor oil with breakfast. For good measure I took another shot a few minutes later. And waited.
Castor oil is a stimulant to the bowels, with the resulting contractions causing reactive contractions in the uterus. One can imagine the delightful time castor oil is reputed to be - particularly for a very pregnant, already-very-uncomfortable woman. However, despite all the build up, nothing happened. Aside from some light contractions, there was no effect. I went to bed that night certain that the castor oil had had no effect, and that I'd wake up the next morning prepared for an induction.
The Birth
At exactly 1:00 am I woke up to go to the bathroom. As I stood up out of bed I was hit with an incredible pain in my side that quickly spread to my entire abdomen. I thought it was just a normal pregnant pain, (of which there were plenty), but when it didn't let up after a few minutes I started to think that maybe something was wrong. I called to my husband Mark and he came to see what was happening. After a few minutes of discussion as to whether I should go to the hospital (I was worried I had caused something to go terribly wrong with my castor oil experimentation) I felt something warm at my feet and realized that my water had broken.
Finally!
Mark immediately started trying to reach the midwife while I changed into a dry night gown and concentrated on riding out the contractions. They were now happening with tremendous force and frequency, thanks to my water breaking. Each contraction felt like a wave of pain rippling through my body, from my pubic bone to my rib cage, and once they'd subside I was left with a dull ache that never really went away. I wasn't getting any relief between contractions, and was trying my best to focus, go inside myself, and ride them out. Unfortunately, the paging system for our midwife was malfunctioning and Mark and I were starting to get concerned that he'd be the one delivering our baby - not something that made dealing with contractions any easier.
Around 1:30 am we finally got in touch with our midwife and she was immediately on her way. While we were waiting, I continued to rock and to moan, which was helping to make the pain of the contractions into a manageable entity and not just an engulfing sensation. Mark got the bed ready for the birth, and started to gather the last few items we needed. At 1:45 am our midwife arrived and started to set up in our cramped little bedroom. When we turned on the heater to try to warm the room for the birth, a fuse blew, plunging us into total darkness. Mark went to repair the fuse, and our midwife continued to set up her things in the dark. She jokingly suggested that we might have a birthing by candle light - just like they did in days gone by.
I was barely aware of any of this (indeed, I don't even remember if the power was ever restored), since I had retreated to one corner of the room, moving between a birthing ball and the bed, changing positions frequently. The contractions were easy to deal with as long as they were my only focus. If my attention was demanded for some other detail of preparation, the pain and tightness became overwhelming - almost like holding a sit-up well past the point of comfort. Our midwife knew that the birth was drawing near - my breathing turned into panting, and I began pacing the room. I was amazed at the primitive connection to our animal ancestors. No one needed to tell me what to do, and with the lack of medical interventions my natural instincts and primitive mind took over.
A little before 2:00 am, I started to feel tremendous pressure and told our midwife that I was going to need to push soon. Her partner and student still hadn't arrived, and she asked me to try to keep from pushing until they arrived. After only a very few contractions I realized that it wasn't going to be possible for long - I could feel my son moving down, demanding to be born.
Minutes later, the second midwife and her student arrived and I was given full encouragement to proceed as I wanted. In the background, amid moans and pushes, I heard my midwife tell her partner that in her haste to set up, she had broken her vials of anti-hemorragic drugs. We were working without a net. If anything went wrong, we were on our own. With no time to focus on potentialities, I began pushing. Short, trial pushes at first, followed by long, deep, powerful draughts of bearing down. Once I began to feel his head pushing against me, the enormity of the situation hit me. I was about to accomplish something that only a handful of people of my generation have done in North America. And yet, it was not a scary or difficult situation. The process of birthing at home was more comfortable, less frightening, and even pleasurable, compared to birthing in hospital. As my son slid into the world, only 17 minutes after I started pushing, I was struck by the differences in atmosphere between his entrance into the world, and that of my daughter.
