My Birth Story
The moment I discovered I was pregnant I felt that something magnificent was happening. My instincts sharpened, my intuition increased, and the sense of a different self took over. In many ways I felt that much of what I was experiencing was somehow enhanced and lifted by something Holy and extraordinary.
When I wasn't busy running my business, puking into the toilet, enjoying time with my partner or sunbathing, I was reading all I could about pregnancy and birth. I started with Ina May Gaskin's "Spiritual Midwifery", Frederick Leboyer's book "Birth Without Violence" and everything that Michel Odent had written to date, including "Birth Reborn" and "The Scientification of Love". I then moved on to read Robbie Davis-Floyd, Joan Raffael Leff and anything else that explored the culture and psychology of pregnancy and birth. In preference to pregnancy magazines I studied "Myles' Textbook for Midwives". This weighty tome clinched my burgeoning academic interests.
I was enthralled and delighted by what felt like a new discovery - the territory of birth. Within weeks of discovering I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to become a midwife. This realisation seemed inextricably linked with the love I had for my unborn baby.
I'd always had friends who had stories to tell about their positive birth experiences. I was after all living in a town famous for its homebirth rate. Having immersed myself in positive birth stories, I knew I didn't want a short labour. I wanted one long enough that I could savour. My hope was to experience labour and birth to the fullest extent possible, meaning that subsequently it would exist even deeper than just within the banks of memory. I wanted it to press so deeply into my being that its suchness would be kept forever alive in me. This wish was infused with added poignancy because I feared that if I were to forget my labour, I might be less of a midwife.
I was very fortunate to get the labour I wished for. I had a mostly blissful twenty seven hour labour that began with a few hours spent on my own, gazing at the night sky while my partner slept in bed following a marathon work session. I watched the moon rise and fall, while my uterus contracted and relaxed. It was like watching ripples appearing and disappearing on the surface of a pond.
As the sun rose, the world awakened and excitement dawned. I had a scrumptious breakfast with my well-rested partner, punctuated by sweeping contractions. I was glad I had left calling the midwife. I hadn't wanted to chance the attendance of an on-call midwife who I hadn't met before and in any case there just hadn't been the need to. I'd instead experienced what felt like one long moment. It had been ten hours of tranquil, alert solitude. When she arrived she said she'd never heard of a woman leaving it so long to call. I explained to her that my labour was going to be a long one, that there was no rush and that I knew my own body. I think she had me down as "one of those Glastonbury women".
She performed a vaginal examination. I could barely believe how excruciatingly painful this was, far more so than contractions which I found exhilarating and awesome. The news that I was five centimetres barely impacted compared to the pain of the examination and it took me quite some time to recover a sense of wellbeing.
I had called my mother who was on her way. For weeks she had her bags all packed for the 115 mile journey. While she clocked up the motorway miles I sank into a bath with essential oils, knowing that it would be the last time my undulating tummy would cause tidal waves. The sound of water and breathing echoed and merged into the silence and stillness that swallowed me.
As I dressed my relaxed body, with every contraction I felt a sense of happiness and acceptance. I wanted to tell all my friends I was in labour because the joy was too much to contain. It must have been the oxytocin. Though this hormone is regarded as the love hormone, it's also considered to be a shy hormone, making women want to potter around quietly and privately around the house doing last minute cleaning. I had a sense that I was rather an anomaly as I made phone calls and announcements to my friends. Those who were free came round with delicious treats and gifts. The feeling of love seemed to be enhanced by all those who visited.
When my initially flustered mother arrived, she joined in the gentle buzz and started to relax as well. She baked bread and then the three of us went for a walk through town and ended up having lunch out. Glastonbury High Street was no stranger to things such as women in labour. I attracted nothing but well-wishes from friends, acquaintances and passers by.
Back home I was happy to have my duo of lovely NHS midwives who took it in turns to come over for cups of tea every four hours and examine me. They were somewhat taken aback by the fact that my contractions tended to coincide with laughter and that I was so joyful. They hadn't enjoyed their labours they said. For their sake and mine (not wanting to portray the Glastonbury stereotype that I was so strongly averse to), I think I probably toned it down.
