Jameson’s Birth Story
From conception onward, our son, Jameson, has asked me to deepen my spiritual practice and drop further into the peace and truth that lies within. My children are my greatest teachers, and I am infinitely grateful for all the ways they ask me to learn and grow with them.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
10 a.m.
Jim and I arrive on the labor and delivery floor of the local hospital that we chose as our back-up for our homebirth. The location of the appointment concerns me already because it would be very easy and convenient to convince a woman to stay and be admitted if one of her test results came back “abnormal”.
We are led to a triage room with two beds, and I am relieved that no one else needs the other bed in this closet of a room. A nurse takes my blood pressure, and I inquire about the numbers. It’s unusually high for me, so I let her know that I am very anxious about the testing. She takes this into account and leaves the cuff on my arm so it can inflate on its own at regular intervals. Allowing these extra readings result in more typical blood pressure readings over time.
For the Non-stress Test, I am strapped to a machine that records contractions and the baby’s heart rate. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, inhaling and then exhaling twice as long as my inhale. I sometimes inhale and then let out a deep sigh to release tension and reassure the baby with my calm. I also remember and repeat a mantra from yoga class, a mantra that one of my friends shared on my Facebook Wall earlier this morning — Sat Nam (Truth is my identity. My identity is truth.). Measurements are recorded for over twenty minutes and show that the baby is doing well (i.e. the baby’s heart rate only accelerates and does not decelerate).
For the Amniotic Fluid Index, an ultrasound wand is rolled over my entire belly in search of pockets of amniotic fluid. Each pocket is assigned a number and must add together for a total of at least 5.0. As the doctor searches for pockets, I am not so confident in her ultrasound skills. Her movements do not exude confidence to me. At the end of the test, she concludes that the baby’s amniotic fluid is too low, which means the baby may not tolerate labor well without the cushioning of more fluid.
I imagine that since I am a homebirth client, they specifically ask the Certified Nurse Midwife to deliver the bad news — They want to induce me. They want me to stay and get induced. Here we go! On one hand, the induction is presented as a way to eliminate the inevitable danger of birthing at home with such low fluid levels. On the other hand, the induction is presented as a nonchalant event, “Let’s just get this baby out, so you can be at home this evening”. No big deal, right? Wrong!
This situation is not clear cut. Amniotic Fluid Index (AFI) readings are not an exact science and may not account for circumstances that are actually normal for one particular individual. How meaningful are these numbers to my body and my baby? No one can say for sure. I do know that Taylor had very little fluid leak during her labor and birth. Is this just the way my body grows babies?
Going into this appointment I told Jim that I absolutely did not want to check for dilation because checking does not necessarily offer information about birth’s imminence. A woman can dilate from 5cm to 10cm in as little as 30 minutes or as many as 30 hours or more. She can even be at 7cm and shrink down to 5cm if she feels threatened or in danger.
Despite my best laid plans, I do consent to a vaginal exam. From my perspective, the hospital midwife inserts her fingers inside of me to measure that I am 4cm, and then I feel an extra agitation/maneuver. I don’t think much of it in the moment, but as I go about my day I wonder if she had aggressively and consciously checked me with extra force and without my consent to encourage labor. Immediately after that check, my Braxton Hicks contractions increase noticeably.
With a difficult decision ahead of us, I call Maria for her input. When she answers my call she is attending another birth, acting as a doula for one of her hospital birth clients. The baby is literally being born at that moment, so she calls back a few minutes later, and we talk about next-steps. We agree that I will sign an Against Medical Advice (AMA) form that will release the hospital of liability should something happen to me or the baby after leaving the hospital’s premises; do my best to hydrate and increase the baby’s amniotic fluid level; and return to the hospital in the afternoon to re-check AFI numbers.
On the way home, Jim and I stop by Whole Foods to pick up some lunch and some snacks for labor (just in case I am admitted to the hospital later in the day). While I remained centered at the hospital as we weighed our options, I fall apart in the car. I sob as I begin to mourn the loss of birthing at home. I also express my desire for Taylor to be with Jim during the labor and birth because I do not want Taylor’s consciousness to be imprinted with an over-medicalized, overly managed approach to birth.
I ask Jim to sacrifice his presence at his son’s birth to be at home and care for Taylor. This may sound extreme, but I absolutely need to know that my first-born is safe, and I feel most comfortable with Taylor being with her father. Jim agrees to make this sacrifice and let Maria and Britt act as my primary support at the hospital. Many veteran moms report stalling their labors until their older children are cared for. By going to the hospital I am already entering an environment where I have previously experienced trauma, and I am trying to clear a path for labor to unfold as smoothly as possible for this next child.
