Welcome to the Planet

the birth of Hero

Hero Leya Gentle
8 lbs. 9 oz.
Born Nov. 18, 2008
8:47 a.m. after 9 hours of labor

John has been talking for several blocks now and I can’t seem to follow what he’s saying. Computers or iphones or something. The night is cold and calm on our usual late-night walk, and I feel content except for this heavy sensation in my lower belly that I can’t ignore.

“Are you ok? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine. It just feels like there’s a bowling ball in my belly button.”

Earlier in the day I had been really stressed since we were going on ten days overdue and our midwife recommended a sonogram for the next day. I could feel myself gradually losing trust in my body which gave way to new, irrational fears. With the advice from my hypnobirthing instructor, I lay on the bed that evening and meditated while John read to me a fear release script, where you imagine floating in a hot air balloon and dropping weights that represent your fears over the edge of the basket so you can float higher. He also read aloud many birth affirmations, over and over, until his voice became a soothing, dream-like echo in my head while I rested. Afterwards, on our walk, I feel both renewed and relieved, like I am finally able to breathe fully, with trust and acceptance, and relax. But as we near our house, my walking becomes slower and more deliberate because of the strange pressure between my legs.

Back at home, I ask John to Google sacrum acupressure points because I’ve heard that it comes in handy during labor. I lay on the bed because my belly is cramping up and suddenly I begin to feel feverish and sick. I get up and sit on the toilet and feel the pressure in my pelvic region increasing while waves of nausea come over me a few times. After evacuating my bowels rather quickly, I go back to the bedroom and sit on the birth ball, rotating my hips around and feeling very much unsettled. John, who seems unaware of how uneasy I feel, wants to try some labor-inducing acupressure points on my back that he just got finished reading about, and I don’t object at first, but find it incredibly distracting and unnerving and eventually tell him to stop. I am shivering, and I’m not sure if it’s because I am cold or nervous. I go back into the bathroom and it isn’t long before the pressure in my belly builds and builds until I double over in the repetitive intensity of contractions.

There is a heavy, burning sensation in the core of my body, and I can feel it summon me to a different consciousness, a state of surreality, and it reminds me of what it feels like to gradually slip into an acid or psilocybin mushroom trip. My vision becomes clouded with a layer of beautiful silver static and I am aware of a continuous, powerful sound in the distance—like a rushing wind or water—surrounding me, circling me. I never once think, I am in labor; rather, I am mindful of the fact that I’m about to embark on a spiritual journey, one that will pull and stretch all my physical senses and emotional energies to their absolute limits. I have no idea what to expect; all the labor books and birth stories I had read in the recent past seem far-away and fictional compared to the profundity of what I am now feeling.

I ask John to bring the furry rug into the bathroom because I want to be on the floor, grounded and secure, and I want to stay contained in a small, private space. I also tell him I need to be alone. I wasn’t expecting this much intensity so quickly and I need some time to focus and prepare my mind. I instinctively get down on all fours and rock slowly as a wave of piercing pressure uncoils from deep in my pelvis and rises, slowly and steadily, to the top of my belly. As the wave rises, my voice rises, and I sigh a lengthy, primordial moan that gets louder as the wave reaches its crest of intensity. My hands and knees press into the carpet when I reach the pinnacle of the wave. For a moment I fear there might be a danger of spiraling uncontrollably off the planet from the intensity of the contraction if I don’t stay planted on the floor, so my fingers dig into the softness of the rug as the wave twists in its magnificent climax, then eases down, down, down my belly, gradually fading in strength.

I find that vocalizing during the waves serves a three-fold purpose; it keeps my jaw relaxed, it keeps my breath steady, and the vibrations of my voice seem to function as the bridge of awareness between reality and this altered state of consciousness; that is to say, I remember where I am and who I am when I hear the steady hum of my own voice.

After the wave has past, I let my body go limp. I just want to go to sleep. I want to go to sleep. This would be my bedtime any other night. There is so much continual pressure in my pelvis now that it’s impossible to consider anything else. I am somewhat surprised that the sensation of the contractions is manageable and not painful, but the discomfort of all the pressure on my lower regions is very distracting. I change positions on the floor, but every position is uncomfortable, and I become agitated. Then I realize that another wave will be coming soon, and that I need to save my energy and try not to focus on the discomfort. I breathe deeply and smell the lavender/neroli oil that John set burning on the bathroom counter and it instantly relaxes me, just in time for another wave that is beginning to stir in my abdomen.