So far I'd had two vaginal examinations performed by two different midwives. The two performed by the first midwife were excruciatingly painful, far more so than contractions,. These had left me feeling shell-shocked, whereas the examinations done by the second (kinder) midwife felt no more than plain uncomfortable. Her subtle use of suggestion was effective. I'm glad to have first hand experience of just how agonising it can be to be examined in a rough way. The cervix is incredibly sensitive in labour and it is never permissible for a midwife to cause pain to a labouring woman.
Fourteen hours following on from my initial examination, my cervix was found to be mostly unchanged. My midwife recommended I transfer to hospital "just in case". I didn't question her opinion because I didn't want to risk my precious baby. After weeping in a way I'd never heard a human weep, my partner called the ambulance which arrived five minutes later. To my disbelief, the paramedics wouldn't allow me walk out of my flat and get into the vehicle independently, like my partner and mother. Suddenly fit and healthy me, was strapped down onto an ambulance trolley and whisked like quicksilver into the flashing vehicle. My perfect day was contrasted further by paramedics eager to engage me in small talk. I was concerned that I risked losing my focus, so at the peak of a contraction I told them, in no uncertain terms to be quiet.
Lying on ones back, going over speed bumps and hurtling around corners was not my preferred driving style when my uterus was contracting fairly frequently and intensely. My partner continued to be the best support I could have possibly imagined. For the full duration of the majority of contractions I'd had that day, I had looked into his eyes. It became all the more apparent that to connect in this way was now more motivated by a drive to survive circumstances, whereas previously it was about the opposite - dissolving into nothingness and letting go.
We all survived the journey and I was lifted out of the ambulance and put onto a wheelchair, even though I asserted that I was perfectly skilled at walking. Then I was sincerely riled the instant the wheels came to a stop inside the "Delivery Room". YUCK - the word "delivery" was far too provocative. I can explain why I dislike it and will likely never adopt this word into my midwifery vocabulary, but another time. It's true to say I prefer the word "birth".
My midwife was very nice except for the fact that I didn't like her. Even the fibres in my clothes felt wary of her. Given that I had been transferred to hospital from home she was obliged to perform certain clinical assessments. From an obstetric perspective, complications needed to be investigated and excluded. However, my experience was that I went from being a whole person to being related to as if I were a mere mass of bodily functions that were to be isolated, measured and documented about, like an object.
I metamorphosed into what the NHS term a "non-complient" patient who didn't take kindly to the midwife's request that I lie down in the hospital bed for twenty minutes to undergo ultrasonic monitoring of the fetal heart and contractions. Whatever she proposed sounded suspicious to my hyper-alert, survival-orientated self. Being the diplomatic, respectful type and not wishing to have a difficult night shift, she deftly negotiated with me for the bare minimum. After an initial assessment she tried her best to conciliate me by bringing me an enormous beanbag. In retrospect, I see it as a peace offering, but at the time I took it as an insult and viewed it as evidence that she thought I was one of those "alternative types".
Half an hour into our encounter with each other, she tentatively told me of my three options. None of them sounded at all appealing; however the least offensive option was to break the membrane bag with a hook to hopefully increase dilatation. I consented to this despite it sounding akin to vandalism. Though it was a painless procedure, warm tears trickled down my face simultaneously with the warm flow of amniotic fluid that trickled out from between my legs, forming a temporary pool. After a quick listen to baby's heart beat, between my tears I snapped at her to "get out". Fortunately my partner and mother were far nicer with her than I was.
Quite unexpectedly without any dignified build up I was catapulted into the fast lane by merciless contractions, the likes of which were beyond categorisation. This phase of labour transcended all known thresholds. God meant business and wasn't about to let me get in the way. It was as though these contractions were life itself. One by one the contractions devastated my resistance, sweeping away any remaining bits that might have chosen to retain the sense of individuality and self-concern. Gone was the character who had a name, an age, personal likes and dislikes, and absent was any identification with a personal philosophy of life - such ontologies were rendered entirely meaningless as every trace of a "me" was surpassed.
