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Sunday, September 02, 2007The Beautiful Birthing of Molly RebekahLabor began a little after seven in the evening. Having gone through two (count 'em -- two) rounds of Ha-Ha-This-Isn't-Really-Labor in the past six days, I chose to give the contractions as little attention as possible. Ah, these were different, though. They demanded some attention. Even as Eric and I hunkered down to watch Chocolat, the contractions continued to come, every ten to fifteen minutes or so. And I couldn't ignore them. They made me concentrate, demanded that I breath deeply and close my eyes. Anything that causes me to close my eyes when Johnny Depp is on the screen has got to be serious. By the time the movie was over, Eric was ready to pack the car. Not me, though. I'd been burned twice; I wasn't going to be fooled a third time. Call it denial; call it Fear of Looking Stupid. But I was insistent that we hang out and time a few contractions. They were still Serious Contractions. Naturally, nothing about me is ever going to be "text book." The contractions were still coming only ten minutes apart, but they were long and strong -- sometimes a minute and a half and NOT feeling too fun. Nothing in the This Is Your Labor charts talks about really strong contractions that aren't coming close together. (And the Lord's gentle voice whispers, "Stop trying to fit into a chart. Trust Me.") And so we called our doula, packed the van, woke the children to let them quietly know that This Was It. As if on cue, the contractions began to pile up on one another, even as I made my way down the stairs and into the garage. By the time our starlit drive had taken us to the hospital, I was fairly convinced that I had entered transition. Transition is not fun as one is wandering across parking garages and through meandering hospital corridors. But my dearest Eric, my beloved Birth Coach and Love of My Life, was with me with every heartbeat. Even as I hung upon his shoulder, pulled him toward the nearest bench, or breathed yet again, "Here comes another one," he was there. Unwaveringly, unhesitatingly, wonderfully There. My first words when I walked (yes, walked) into my private room were snarky: "Turn off that stupid T.V." (Well, I ask you -- who in their right mind would leave a television blaring for a laboring woman?) After a quick trip to the bathroom, I curled up gratefully on the bed as another contraction rushed over me. Briefly, I saw the smiling face and heard the greeting of my midwife Linda, who had just entered the room. "Hi, Sweetheart," I said to her, right before closing my eyes to breathe through the contraction. No, I've never called my midwife "Sweetheart" before. But she didn't seem to mind. After the contraction, Linda checked my progress. Heaven sang and my spirit soared when she announced, "Eight centimeters!" Yes! I was stoked. Things were moving rapidly. Nicole, my doula, arrived, and now my Birth Team was complete. Our assigned nurse was sensitive and attentive. The lights were dimmed, the nurse whispered, Nicole spoke soft words of encouragement and stroked my arm, Eric caressed my hair and loved me through every moment, Linda was an ever-present voice of support and a reminder that all was being orchestrated just fine. Except. I found, in the depths of my heart, that I was doubting myself. How could this be? I never had felt anything but confidence in the weeks and months leading up to Birth Day. Even in the midst of continual words of affirmation and praise from Eric and my Birth Team, each contraction brought with it a pain that I found myself hating, wanting to fight. I knew everything was going well; I knew I was staying physically relaxed and responding to my coach and my doula in a positive way. But a deep, inner part of me felt like the pain would break me any moment. I felt, briefly, as though I were failing. It was time to change my position. I'd been lying in a left-facing relaxation position, and thought perhaps it was time to switch sides. As soon as I'd switched, though, it didn't feel right. I knew instinctively -- somehow, in some primal way -- that it was time to open my legs. I feared not knowing what a sensation to push would feel like; feared I would miss it somehow. How could I know? I'd always been drugged, numbed, removed from my own body for my other births. An "urge to push" isn't something you can teach a woman, isn't something you can tell her about. She needs to experience it for herself -- to write her own story afterward. But it was never really an "urge to push" for me. It was more of an "urge to open my mouth and vocalize my way through the baby's exit." And so that is what I did, without really knowing what I was doing. I only knew that it was right because I could hear Nicole and Linda praising me. I had to trust that they understood better than I did what was going on. In the few moments of clarity before the baby emerged, I heard Linda giving Eric some instructions, and I knew that my precious husband was getting ready to catch his child. A wave came, I opened my mouth and "pushed" with my voice and tried to will myself to direct my energy downward. I didn't even know that Molly's head was already out by the time this wave had ended. I only knew tremendous pressure, only knew that I wasn't finished yet, only knew that I wanted to keep going so that it would be finished. My bag of waters, which had bulged its way forward, still fully intact, with the baby's head, burst in a magnificent explosion all over Eric's hands. Linda and Eric were both calling my name, and I finally listened. "You need to stop, or you're going to tear," Linda said. Stop? She had to be joking. But I stopped. I panted. Then I began again. Yet even at this eleventh hour, I felt suddenly as though I needed someone else to do this for me. This was so much bigger than me, so infinitely physical and mental and emotional all at once. And I tried to protest through my vocalizing. "Ahhhhhhh... I can't. Ahhhhhhhh... I'm tired. Ahhhhhhh....help me, I'm tired." No one paid my words any mind. They all knew that I could, and that I would, even if I, in those last few seconds, didn't quite believe it. And then Molly was born, and the ecstasy of release washed over me. Eric caught her, warm and slippery, and placed her on my belly. And the joy of her arrival superseded all. I had no tearing, no damage to my body. I was on my feet again in about half an hour, using the bathroom and getting dressed for our trip down the hallway to the nursery. I drank some orange juice and smiled for pictures and fell ever more deeply in love with my new daughter. Molly Rebekah Boehme. Molly: A pet form of "Mary," which comes from the Ancient Egyptian name "Mr," meaning BELOVED. Rebekah: From the Hebrew name "Rivkah," meaning CAPTIVATING, BEAUTIFUL. We were back home by 10:00 the same morning, greeted by "Welcome Home Molly" signs and a toilet-paper-bedecked foyer (hey, it's cheaper than crepe paper). And so we have become a family of seven, and life is sweet and precious in these early hours and days of Baby Molly's life. I am blessed and thankful and filled with the immeasurable joy that only a new child -- a new gift from God -- can bring. Thank you all for allowing me to share this joy with you.      Labels: baby, birth, family, pregnancy |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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