Over and over the waves come and I ride them, mentally transcending a little bit higher with each one and becoming less aware of my surroundings. I am on a roller coaster, a boat on a stormy ocean, a looping spacecraft; I am turning somersaults in water, climbing a cliff, riding a tornado; my eyes are closed and I am a part of all these things, but I rest in periods of meditative respite in between the adventures. At some point I move to the shower as I am aware of increasing pain in my lower back with each wave. The hot water is absolute heaven on my back, and I stay bent over under the pelting shower through several more cycles, breathing in the soothing steam. Suddenly my body feels hot and nauseous, so I get out and waddle to the doorway, taking in a large breath of air before I speak.

“I need something to wear.” There’s no way I can go into the closet and sort through clothes.

John is eager to help, and through my hazy senses, I can see that he has already created a soothing atmosphere for me in the bedroom with candles and soft, droning music. I want to hug him just for being here, for being available, and for having such a calming presence, but all I can do is peek out from a pair of extremely heavy eyelids and lean on the closet doorway. I realize at this point that my ability to communicate words has become quite a challenge.

“What would you like to wear?”

Deep inhale. “My black tank top.”

I bend over slightly as I feel another wave coming, and it is fiercely clenching my lower back as it rises. It occurs to me that I probably have four or five black tank tops hanging up in the closet, and that John surely has no idea which one I’m thinking about. I want to wear the loose rayon one with the embroidery at the top, the long one that’s actually a dress. Bracing myself in the doorway, I shut my eyes and groan until the wave subsides and the pain in my lower back disappears. I look up at John groggily and he is holding the exact black tank top I want. What a perfect darling.

He helps me into the dress and I resume my hands-and-knees position on the rug in the bathroom, rocking forward, sitting up, and rocking forward again. I follow my body’s lead, and realize that I am literally bowing down and surrendering before something greater than myself—a supreme force of nature that is guiding me through an age-old ritual experienced by humans and animals alike, and I am discovering an innate female strength I never knew I had.

John is in the doorway and I say something about videotaping this. My voice sounds distant and distorted to me, and I hope he hears me because I know I won’t be able to repeat myself. I face the floor again, swaying on my hands and knees as I am slowly engulfed by the invisible force that creeps up my body and wrings out the center of my being like a wet towel. I hear John standing above me, apparently with the video camera, beginning to narrate what is happening, and I snap at him, “Don’t talk!” as powerful moans escape from my lungs, relieving the sharp climax of the wave.

During one of the resting phases, John hands me the phone to talk to the midwife Julia. I’m slightly annoyed because there isn’t much more I can tell her than the information John has already relayed, and I feel the need to concentrate on the sensations in my body. “Yes, I am having contractions. Yes, they are strong.” I toss the phone toward John as I become submerged under another wave. No, I can’t talk anymore.

I feel confident enough to venture into the bedroom after a few more waves. I hear John say that they are three minutes apart, sometimes two, but to me time doesn’t make much sense and I ask him to hide the digital clock on the bedside table. I crawl up onto the bed and feel comforted by the familiarity of the bedspread and feeling John next to me. I don’t want to be alone anymore; in fact, I fear being alone. The waves are increasing even more in intensity and every time one begins, John presses his palms into my sacrum, providing incredible relief. I feel stable and grounded when his hands are there. When a wave begins to gather energy and his hands are not there, however, I am momentarily frantic until I feel his weight bearing down on the back of my pelvis.

I am barely aware of the midwives, Julia and Nina, arriving because I am bent over the bed, violently puking into a trash can. In between retches I look up and see Julia’s calm face which assures me that my body is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do. The nausea passes and she asks me if she could check my cervix to see if it is time to fill up the birth pool.

“Will it hurt?”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Okay, but I don’t want to know the number.” Numbers confuse me right now.