Meanwhile I gripped the top of the high bed frame. I had found the perfect position and was making sounds that only labouring women know how to make, sounds that even midwives find impossible to imitate. I often describe the experience as one where I was fully present without exception. Words like awesome and powerful come to mind, but not in the common meaning of the words. In the absence of all thought and surface emotions, my body simply acted as a vessel for an unstoppable force. This phase lasted about thirty five minutes.
Then suddenly something changed. My personality structure returned and rapidly jostled its way back to the helm where it could conduct and oversee the unfoldement of events. I then heard myself shouting to my partner and mother,
"Get that woman back in here NOW!"
The midwife promptly returned. I twisted around to make eye contact and bellowed,
"How many more contractions?"
She replied in a calm voice,
"I can see the top of your babies head. Maybe a dozen?"
I yelled back,
"No! Fewer!"
Now more than ever I wanted her to realise that I was in control. I had to reduce all possibility that she could misunderstand her own authority. The next words that came out of my mouth were,
"Tea! Tea! I need tea! Now! Get me TEA!"
I was experiencing the greatest tea deficiency ever known in the entire history of Creation. The urge to have tea in my body was something I couldn't have anticipated, particularly as I didn't even like tea.
Two contractions later tea arrived. I surprised myself again by barking,
"Sugar, I need sugar. Put sugar in it!"
Sugar had never been my thing - I'd reached the age of 26 and still hadn't bought a single bag of sugar. My forbearing mother poured the tea, added milk and an inordinate amount of sugar to the mixture and cooled it down with water so I could drink it without delay. Between contractions I resourcefully drained cup after cup of sweet tea with all the manners and poise of a buffalo. Thanks to caffeine and sugar I now had the strength of a buffalo, one convinced beyond all doubt that nothing on Earth could stand in its way.
I then ripped my watch from my wrist and threw it in the general direction of my mother as I roared,
"Get the time! You have to write the time down! Don't look at the clock on the wall! Get the time from my watch! Please record the time!"
I became super vigilant and attentive to every minor detail, including the passing of time.
Then to my disgust, my mother and the midwife started chatting,
Mother: "I remember this bit - there's nothing like it..."
Midwife: "Yes..."
My unearthly voice ripped into their conversation,
"Stop talking about your own experiences! Don't talk about the past! I need you to be in the present! Are you supporting me or not?"
My mother apologised with absolute stoicism. I felt so sure that I had wanted her presence during the unique event of labour and birth. She had had two traumatic labours. The complicated birth of my brother saw him immediately whisked away to neonatal intensive care to undergo emergency treatment for meconium aspiration. He had lain in an incubator for a heart-rending few days on life-support and it had looked like he possibly wasn't going to live. Then with me she had undergone the full works: induction, syntocinon drip, pethidine, epidural and finally forceps. She suffered what we now call post traumatic stress disorder which progressed into postnatal depression. It was compounded further by a heartbreaking lack of support from her husband, midwives and health visitors. Those who should have supported her actually undermined her confidence in so many cruel ways. I felt strongly that if she could be with me for my labour, doing so could resolve any residual pain and trauma surrounding the events of her two labours. Equally the love and trust I felt for her seemed essential ingredients that could importantly filter into my own labour experience. During my antenatal period she had expressed very honestly her misgivings about supporting me in labour. Nonetheless her overriding maternal commitment to fulfil her daughter wishes and needs was ultimately stronger.
Going by my clinical notes, ten minutes after the midwife re-entered the room I began making the a stange monosylabic humming sound, as if to focus my senses and provide me with a sense of coninuation. My next command was for my partner, mother and midwife to join with me in the making of this simple humming sound. I'm sure their ability to let go into the sound was hindered by fear for what might happen if they didn't at least try to hum along with me. Fortunately circumstances were exactly right for what was to happen next.