Sebastien's birthing room smelled of burnt candle wax, incense and the musky, wooly smell of my dogs. In hospital, whenever I became aware of the room around me, harsh lighting and the smell of clinical antiseptic was overpowering. At home, as soon as Sebastien emerged into the world, his slippery, wriggling self was placed on my chest, where I cut his cord, and the midwife cleaned him. He was then handed to me while we waited for the placenta to be delivered. As soon as the afterbirth started, the second midwife took Sebastien to the side of the bed to be weighed and examined, where I could watch everything that took place. Once I had delivered his placenta (with no problems and no need for anti-hemmoragics), he was returned immediately and began to breastfeed. My daughter's birth, in contrast, was frenzied and impersonal. As soon as she was born, her cord was hurriedly cut, she was whisked away to a table for examination and weighing, while doctors pulled on my cord to force the delivery of the afterbirth. I hemorrhaged, and she was taken to the NICU for observation while I 'recovered'. A full 12 hours passed before I could hold my daughter and feed her for the first time.
The midwives stayed until the sun started to come up over the snow covered trees, just to make sure all was well with our new little man. As I lay in my husband's arms feeding my son, the family that had been waiting in the kitchen began to trickle in to meet its newest member. The ability to birth in my own home, by my own terms, was a life changing experience for all in attendance. Once again, my children had given me an amazing gift - one I couldn't have asked for or known that I needed. At 2:32 am, January 6th, only hours before his medically induced deadline, Sebastien David was home - reaffirming for me the importance of trusting in nature and in the knowledge inherited from generations of ancestors.
Afterword
My mother likes to tell the story of Sebastien's birth in a different way. Instead of talking about the moment of his arrival into the world, she likes to tell people about the hours immediately after. Her first meeting with her grandson was memorable, she says, not because of the experience of his birth, but because of what it meant for the women present. She likes to talk about how, upon entering the birthing room, the first thing she saw was a group of women absolutely blissed out on the power of the mind and the spirit working together. She'll never forget the looks on the faces of all the women present - that starry-eyed look of connection, sisterhood, and profound understanding that came from seeing, at first hand, what a woman's body is capable of, if we simply have faith in our abilities and the hand that guides us.
In researching the topic for my final masters project, I came across a book by K. Martens and Heidi Harms called In Her Own Voice. It's a collection of birth stories from mennonite women in Manitoba. In their introduction they examine the idea that these horror stories about birth are all the contemporary woman hears. During the authors' own pregnancies, when they went looking for positive birth narratives, they couldn't find anything. In my own work I've committed the same search and I have to agree - with the sad exception of a few volumes of fringe publications, most literature published about childbirth is a terrifying amalgam of warnings, close calls, and praise for medical science. Sadly, less than 1% of women (according to a recent national survey) experience birth as nature intended (Declerq, 2002). As a childbirth educator, I've made it my mission to share the positive stories about birth and mothering with as many women as I can. In their book, Martens and Harms say that there is enough meaning in every birth, as in every death, to warrant the telling. Thus, what follows is the story of the birth of my son, Sebastien David, born as nature intended, with no drugs, doctors, or hospitals - just a team of wonderful women and faith in the human body and the spiritual nature of childbirth.
The Beginning
In late April of 2008 I was a new mother, engrossed in the task of raising my new daughter, only 4 months old. I certainly wasn't expecting to become pregnant again, and was happy with our little family of 3. But, one morning I woke up and recognized that particular brand of 'unwell' that those who have experienced morning sickness are familiar with. There was no mistaking that feeling, and even though several pregnancy tests told me I was wrong, I knew our lives were about to change again. Finally, on May 2, after several days of testing, over and over, two lines appeared. It was official. I was pregnant again.
During this time I was studying to become a childbirth educator. The birth of my daughter, a typical North American medically managed birth, helped me to see that there must be a better way to bring babies into the world. My first experience of labour was a terrifying one - I felt robbed of my personhood, simply a number on the conveyer belt of the maternity ward - get woman in, get baby out, move along. There was no feeling or reflection about the magic that is childbirth. This amazingly personal, spiritual moment was shared with a team of people I had never met before, in a sterile room full of beeping, angry machinery. When it was over I didn't get to cuddle with my new family, I was given a sleeping pill and told to rest...ignore the euphoria and adrenaline I felt at having given life to a brand new person. My husband was sent home, away from his drugged wife and lonely child. No, this was not right, and there had to be a better way. I wanted to find that better way, and to share it with others.
When I saw those two lines appear on that morning in May, I knew that this was going to be something special. This was my chance to prove that I could do it - that WE could do it, my baby and I together. I would honour the heritage of the countless women who had gone before me in childbirth, coached on by their mothers and midwives. I would be brave and strong, and do this for my children and for all the women who needed to hear that it CAN be done, that they could do it too.