I am so focused on the intensity of the wave that grips me suddenly that I don’t even feel her checking me, but I am aware of her motioning to Nina to fill the pool. Oh, how I want to get in the water. Please hurry. I am deep in a kaleidoscopic trance now, crying out louder and louder during the peaks of the waves, hearing only the rumbles of my voice which is now exploring new pitches, grunts, and gravelly vibrations I’ve never heard it make before. Besides John periodically handing me water or Gatorade to sip through a straw, I’m aware of nothing in reality, including a sense of time, and all I feel are the swells of back-breaking fury that seem to be continuous, with no breaks or rests.

Now I’m being led into the water and my belly is submerged, becoming fantastically weightless, and most of the pressure in my pelvis dissipates. I can breathe deeply again. I turn and hug John over the edge of the pool while another wave floods over me and I feel my eyes roll back in its immense power. My voice quiets to a hum.

“Can I just go to sleep when this is all over? I’m so tired.”

John says, “Of course,” and holds me tightly.

I manage to doze in between contractions, but I awake having hot flashes during the peaks of the waves. The water feels too hot on my skin and I get out of the pool in a slight frenzy, feeling extremely feverish. I climb back on the bed, wet and naked, and Nina places ice-cold washcloths on my forehead and neck as I moan and wail through more exhausting waves.

Julia, who has been off to the side of the room quietly watching and listening to me, tells me I should try to bear down and push with the next contraction. I agree to do so because it must mean it is time for the baby to descend, but I’m confused because I don’t feel an urge to push. As the next wave reaches its exquisite height, I claw into the bed, tighten my stomach, and bear down. It feels tiring and useless, but I continue doing this throughout several waves, screaming as I do so. I push down with all my might, with every bit of energy I have inside of me. After each exhausting effort, I look up at Julia for some kind of positive news, but I already know that the baby hasn’t budged. Julia confirms this when she checks my cervix and explains to me that the baby’s head has not passed through yet because there is a small portion, a cervical lip, that has yet to dilate. I realize that all those efforts, all that pushing energy, all that strength, was totally wasted, and I am angry—no, I am completely enraged—that I listened to my midwife rather than my body.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

Another wave comes upon me with so much force that I keel over and grab onto John’s shoulders, shaking him, digging my nails into his skin. I have lost control. The pressure in my crotch hurts. My arms hurt. My belly hurts. Each breath hurts and I wish for an escape. I want out. My mind spirals toward the edge of what I know as sanity and I feel more primal and animalistic than ever. The waves become tidal in size and strength and I roar through them and sob when they are over, even though I can’t produce any tears. Julia decides it is best to break my bag of waters, for this should surely encourage the baby’s head to descend down the birth canal. She does so quickly and I feel hot liquid stream down my legs, and Nina feeds me spoonfuls of warm honey.

Something hits me square in the back—a tangible force of energy—and suddenly my body succumbs to a series of involuntary pushing spasms that start at the top of my belly and work their way downward. The writhing forces are so strong it makes me gag. This scares me at first, but then I realize that my body is doing all the pushing for me if only I surrender to it. I must allow my body to take over, and this is a huge mental challenge, for I have already allowed fear to overtake my mind. I sense the baby moving downward. Relax and let it happen. Julia checks the baby’s heartbeat frequently with a doppler, and every time she says, “What a happy baby.”

I try many different positions, including one where John and I are sitting feet-to-feet and pulling a rope between us, as the baby makes her way down the birth path and crowns. I reach down and feel the head bulging between my legs. Grunting and growling as I ride the waves, I feel an astounding burn in my groin every time I release my fears and relax my lower body. Total surrender to this force of nature is difficult for me, though, and I find my mind racing with fear as the baby’s head moves further outward and the pressure becomes so great I think my very soul might split in two.

“You’re stretching just fine,” Julia assures me as she places hot compresses on my perineum.

“I’m afraid my butt will fall out,” I say breathlessly, even though I know it doesn’t make much sense.

I am on the bed, and John is perched next to me, holding my leg down because my muscles are so overused that I am losing conscious control of them. A ferocious wave comes and I am not riding it; rather, the wave is sweeping me away and I scream out of desperation and defeat. I know that I am so close to the end, but I can’t seem to collect enough strength and confidence to allow my body to push uninhibited. The pain of the wave subsides and there is silence, and for the first time since labor began I feel fully present in the room and notice the glow of the early morning sun filter through the purple tapestry in the window. Nina comes to the other side of the bed and strokes my face, speaking to me softly. She tells me what a strong woman I am. She tells me there’s no reason to be afraid. Her voice is ethereal and sooths my mind and I feel peace glowing around me like the light from the window.