It was as if the Heavens fully opened. Without any reserve, concern, thought or attendance to anything other than itself, my body felt an irresistible urge to push - and push it did! After about three long exhilarating pushes accompanied by more jubilant yeses and spoken guidance from the midwife (whose main concern was to safeguard the integrity of my perineum), my baby was ejected out into the hands of the midwife.
Words fail to adequately express the one feeling I had which was an all encompassing blend of love, surprise, wonder, joy, relief and more. I instinctively scooped him up and introduced him to his two new best friends - my breasts. What a beautiful human being he was and how incredible it was to be seeing his body for the first time. My eyes widened to take in fully the phenomenon of his perfectly formed pink body and my ears sharpened to properly hear every sound wave of his pristine, never-before-heard cry. To be touching his warm body and to smell his heavenly scent, fresh from the hidden space within my own body was something I will never forget.
It's very common to hear people say that nature makes you forget birth, followed by the evolutionary rationale of why (mainly to not deter us from having more babies), but I never wanted to forget a second of my labour and birth. Unequivocally it was the most incredible experience of my life. I've had some real highlights in my life, but none that approach the extraordinary experience of labour and birth, particularly the last forty six minutes. If I could repeat any single day in my life, it would be the 27 hour long event of my son's birth. Within hours of his birth, the uncommon thought arose: if I could give birth on behalf of any woman not wishing to go through it herself, I would do so.
Giving birth was a rite of passage - one for which I will be grateful for the rest of my life. Rather than doing the impossible - giving birth for women, what I can offer is my consummate commitment to positively support women throughout the childbearing process, and to help it all go as smoothly and as safely as possible.
I'd like to add that a few weeks later, my partner, baby and I returned to the hospital with presents and a card for the midwife who had so kindly and expertly attended me. My message expressed my deep gratitude for her role in accompanying me as a steady force during my blockbuster roller coaster ride.
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The moment I discovered I was pregnant I felt that something magnificent was happening. My instincts sharpened, my intuition increased, and the sense of a different self took over. In many ways I felt that much of what I was experiencing was somehow enhanced and lifted by something Holy and extraordinary.
When I wasn't busy running my business, puking into the toilet, enjoying time with my partner or sunbathing, I was reading all I could about pregnancy and birth. I started with Ina May Gaskin's "Spiritual Midwifery", Frederick Leboyer's book "Birth Without Violence" and everything that Michel Odent had written to date, including "Birth Reborn" and "The Scientification of Love". I then moved on to read Robbie Davis-Floyd, Joan Raffael Leff and anything else that explored the culture and psychology of pregnancy and birth. In preference to pregnancy magazines I studied "Myles' Textbook for Midwives". This weighty tome clinched my burgeoning academic interests.
I was enthralled and delighted by what felt like a new discovery - the territory of birth. Within weeks of discovering I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to become a midwife. This realisation seemed inextricably linked with the love I had for my unborn baby.
I'd always had friends who had stories to tell about their positive birth experiences. I was after all living in a town famous for its homebirth rate. Having immersed myself in positive birth stories, I knew I didn't want a short labour. I wanted one long enough that I could savour. My hope was to experience labour and birth to the fullest extent possible, meaning that subsequently it would exist even deeper than just within the banks of memory. I wanted it to press so deeply into my being that its suchness would be kept forever alive in me. This wish was infused with added poignancy because I feared that if I were to forget my labour, I might be less of a midwife.
I was very fortunate to get the labour I wished for. I had a mostly blissful twenty seven hour labour that began with a few hours spent on my own, gazing at the night sky while my partner slept in bed following a marathon work session. I watched the moon rise and fall, while my uterus contracted and relaxed. It was like watching ripples appearing and disappearing on the surface of a pond.