1:30 p.m.
As I shovel spoonfuls of cilantro rice and chicken curry in my mouth, I dart around the house packing a hospital bag. Time flies by as I gulp mouthfuls of water in between zigzags as I retrieve necessities. I text Britt with an update, and I also ask if she is willing to shift her role from photographer to doula. Britt calls me a few minutes later after finishing up with one of her yoga classes, and we flesh out some details around what I want and need from her. Much to my relief, Britt agrees to become my doula, and as such, she asks me to look over the birth plan on her website, an outline of preferences for labor and birth that are communicated to the hospital staff, because she wants a solid idea of what she will be advocating for. Britt also asks me to consider having Jim and Taylor at the birth, and I tell her that I will think about it.
3 p.m.
I had originally told the hospital staff that I would return to the hospital at 3 p.m. with Maria, but I need more time to discuss my options. I also feel the need to meet on neutral ground, so I ask Maria to meet us at our house. We sit in our living room and talk at length about our options. Maria is supportive of whatever we decide and acknowledges that they are our decisions to make. She is still willing to attend our birth at home; however, with the understanding that the stakes are higher if the baby’s amniotic fluid level is truly low.
Knowing that Jim was already a little nervous about homebirth and hearing his rising concerns around safely birthing at home with the possibility of low fluid, I can only feel good about going to the hospital because I need Jim to feel safe about this birth too. This little one is not just my baby; he’s our baby.
I hop into Maria’s car so we can continue talking, and Jim follows in our car. We check in with the nurses on the labor and delivery floor, and I’m hooked up to machines again but this time for a biophysical profile. The doctor and hospital midwife (from this morning’s appointment) re-confirm their initial findings of low amniotic fluid.
At some point in the conversation, the hospital midwife mentions something about me needing an aggressive cervical exam to get my labor started. In that moment, I remain calm and centered despite all the fear that is hurtled in my direction. I let the hospital midwife’s comment pass over me, but in hindsight I can’t help but seethe at the possibility that she had performed an unnecessarily aggressive exam earlier in the day without my consent. How dare she violate my body and my trust that way?!
We can sign another AMA and continue to come in for monitoring on a daily basis, but I know myself well enough. I won’t be able to sleep tonight, and I’ll just stress about the baby. If I’m going to be induced I might as well do it while I have my energy and wits about me. I inform the staff of my decision to go ahead with the induction; however, it is already early evening, and I am hungry. There’s just no way I’m going to welcome labor on an empty stomach. To do so would be uncomfortable and foolish. I need energy to birth this baby, so I sign another AMA form and agree to return to the hospital after picking Taylor up from school and after dinner.
On our way out, the hospital midwife pulls Maria aside for a private discussion. She tries to put fear in Maria’s head so Maria will coerce me into a hospital birth instead of a homebirth. Wow! The audacity of this hospital midwife is disturbing. What kind of wounds is this woman carrying around to inflict such negativity and unethical behavior on others?
6:30 p.m.
Maria and I drive to a local Puerto Rican restaurant while Jim picks Taylor up from school. As we wait for them to meet us there and throughout dinner, I continue to talk to Maria and Jim about what is unfolding for us. I am trying my best to process my thoughts and feelings of grief. My dreams of a homebirth are dead, and in order for me to move forward, I need to fully feel my loss. Tears return to my eyes now as I write this. I resign myself to another hospital birth, another birth likely to be filled with unnecessary interventions and extra energy expended in efforts to keep my son and myself safe. I realize what I’ve just signed up for, and it is difficult for me to accept.
Maria agrees with Britt’s suggestion and reassures me that having Jim and Taylor at the birth is both necessary for us as a family and can be a positive experience. I warm to the idea and eventually decide to invite them to the birth.
Ever the pragmatist, I explicitly communicate to Maria what I want and need from her in a hospital birth setting — her 25 years of clinical knowledge and experience and her advocacy prowess. What I need from Britt is her intuition, her ability to attune to the moment and fulfill a need. And what I need from Jim is his presence to care for Taylor. If I feel that my first-born is emotionally and physically take care of, I will be more able to focus on caring for and birthing our son. This is not to say that Maria, Britt, and Jim do not have anything else to offer. From what I know of them and myself, this is exactly what I need from my birth team, and I want to be clear about expectations going into this birth.
