photo by my doula, Dianne Hamre
I’m too tired. Too tired. It’s been almost 30 hours. In the tub, out of the tub . . . someone is squeezing a honey straw into my mouth to bring my blood sugar up. “Okay, I want you to look at yourself in the mirror so you can see how you’re pushing,” the midwife says. “I don’t want to look,” I reply. “Just look so you can visualize the push,” she replies. “EEEErrrghhhhhhhhhhhh . . . . okay. Okay, I see . . .”
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Months earlier, before I even had known I was pregnant, I'd watched “The Business of Being Born,” and it completely changed my philosophy on childbirth. At the time, I was a 36-year-old chickadee with no plans of becoming a mom, but I felt quite enlightened by the documentary. Fast forward a couple months, and I found myself pregnant by chance, confirmed first by at least three different brands of pregnancy tests and then by my regular OB/GYN. And I knew quickly my regular doctor just wasn’t the right choice for this new experience.
As soon as I walked into Babymoon Inn, I felt at home. I was scared. Scared of pregnancy, scared of not being able to afford having the sort of birth experience I wanted, scared of being pregnant on my own. Every person I met at Babymoon during that tour let me know that I was welcome and that I had a community of like-minded and loving women to assist me on my journey. I was never "alone." Amey, my birth assistant, and Dianne, my doula, became two women upon whom I came to rely and trust so completely, they will always be in my heart. I replaced fear with hope.
I walked on my journey. A lot. I ran for a while, and when I couldn’t run, I walked. And prayed. I walked through my anxious two hospital visits during the summer. I walked through week 40. And almost through week 41. Almost 500 miles, in total. On Thursday in late September, I walked my two miles that morning, and then went to teach a full day of art to my high school students. Late that night, my “pretend” contractions started to feel intense. I still thought that I’d go teach that morning, but when morning came, I called my mom. I told her, “Don’t worry. Don’t even bother taking off school, but I didn’t sleep much last night, so I’m going to stay home.” She came to me anyway, sensing something that I was still denying.
And again, we walked. Except that now the contractions stopped me in my tracks. We looked at the houses in my neighborhood and daydreamed about fixing up historical homes. I was having double contractions . . . one short followed by one long and intense. When, later in the afternoon (over 12 hours into labor), I called Dianne, she told me those contractions sounded like the head was placed in such a way that I needed to do some exercises to try and readjust.
Dianne arrived at my home and provided comfort and massage and guidance until it was time to go. We arrived at Babymoon around 9 pm on Friday, and I slipped into a warm tub. My mom poured water over me, and family arrived and visited as I labored. The water became cool, and no progress. I kept trying to pee, but nothing. I’ve always had a shy bladder, but this was not the time for my bladder to be introverted. Eventually, a catheter was used to take some of the pressure off, and after hours of no progress, the release of all that pee became the event (along with an “OMG YIKES”--plus a few other choice words--shifting of my cervix by the midwife) that finally started my forward progress.
The strange amnesia that happened to me afterward is fascinating. I have Dianne’s beautiful story that she wrote after I gave birth, so, thankfully, I have facts. And she took amazing photos, so that guides my memory, too. But what I remember, I remember in little fleeting images and sound clips. There are blank spaces in between. My mom pouring water on my back. Feeling so thankful for her presence. Dianne providing words of comfort and strength. Wanting music. Wanting silence. Tears. Smiles. Growling. Whimpering. Throwing up. A lot. (Seriously. That was the biggest surprise for me during labor.) Not wanting to see my baby’s head. Wanting to feel and guide her out of me. But always, always, always, being aware that I had made these choices. I had decided to own this process. And in that ownership came strength. The strength of women. Surrounded by women, by family, held by my mother, and then, becoming a mother.
As soon as I walked into Babymoon Inn, I felt at home. I was scared. Scared of pregnancy, scared of not being able to afford having the sort of birth experience I wanted, scared of being pregnant on my own. Every person I met at Babymoon during that tour let me know that I was welcome and that I had a community of like-minded and loving women to assist me on my journey. I was never "alone." Amey, my birth assistant, and Dianne, my doula, became two women upon whom I came to rely and trust so completely, they will always be in my heart. I replaced fear with hope.
I walked on my journey. A lot. I ran for a while, and when I couldn’t run, I walked. And prayed. I walked through my anxious two hospital visits during the summer. I walked through week 40. And almost through week 41. Almost 500 miles, in total. On Thursday in late September, I walked my two miles that morning, and then went to teach a full day of art to my high school students. Late that night, my “pretend” contractions started to feel intense. I still thought that I’d go teach that morning, but when morning came, I called my mom. I told her, “Don’t worry. Don’t even bother taking off school, but I didn’t sleep much last night, so I’m going to stay home.” She came to me anyway, sensing something that I was still denying.
And again, we walked. Except that now the contractions stopped me in my tracks. We looked at the houses in my neighborhood and daydreamed about fixing up historical homes. I was having double contractions . . . one short followed by one long and intense. When, later in the afternoon (over 12 hours into labor), I called Dianne, she told me those contractions sounded like the head was placed in such a way that I needed to do some exercises to try and readjust.
Dianne arrived at my home and provided comfort and massage and guidance until it was time to go. We arrived at Babymoon around 9 pm on Friday, and I slipped into a warm tub. My mom poured water over me, and family arrived and visited as I labored. The water became cool, and no progress. I kept trying to pee, but nothing. I’ve always had a shy bladder, but this was not the time for my bladder to be introverted. Eventually, a catheter was used to take some of the pressure off, and after hours of no progress, the release of all that pee became the event (along with an “OMG YIKES”--plus a few other choice words--shifting of my cervix by the midwife) that finally started my forward progress.
The strange amnesia that happened to me afterward is fascinating. I have Dianne’s beautiful story that she wrote after I gave birth, so, thankfully, I have facts. And she took amazing photos, so that guides my memory, too. But what I remember, I remember in little fleeting images and sound clips. There are blank spaces in between. My mom pouring water on my back. Feeling so thankful for her presence. Dianne providing words of comfort and strength. Wanting music. Wanting silence. Tears. Smiles. Growling. Whimpering. Throwing up. A lot. (Seriously. That was the biggest surprise for me during labor.) Not wanting to see my baby’s head. Wanting to feel and guide her out of me. But always, always, always, being aware that I had made these choices. I had decided to own this process. And in that ownership came strength. The strength of women. Surrounded by women, by family, held by my mother, and then, becoming a mother.
My darling, you, Hazel Mae, were born, in the bathtub at Babymoon Inn, at 4:05 on Saturday morning, September 29th. You looked straight at me from the moment you were born, your eyes holding a wisdom that seemed so deep for one so freshly new to the earth. I sometimes sing to you, “Little Miss Hazel Mae, born on a September day, under the harvest moon.” As soon as I held you, my artist self knew, “Here, here is my greatest work of art.”