As the sun rose, the world awakened and excitement dawned. I had a scrumptious breakfast with my well-rested partner, punctuated by sweeping contractions. I was glad I had left calling the midwife. I hadn't wanted to chance the attendance of an on-call midwife who I hadn't met before and in any case there just hadn't been the need to. I'd instead experienced what felt like one long moment. It had been ten hours of tranquil, alert solitude. When she arrived she said she'd never heard of a woman leaving it so long to call. I explained to her that my labour was going to be a long one, that there was no rush and that I knew my own body. I think she had me down as "one of those Glastonbury women".
She performed a vaginal examination. I could barely believe how excruciatingly painful this was, far more so than contractions which I found exhilarating and awesome. The news that I was five centimetres barely impacted compared to the pain of the examination and it took me quite some time to recover a sense of wellbeing.
I had called my mother who was on her way. For weeks she had her bags all packed for the 115 mile journey. While she clocked up the motorway miles I sank into a bath with essential oils, knowing that it would be the last time my undulating tummy would cause tidal waves. The sound of water and breathing echoed and merged into the silence and stillness that swallowed me.
As I dressed my relaxed body, with every contraction I felt a sense of happiness and acceptance. I wanted to tell all my friends I was in labour because the joy was too much to contain. It must have been the oxytocin. Though this hormone is regarded as the love hormone, it's also considered to be a shy hormone, making women want to potter around quietly and privately around the house doing last minute cleaning. I had a sense that I was rather an anomaly as I made phone calls and announcements to my friends. Those who were free came round with delicious treats and gifts. The feeling of love seemed to be enhanced by all those who visited.
When my initially flustered mother arrived, she joined in the gentle buzz and started to relax as well. She baked bread and then the three of us went for a walk through town and ended up having lunch out. Glastonbury High Street was no stranger to things such as women in labour. I attracted nothing but well-wishes from friends, acquaintances and passers by.
Back home I was happy to have my duo of lovely NHS midwives who took it in turns to come over for cups of tea every four hours and examine me. They were somewhat taken aback by the fact that my contractions tended to coincide with laughter and that I was so joyful. They hadn't enjoyed their labours they said. For their sake and mine (not wanting to portray the Glastonbury stereotype that I was so strongly averse to), I think I probably toned it down.
So far I'd had two vaginal examinations performed by two different midwives. The two performed by the first midwife were excruciatingly painful, far more so than contractions,. These had left me feeling shell-shocked, whereas the examinations done by the second (kinder) midwife felt no more than plain uncomfortable. Her subtle use of suggestion was effective. I'm glad to have first hand experience of just how agonising it can be to be examined in a rough way. The cervix is incredibly sensitive in labour and it is never permissible for a midwife to cause pain to a labouring woman.
Fourteen hours following on from my initial examination, my cervix was found to be mostly unchanged. My midwife recommended I transfer to hospital "just in case". I didn't question her opinion because I didn't want to risk my precious baby. After weeping in a way I'd never heard a human weep, my partner called the ambulance which arrived five minutes later. To my disbelief, the paramedics wouldn't allow me walk out of my flat and get into the vehicle independently, like my partner and mother. Suddenly fit and healthy me, was strapped down onto an ambulance trolley and whisked like quicksilver into the flashing vehicle. My perfect day was contrasted further by paramedics eager to engage me in small talk. I was concerned that I risked losing my focus, so at the peak of a contraction I told them, in no uncertain terms to be quiet.
Lying on ones back, going over speed bumps and hurtling around corners was not my preferred driving style when my uterus was contracting fairly frequently and intensely. My partner continued to be the best support I could have possibly imagined. For the full duration of the majority of contractions I'd had that day, I had looked into his eyes. It became all the more apparent that to connect in this way was now more motivated by a drive to survive circumstances, whereas previously it was about the opposite - dissolving into nothingness and letting go.
We all survived the journey and I was lifted out of the ambulance and put onto a wheelchair, even though I asserted that I was perfectly skilled at walking. Then I was sincerely riled the instant the wheels came to a stop inside the "Delivery Room". YUCK - the word "delivery" was far too provocative. I can explain why I dislike it and will likely never adopt this word into my midwifery vocabulary, but another time. It's true to say I prefer the word "birth".