I text Britt from the dinner table so she has a better idea of when she might be needed. She assures me that she’s ready and will be eating and then resting until she hears from me again.
7:15 p.m.
Jim, Taylor, and I climb into the front seat of our car so we have a quiet place to talk. With all the strength and confidence I can muster, I explain our new birth plan to Taylor. On one hand, I don’t hide any information about what is happening. On the other hand, I keep my emotions in-check for her sake. While I am all for being authentic (especially with my children), I don’t want her to be scared or worry about my well-being or the baby’s well-being. I am acutely aware that her sense of safety comes from the strength I exude.
I give Taylor a big hug and a kiss and return to Maria’s car. Jim and Taylor go home to pack an overnight bag and some activities for Taylor. Maria and I check in at the nurses station again and inform them that I am ready for an induction. I don’t want Pitocin if I can help it, so I ask for my membranes to be “swept” first. The staff wants me to agree to placing a saline lock into a vein in my arm, but I negotiate with them and agree to do so later, when my amniotic sac is broken. “Sweeping” separates the amniotic sac from the lower part of the uterus without actually breaking the sac open. Uncomfortable with the idea of a first-year resident performing this procedure, a chief resident agrees to do the “sweep”. She exudes confidence and her movement inside me feel competent. I am 5cm dilated and stretchy to 6cm.
8:30 p.m.
We inform the staff that I will walk for the next hour and then officially check into the hospital and break my water to continue with the induction. I notice that the faster I walk, the more readily and stronger my contractions come. The layout of the labor and delivery floor is not conducive to walking laps, so we weave up and back dead-end hallways as we encounter them.
Every once in awhile, we stop back in the triage room. On one such occasion, a man walking by notices me and bids me an enthusiastic “Hello”. For a split second, I’m not sure who he is. Then is dawns on me; he’s the sales associate who sold my new cell phone to me. He asks me what I’m doing here because, to the observer, it is difficult to discern that I am in labor at all. What can I say? It’s just how my body works. I may be 6cm and contracting, but anyone outside of myself is unaware. He is in disbelief and wishes me well as he proceeds down the hall.
9 p.m.
Jim and Taylor find us in the triage room, and I follow them back to the garage to help them retrieve the remaining items from the car. As we exit the hospital’s main doors, my contractions become even stronger, and I wonder if I can make it to the car and back. Jim asks me if I’m really OK to make the trek, and I assure him that I can.
9:30 pm.
I am officially admitted to the hospital, and Maria requests a particular labor and delivery room because she’s quite familiar with their accommodations. The room is available, and we make our way to an incredibly spacious corner room. A nurse places a saline lock into my left arm (which I think is overkill, but I agree to it anyway) and straps an electronic fetal monitor (EFM) to my belly. Game on!
Before proceeding, I need a shower to feel refreshed and energized. I remove the EFM and quickly hop into the shower before any fuss can be made of its removal. I emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later dressed in a black tank top, a black birth skirt, and still wearing the mama goddess necklace my dear friend, Thais, gifted to me. This way there is no need for a hospital gown. I am not the hospital’s property. I am not a case number in LDR#2. I am not even a patient for that matter. I am a healthy pregnant client giving birth to a healthy baby. I am a radiant birthing mama, and they are definitely going to hear me roar.
Birth Doula & Photographer: Britt Fohrman
Jim makes a bed for Taylor on the pull-out chair, and they read books, draw pictures, and watch a DVD on Jim’s laptop. I look over to the window ledge and see the objects Jim collected from my nightstand at home to create an altar here in the room. I am touched by what he has chosen. He recognizes what is important to me and understands the connection I have with each piece.
As I am asked to sign a stack of papers, the birth advocate in me notices how ridiculous this process is. Labor requires a woman to tap into the primal, animalistic parts of her brain, and this pile of legalese is the last thing that’s going to assist a woman in accessing them. I mentally and physically put labor aside so I can focus on the documents.
In the meantime, Britt is already beginning to transform the room into a sacred birth space. She turns off all the flourescent lights and leaves just one spotlight over the bed lit. She covers the hospital’s glaring monitors with extra pillow cases from the linen closet, plugs her iPhone into a docking station we brought, and spritzes the air with calming, healing scents. As we are all settling in, the anesthesiologist stops by to introduce himself and offer his services. As he is talking I can’t help but be amused by his presence because I won’t be needing him, and I am also wondering if he knows that him being here at this moment is purely a formality.
11 p.m.