My pregnancy progressed as well as one could hope. I gained weight slowly this time, with no adverse health effects. We recruited the same midwife as helped me through my first pregnancy, and she encouraged my desire for a home birth. The other midwives in the practice were less optimistic about my chances, after all, the birth of my daughter had not gone according to plan. They all expected my son to arrive early too, and were very vocal with the idea that I shouldn't set my heart on a home birth. But we stayed true to our convictions, and despite a few days of contractions coming and going, I made it to 37 weeks - the official beginning of the allowable timeline for a home birth to take place.
During this time, because of a rental shortage and an unfortunate run-in with a mouse infestation, my husband, daughter and I had been living in my parents' house, in two small bedrooms. Our birthing room was to be the corner bedroom, an 8 foot by 10 foot space, with my office and our bed all crammed in there together. The windows of the room, which were set opposite the bed, looked out onto our back garden. In the winter, everything but the tallest trees were covered by rolling snow drifts. Once we put our bin of homebirthing supplies into one of the room's corners, there was very little space left. It wasn't the most ideal place for a birth - the space barely accommodated myself and my husband, never mind our birth attendants and their tools. But we were certain that a home birth was the best choice for us and our son, and the lack of space was simply an inconvenience.
Days after the 37 week point in my pregnancy, Lando, my favorite dog, got sick. I spent most of my days tending to him and helping to make his last days more comfortable. In the week leading up to Christmas, I began having small contractions and my cervix began preparing for the birth. We anticipated my son's arrival in the coming days, a little ahead of schedule. However, Lando soon took a downward turn, and my energy again became focussed on him. The stress of saying goodbye seemingly stopped the labour, which had never taken a strong hold. The day after Christmas, Lando passed away. We all expected that now, being allowed to focus on my child and our impending task, I would go into labour.
Days passed with no changes.
Where we were originally concerned that I wouldn't make it to the 37 week guideline, it now looked like we would end up with another, unexpected problem - a pregnancy gone too far post-dates to be allowed a home birth. My midwife and I began to talk about medical induction. It was a conversation I never expected to have. Together, we decided that if I hadn't gone into labour on my own by the morning of January 6, 1 day into my 42nd week, then she would begin induction procedures. However, before doing anything so drastic, she cautioned, I should try some castor oil as a way to start things along at home. I agreed, and on the morning of January 5, I had a shot of castor oil with breakfast. For good measure I took another shot a few minutes later. And waited.
Castor oil is a stimulant to the bowels, with the resulting contractions causing reactive contractions in the uterus. One can imagine the delightful time castor oil is reputed to be - particularly for a very pregnant, already-very-uncomfortable woman. However, despite all the build up, nothing happened. Aside from some light contractions, there was no effect. I went to bed that night certain that the castor oil had had no effect, and that I'd wake up the next morning prepared for an induction.
The Birth
At exactly 1:00 am I woke up to go to the bathroom. As I stood up out of bed I was hit with an incredible pain in my side that quickly spread to my entire abdomen. I thought it was just a normal pregnant pain, (of which there were plenty), but when it didn't let up after a few minutes I started to think that maybe something was wrong. I called to my husband Mark and he came to see what was happening. After a few minutes of discussion as to whether I should go to the hospital (I was worried I had caused something to go terribly wrong with my castor oil experimentation) I felt something warm at my feet and realized that my water had broken.
Finally!
Mark immediately started trying to reach the midwife while I changed into a dry night gown and concentrated on riding out the contractions. They were now happening with tremendous force and frequency, thanks to my water breaking. Each contraction felt like a wave of pain rippling through my body, from my pubic bone to my rib cage, and once they'd subside I was left with a dull ache that never really went away. I wasn't getting any relief between contractions, and was trying my best to focus, go inside myself, and ride them out. Unfortunately, the paging system for our midwife was malfunctioning and Mark and I were starting to get concerned that he'd be the one delivering our baby - not something that made dealing with contractions any easier.