My midwife was very nice except for the fact that I didn't like her. Even the fibres in my clothes felt wary of her. Given that I had been transferred to hospital from home she was obliged to perform certain clinical assessments. From an obstetric perspective, complications needed to be investigated and excluded. However, my experience was that I went from being a whole person to being related to as if I were a mere mass of bodily functions that were to be isolated, measured and documented about, like an object.
I metamorphosed into what the NHS term a "non-complient" patient who didn't take kindly to the midwife's request that I lie down in the hospital bed for twenty minutes to undergo ultrasonic monitoring of the fetal heart and contractions. Whatever she proposed sounded suspicious to my hyper-alert, survival-orientated self. Being the diplomatic, respectful type and not wishing to have a difficult night shift, she deftly negotiated with me for the bare minimum. After an initial assessment she tried her best to conciliate me by bringing me an enormous beanbag. In retrospect, I see it as a peace offering, but at the time I took it as an insult and viewed it as evidence that she thought I was one of those "alternative types".
Half an hour into our encounter with each other, she tentatively told me of my three options. None of them sounded at all appealing; however the least offensive option was to break the membrane bag with a hook to hopefully increase dilatation. I consented to this despite it sounding akin to vandalism. Though it was a painless procedure, warm tears trickled down my face simultaneously with the warm flow of amniotic fluid that trickled out from between my legs, forming a temporary pool. After a quick listen to baby's heart beat, between my tears I snapped at her to "get out". Fortunately my partner and mother were far nicer with her than I was.
Quite unexpectedly without any dignified build up I was catapulted into the fast lane by merciless contractions, the likes of which were beyond categorisation. This phase of labour transcended all known thresholds. God meant business and wasn't about to let me get in the way. It was as though these contractions were life itself. One by one the contractions devastated my resistance, sweeping away any remaining bits that might have chosen to retain the sense of individuality and self-concern. Gone was the character who had a name, an age, personal likes and dislikes, and absent was any identification with a personal philosophy of life - such ontologies were rendered entirely meaningless as every trace of a "me" was surpassed.
Meanwhile I gripped the top of the high bed frame. I had found the perfect position and was making sounds that only labouring women know how to make, sounds that even midwives find impossible to imitate. I often describe the experience as one where I was fully present without exception. Words like awesome and powerful come to mind, but not in the common meaning of the words. In the absence of all thought and surface emotions, my body simply acted as a vessel for an unstoppable force. This phase lasted about thirty five minutes.
Then suddenly something changed. My personality structure returned and rapidly jostled its way back to the helm where it could conduct and oversee the unfoldement of events. I then heard myself shouting to my partner and mother,
"Get that woman back in here NOW!"
The midwife promptly returned. I twisted around to make eye contact and bellowed,
"How many more contractions?"
She replied in a calm voice,
"I can see the top of your babies head. Maybe a dozen?"
I yelled back,
"No! Fewer!"
Now more than ever I wanted her to realise that I was in control. I had to reduce all possibility that she could misunderstand her own authority. The next words that came out of my mouth were,
"Tea! Tea! I need tea! Now! Get me TEA!"
I was experiencing the greatest tea deficiency ever known in the entire history of Creation. The urge to have tea in my body was something I couldn't have anticipated, particularly as I didn't even like tea.
Two contractions later tea arrived. I surprised myself again by barking,
"Sugar, I need sugar. Put sugar in it!"
Sugar had never been my thing - I'd reached the age of 26 and still hadn't bought a single bag of sugar. My forbearing mother poured the tea, added milk and an inordinate amount of sugar to the mixture and cooled it down with water so I could drink it without delay. Between contractions I resourcefully drained cup after cup of sweet tea with all the manners and poise of a buffalo. Thanks to caffeine and sugar I now had the strength of a buffalo, one convinced beyond all doubt that nothing on Earth could stand in its way.