One of the first-year residents (the first-year that was supposed to “sweep” my membranes earlier) and her sidekick come into the room to perform an amniotomy (i.e. break the baby’s amniotic sac). I inform this girl (using “girl” not to be condescending but to more accurately paint a picture of who she is) that I am not comfortable with her doing the procedure, that I would like the chief resident instead. To which she replies, “Well, I’m in charge of taking care of the laboring women”. I repeat my request. She answers with, “That’s just not the way we do it.” We loop through this conversation a few times until she agrees to speak with the chief resident.
11:15 p.m.
I don’t remember saying this, but Maria quotes me in her chart — “I want to get as far as I can without them touching me.”
When the chief resident arrives Maria and Britt take her out to the hallway for a chat. Quite some lengthy time later, Maria, Britt, and the chief resident re-enter the room. The chief resident asks to speak with me, and this is my cue to turn the labor dial to “off” because I have serious business to attend to. Up until now, I have been weaving in and out of Laborland, depending on what is happening in the room and what is being asked of me. This conversation necessitates the full attention of my thinking brain, so my primal brain needs to be turned off. “Is it possible to stop and start labor?”, you may wonder. Yes. The mind-body connection is that strong.
The chief resident sits on a stool at the foot of the bed, and I sit in a low, supported squat on a foot stool. If I am going to stall my labor, I might as well position myself in a productive posture and squat to encourage the baby to come down while we are talking. The chief resident turns to me and asks me to speak about my wants and needs.
It is immediately apparent to me that I need to stay grounded (i.e. not be too emotional) and speak to the scientist in her. I talk about my understanding of labor hormones, explaining how oxytocin and endorphins will help labor progress while adrenaline will suppress labor and dilation. I tie this into intuition and trust in practitioners and how feelings of safety facilitate labor while feelings of fear thwart labor. Knowing that Maria and Britt likely addressed this topic in more detail, I briefly touch on the trauma I experienced during Taylor’s birth and how I really need to feel safe and confident in whomever performs procedures on me and the baby.
I can’t remember how many times I heard the line, but the hospital staff expertly delivered their unquestioningly robotic response, “We just don’t do it that way.” At no point did they address the safety of my requests. Their unwillingness to see me as an individual was not rooted in best outcomes or evidence-based practices. It was rooted in a dysfunctional hierarchy of power they dared not question.
Oddly enough, when I refused the first-year resident’s offer to perform the aniotomy, I felt compassion for her. I looked at her, how inexperienced she was, how incredibly new and wobbly-footed she was, and thought how sad it was that her true power, the power that lies in her own Truth, had yet to be tapped. And certainly this hospital environment isn’t going to help her find It.
I say my piece and the chief resident gets up to retrieve the attending OB. In my head I think, “Bring it! I’ll tell that doctor exactly what I just told the chief resident.”
11:55 p.m.
The chief resident returns with the attending OB and the attending OB agrees to let the chief resident break my bag of waters without further explanation on my part. On cue, the attending OB reiterates, “This is just not how we do it. But we’ll make an exception just this once.” On one hand, I am relieved. On the other hand, I am in disbelief and exasperated. What?! Is this such a big favor? Is it so unfathomable that a birthing woman wants and needs to feel safe? What’s more important — that pregnant women are these residents’ nameless, faceless guinea pigs, or that pregnant woman are respected as the individuals they are and provided care that is based on the evidence of best outcomes?
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
12 a.m.
I lie semi-reclined on the bed with my legs in Baddha Konasana (i.e. butterfly pose), and the chief resident breaks my bag of waters. When the warm fluid gushes out I comment how on much more fluid is present in comparison to Taylor’s birth. Was my amniotic fluid truly “too low”? We’ll likely never know, but there seemed to be plenty of fluid in that one gush. While still between my legs, the chief announces that I am 6cm and the baby is at -1 station (which is a measurement of how low the baby’s head is in my pelvis). Once the hospital staff leaves the room, I am free to turn inward and continue the work of birthing our baby.
Birth Doula & Photographer: Britt Fohrman
12:20 a.m.
I move to the toilet to see if sitting on it might encourage labor. The bathroom reeks of pee even though Britt does her best to cover the stench with aromatherapy. The toilet is also too tall for my stature, so I return to the main room. Taylor is asleep.
1:00 a.m.