Around 1:30 am we finally got in touch with our midwife and she was immediately on her way. While we were waiting, I continued to rock and to moan, which was helping to make the pain of the contractions into a manageable entity and not just an engulfing sensation. Mark got the bed ready for the birth, and started to gather the last few items we needed. At 1:45 am our midwife arrived and started to set up in our cramped little bedroom. When we turned on the heater to try to warm the room for the birth, a fuse blew, plunging us into total darkness. Mark went to repair the fuse, and our midwife continued to set up her things in the dark. She jokingly suggested that we might have a birthing by candle light - just like they did in days gone by.
I was barely aware of any of this (indeed, I don't even remember if the power was ever restored), since I had retreated to one corner of the room, moving between a birthing ball and the bed, changing positions frequently. The contractions were easy to deal with as long as they were my only focus. If my attention was demanded for some other detail of preparation, the pain and tightness became overwhelming - almost like holding a sit-up well past the point of comfort. Our midwife knew that the birth was drawing near - my breathing turned into panting, and I began pacing the room. I was amazed at the primitive connection to our animal ancestors. No one needed to tell me what to do, and with the lack of medical interventions my natural instincts and primitive mind took over.
A little before 2:00 am, I started to feel tremendous pressure and told our midwife that I was going to need to push soon. Her partner and student still hadn't arrived, and she asked me to try to keep from pushing until they arrived. After only a very few contractions I realized that it wasn't going to be possible for long - I could feel my son moving down, demanding to be born.
Minutes later, the second midwife and her student arrived and I was given full encouragement to proceed as I wanted. In the background, amid moans and pushes, I heard my midwife tell her partner that in her haste to set up, she had broken her vials of anti-hemorragic drugs. We were working without a net. If anything went wrong, we were on our own. With no time to focus on potentialities, I began pushing. Short, trial pushes at first, followed by long, deep, powerful draughts of bearing down. Once I began to feel his head pushing against me, the enormity of the situation hit me. I was about to accomplish something that only a handful of people of my generation have done in North America. And yet, it was not a scary or difficult situation. The process of birthing at home was more comfortable, less frightening, and even pleasurable, compared to birthing in hospital. As my son slid into the world, only 17 minutes after I started pushing, I was struck by the differences in atmosphere between his entrance into the world, and that of my daughter.
Sebastien's birthing room smelled of burnt candle wax, incense and the musky, wooly smell of my dogs. In hospital, whenever I became aware of the room around me, harsh lighting and the smell of clinical antiseptic was overpowering. At home, as soon as Sebastien emerged into the world, his slippery, wriggling self was placed on my chest, where I cut his cord, and the midwife cleaned him. He was then handed to me while we waited for the placenta to be delivered. As soon as the afterbirth started, the second midwife took Sebastien to the side of the bed to be weighed and examined, where I could watch everything that took place. Once I had delivered his placenta (with no problems and no need for anti-hemmoragics), he was returned immediately and began to breastfeed. My daughter's birth, in contrast, was frenzied and impersonal. As soon as she was born, her cord was hurriedly cut, she was whisked away to a table for examination and weighing, while doctors pulled on my cord to force the delivery of the afterbirth. I hemorrhaged, and she was taken to the NICU for observation while I 'recovered'. A full 12 hours passed before I could hold my daughter and feed her for the first time.
The midwives stayed until the sun started to come up over the snow covered trees, just to make sure all was well with our new little man. As I lay in my husband's arms feeding my son, the family that had been waiting in the kitchen began to trickle in to meet its newest member. The ability to birth in my own home, by my own terms, was a life changing experience for all in attendance. Once again, my children had given me an amazing gift - one I couldn't have asked for or known that I needed. At 2:32 am, January 6th, only hours before his medically induced deadline, Sebastien David was home - reaffirming for me the importance of trusting in nature and in the knowledge inherited from generations of ancestors.
Afterword
My mother likes to tell the story of Sebastien's birth in a different way. Instead of talking about the moment of his arrival into the world, she likes to tell people about the hours immediately after. Her first meeting with her grandson was memorable, she says, not because of the experience of his birth, but because of what it meant for the women present. She likes to talk about how, upon entering the birthing room, the first thing she saw was a group of women absolutely blissed out on the power of the mind and the spirit working together. She'll never forget the looks on the faces of all the women present - that starry-eyed look of connection, sisterhood, and profound understanding that came from seeing, at first hand, what a woman's body is capable of, if we simply have faith in our abilities and the hand that guides us.
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