I then ripped my watch from my wrist and threw it in the general direction of my mother as I roared,
"Get the time! You have to write the time down! Don't look at the clock on the wall! Get the time from my watch! Please record the time!"
I became super vigilant and attentive to every minor detail, including the passing of time.
Then to my disgust, my mother and the midwife started chatting,
Mother: "I remember this bit - there's nothing like it..."
Midwife: "Yes..."
My unearthly voice ripped into their conversation,
"Stop talking about your own experiences! Don't talk about the past! I need you to be in the present! Are you supporting me or not?"
My mother apologised with absolute stoicism. I felt so sure that I had wanted her presence during the unique event of labour and birth. She had had two traumatic labours. The complicated birth of my brother saw him immediately whisked away to neonatal intensive care to undergo emergency treatment for meconium aspiration. He had lain in an incubator for a heart-rending few days on life-support and it had looked like he possibly wasn't going to live. Then with me she had undergone the full works: induction, syntocinon drip, pethidine, epidural and finally forceps. She suffered what we now call post traumatic stress disorder which progressed into postnatal depression. It was compounded further by a heartbreaking lack of support from her husband, midwives and health visitors. Those who should have supported her actually undermined her confidence in so many cruel ways. I felt strongly that if she could be with me for my labour, doing so could resolve any residual pain and trauma surrounding the events of her two labours. Equally the love and trust I felt for her seemed essential ingredients that could importantly filter into my own labour experience. During my antenatal period she had expressed very honestly her misgivings about supporting me in labour. Nonetheless her overriding maternal commitment to fulfil her daughter wishes and needs was ultimately stronger.
Going by my clinical notes, ten minutes after the midwife re-entered the room I began making the a stange monosylabic humming sound, as if to focus my senses and provide me with a sense of coninuation. My next command was for my partner, mother and midwife to join with me in the making of this simple humming sound. I'm sure their ability to let go into the sound was hindered by fear for what might happen if they didn't at least try to hum along with me. Fortunately circumstances were exactly right for what was to happen next.
It was as if the Heavens fully opened. Without any reserve, concern, thought or attendance to anything other than itself, my body felt an irresistible urge to push - and push it did! After about three long exhilarating pushes accompanied by more jubilant yeses and spoken guidance from the midwife (whose main concern was to safeguard the integrity of my perineum), my baby was ejected out into the hands of the midwife.
Words fail to adequately express the one feeling I had which was an all encompassing blend of love, surprise, wonder, joy, relief and more. I instinctively scooped him up and introduced him to his two new best friends - my breasts. What a beautiful human being he was and how incredible it was to be seeing his body for the first time. My eyes widened to take in fully the phenomenon of his perfectly formed pink body and my ears sharpened to properly hear every sound wave of his pristine, never-before-heard cry. To be touching his warm body and to smell his heavenly scent, fresh from the hidden space within my own body was something I will never forget.
It's very common to hear people say that nature makes you forget birth, followed by the evolutionary rationale of why (mainly to not deter us from having more babies), but I never wanted to forget a second of my labour and birth. Unequivocally it was the most incredible experience of my life. I've had some real highlights in my life, but none that approach the extraordinary experience of labour and birth, particularly the last forty six minutes. If I could repeat any single day in my life, it would be the 27 hour long event of my son's birth. Within hours of his birth, the uncommon thought arose: if I could give birth on behalf of any woman not wishing to go through it herself, I would do so.
Giving birth was a rite of passage - one for which I will be grateful for the rest of my life. Rather than doing the impossible - giving birth for women, what I can offer is my consummate commitment to positively support women throughout the childbearing process, and to help it all go as smoothly and as safely as possible.
I'd like to add that a few weeks later, my partner, baby and I returned to the hospital with presents and a card for the midwife who had so kindly and expertly attended me. My message expressed my deep gratitude for her role in accompanying me as a steady force during my blockbuster roller coaster ride.
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Click here for Testimonials
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