I begin vocalizing during my contractions which means they’re really ramping up and taking nearly all of my concentration. In a kneeling position on the bed, I drape my upper body over a birth ball cushioned by a pillow I brought from home. Although each contraction consumes most of my attention, I find myself taking on three different roles — the Birth Advocate (i.e. the woman who has been studying birth for almost six years, is very aware of her surroundings, and knows she needs to protect herself and her baby. She can’t completely let her guard down in this setting.), the Witness (i.e. the mama who birthed Taylor and remembers how she felt at each stage of labor), and the Birthing Mama (i.e. the woman who is birthing this baby in this hospital under these circumstances).
I am surprised that Taylor, who is usually a fairly light sleeper, is sleeping through my deep, low moans. I open my eyes when I feel an unfamiliar presence beside me. I hear the click of Britt’s camera, and I hear the beep of the video camera as Jim turns it on and off. I wonder if I will be inhibited by so many “eyes” watching me, but I let them continue because I have asked them to do this, and I want to witness my own birth process from a different perspective. I wonder if the hospital staff will “let” me continue finding my own positions to labor because the nurse comes in to re-adjust the misaligned monitor on my belly. The monitor runs out of paper, so someone pushes the call button to communicate this to the nurses station. A nurse comes and quickly installs a new roll. Rather than sinking completely into my body and this birth, the noise and interference keeps me teetering between two worlds — the inward and the outward.
As I continue to ride the waves of each surge, I am also comparing this labor to my labor with Taylor, trying to calculate my progress. I am acutely aware of my need to fall within certain hospital parameters of “normal”. I feel an intense opening in my low back, and the surges are coming so close together it is difficult to communicate what I’m experiencing and what I need. Britt takes firm hold of my hips and shakes me through some contractions. “Off,” I bark when it doesn’t feel good. In between surges, Britt offers sips of water from my water bottle to keep my hydrated. She leaves the room to heat a heating pad in the microwave. She returns and places it on my sacrum. At first it feels good but then becomes too hot. “Too hot,” I bellow.
Birth Doula & Photographer: Britt Fohrman
One to two-word sentences is all I can manage, and at the same time, I’m trying to figure out what might be a more comfortable position, one that is both restful (requiring little energy) and productive (encouraging dilation).
I stop to notice the conversation I’m having in my head. I am wondering how much longer I need to labor and if I can really do this. Then the Witness in me realizes that I am in Transition, the stage of labor that comes before pushing and often when women think they can’t go on. Britt expresses her plan to nap and take a rest, and Maria is already napping on a mat on the floor. I think, “Uh, oh. I need to tell someone where I am in my labor.” Jim happens to be standing on my left, so I turn to him to say, “I’m in Transition”. He alerts Britt and Maria, and I feel their attention heighten ever so slightly.
I start feeling grunty. Britt is on my left side, advising me not to actively do anything and, at the same time, not to hold back. Somehow this oxymoronic advice makes sense to me. However, I notice that I am holding back because I feel the urge to poop. With the contractions so intense, there’s no way I can make it to the bathroom and back. So what am I supposed to do?! More surges wash up and over me. Wait, that’s not poop. That’s the baby coming down!
Once I fully embrace this reality, I follow my body’s urges to push. Still kneeling on the bed with my upper body draped over a stack of pillows, I nudge the baby’s body lower and lower with each surge. These sensations are entirely new to me because even though Taylor’s birth was unmedicated, I was semi-reclined and ordered to push on someone else’s timeline.
In this birth, I am free to follow what my body is telling me. I can feel just how round the baby’s head is as it moves through my birth canal. At the sight of the baby’s head, Maria informs the hospital staff via the call button. In between pushes I feel the baby shimmy his body. He’s an active participant in his own birth, and I take a moment to connect with him, “Hi, Little One,” I laugh.
Sensing the arrival of the cavalry, I push even though I’m not having a contraction and even though I know I am more likely to tear this way because the protective instinct in me wants this baby out before the staff can touch him.
1:54 a.m.
And it is so.
Birth Doula & Photographer: Britt Fohrman
Our son slithers down and out, and Maria catches him from behind. For a split second, my mind and body are paralyzed in ecstatic shock. Maria invites me to reach down and hold my baby, but the thought takes an extra moment to register. I reach down to hold our son and rejoice in the warm, slippery wetness of our earthside meeting. Just as I am marveling at this miracle, one of the hospital staff motions to cut his umbilical cord. Maria swiftly stops whomever it is, and assures him or her that the baby is doing well. We spend a few moments greeting our son, and, with the cord still attached between us, I scoot to the middle of the bed to find a more stable and restful position.
Birth Doula & Photographer: Britt Fohrman
Britt asks if I would like help removing my tank top, and I welcome her suggestion. I want this warm, slippery babe to be skin-to-skin with me. The umbilical cord now still and no longer pulsating with life-giving, oxygenated blood, Jim cuts the cord at 2 a.m. I continue to luxuriate in the softness of our son’s body and the excitement of his arrival. I place him face-down on my chest, and with the strength of someone much greater than his size, he pushes himself up with his arms and raises his head to greet me.
Birth Doula & Photographer: Britt Fohrman
His Apgar score 1 minute after birth is 8 and 9 after 5 minutes. He responded to labor well, and his heart rate did not decelerate a single time (as the hospital staff had feared and warned). A syringe was never plunged forcefully and unnecessarily into his nose and mouth. He was not rubbed vigorously with coarse towels and blankets. He was not whisked away for weighing or bathing.
2:02 a.m.
The placenta is easily birthed, and within the next half hour, a resident (who I have never met) sutures my first-degree tear. As the doctor works and Maria observes her handiwork, our son latches on to my breast for the first time. I am surprised and relieved to feel such a vigorous suck. What a strong and vibrant boy!
As he nurses, the staff checks my bleeding periodically and suggests using Pitocin to force my uterus to contract. I empty my bladder a couple of times in order to make space for my shrinking uterus. They bring up Pitocin again. When Maria and I have a moment alone, she shares with me that my blood loss is normal. The hospital just isn’t accustomed to natural blood loss levels because they likely administer Pitocin routine after every birth, which skews their perception of “normal”. I rest in Maria’s observations and knowledge, and I’m relieved I won’t be pumping my body with that stuff.
What unfolds over the next 36 hours or so isn’t so pleasant, and I’m not sure I’ll ever go into detail about what happened. We originally planned to leave the hospital by signing another AMA a few hours after giving birth, but we agree to to some bloodwork, which turns into a circus of fear-mongering, hurrying up to wait and wait some more, countless blood draws from our son’s heels and hands, re-testing, and a near-constant stream of interruptions. The precious energy we had postpartum was zapped by the time we were discharged because it took so much effort to navigate the system and make decisions with the limited information we had.
* * * * *
For the past several days, I have taken notes, written Jameson’s birth story long-hand, and typed his story into my blogging software. As much as I would like to wrap this piece of writing up with a neat bow and conclude with a succinct and powerful message, I am simply not ready. Although the story’s elements have been extracted and put to words, I still have some emotional processing work to do, and I am not sure when that process will feel complete. For now, I will close with some stray thoughts that may or may not form into something more substantial.
- Although I always knew it was a very real possibility, I didn’t think I would give birth in a hospital again. I suppose part of me felt I “deserved” a homebirth because I have invested so much time and energy into learning about pregnancy and birth and preparing myself physically, emotionally, and spiritually for this particular journey. I am accustomed to being disciplined, doing my homework, and being rewarded for all my hard work. In this instance, I have yet to discover the complete breadth and depth of this reward.
- The most blissfully connected moments of this birth experience occurred with Jim, Taylor, Jameson, Maria, and Britt. They held me lovingly in a sacred space, and I am forever grateful for all the ways they nourished me as I crossed the threshold of motherhood again.
- The most striking memory of Jameson’s birth was holding his warm, wet body immediately after he was birthed. Something very profound, something rooted in eons of human history happened in that moment. The experience of uninterrupted skin-to-skin contact attuned me instantly to Jameson’s body and his being. Whereas this attunement developed over time with Taylor, it happened immediately with Jameson. Feeling the contrast of these two births, I have discovered first-hand a major disconnect in our maternity care system. What is the impact of unnecessarily medicalized, overly managed birth? On mothers? On babies? On families? On whole societies? What can be preserved in those few precious moments after birth? How can those few minutes, spread across an entire species, affect the world and aid in its healing?
- Why wasn’t homebirth written in the stars for me? I imagine I will be attempting to answer this question for the rest of my days on this earth, but I do have some ideas about why. In hindsight, I could have safely birthed at home and had the birth I envisioned. However, from the standpoint of fate and spirituality, I birthed at the hospital — to reclaim that experience; to emerge empowered rather than victimized; to continue to advocate for better maternity care; to share information with you so that you and your loved ones can make more informed choices; to show the hospital staff what individualized, respectful and evidence-based care looks and feels like. To share with everyone (myself included) what is possible in birth.