I close my eyes and breathe, focusing on my brow chakra as next wave gathers its power. I feel drunk with tranquility as I rise, rise, rise with the wave, and release a victory howl as I reach the height of it. I completely let go and my body involuntarily pushes the baby’s head past the burning opening, and I feel a glorious release as her entire body ejects out of me in a magnificent explosion. I catch my breath and open my eyes and she is on my chest, wet and pink-skinned and wide-eyed. It’s you—my baby! She blinks and we stare at each other in disbelief that we made it; we actually made it. My baby Hero! You’re finally here! She must feel the peace in the room because she doesn’t cry; she just breathes deeply and sputters her mouth a little and stares at me. Now there is no pain, only indescribable joy and I look up at John and we are both crying. We made it.

She feeds from the breast immediately, and as I snuggle up to John and our perfect baby, I feel superhuman, like I have succeeded and past a major initiation, a soul-ripping feat, and the reward is grander than I ever could have imagined. I almost forget about the placenta that is still inside of me until Julia mentions that it has been half an hour since Hero was born. John cuts the cord with Nina’s assistance and Julia asks me to try pushing to encourage the placenta to descend. I feel no contractions at all, though, and pushing seems futile. I wasn’t expecting the delivery of the placenta to be difficult or complicated. Just push a little, it plops in a bowl, and then you make me a placenta smoothie, right? But as time passes and my uterus refuses to contract and let go of the organ, I begin to worry. I don’t want Hero to leave my side, but I hand her to John so I can focus on finishing this birth.

After some time of ineffectual pushing, Julia suggests that she give me a shot of Pitocin to trigger contractions. Suddenly I remember the portion of labor where I was frightened and agonizing with the pain of contractions. She assures me that these afterbirth contractions will be nothing like that, so I roll to my side and she inserts a needle into my thigh.

“It burns like a mutherfucker.” This is the first time I’ve cursed since labor began. My body feels extremely sensitive and fragile, and I really don’t want to be touched.

John takes Hero downstairs to show her off to the grandparents. I want to be down there with them. I want to clean myself up and hold my baby. I want to look at her eyes and that little mess of black hair on her head. More time passes, and my uterus remains in its relaxed state. The idea of pushing seems foreign to me now. Julia suggests that I try to pee because a full bladder can hinder the release of the placenta. So I put a few drops of peppermint oil into the toilet and sit there for a long time, squirting warm water between my legs with a peri bottle and wondering why the act of peeing seems so foreign to me too.

Julia says she’d like to try another drug, Misoprostol, to induce contractions, but that she would have to insert the pills into my butt. I think she’s kidding at first, but I eventually relent because I want to try everything I possibly can before transferring to the hospital, so I get on my knees and lean over the side of the bathtub. I really don’t want to be touched right now. I let the curses fly freely as I try to ignore the discomfort. Nina hands me some orange juice out of sympathy.

“That’s one,” Julia says. There are three pills. Of course.

Time passes slowly and still no contractions. Julia is concerned now. She asks me to try to pee again or I will need to consider a catheter. So I take a hot shower because surely that should work—I pee in the shower all the time, after all. I stand with my head down and shoulders relaxed under the steaming water and stare at the blueish-white cord that hangs limply between my legs, nearly reaching my knees. There is a mangle of blood and tissue at the top of it, and I touch it curiously, feeling like I’m in a strange lucid dream. I push on my baby-less belly and it feels oddly soft and empty. I imagine the placenta inside, clinging on to the side of the uterus, afraid to let go. Please come out. Please get out of me. I don’t even want to eat you anymore. Just please don’t make me go to the hospital. I hear John and Nina in the bedroom giving Hero her newborn exam. I want to be in there with them. I don’t even know how much she weighs. I think about peeing, and then I try not to think about peeing. Nothing seems to work. Julia comes into the bathroom and I solemnly shake my head.

I crawl back onto the bed and I am already on the verge of tears. John is rocking Hero by the window and we look at each other silently. I need a rest from all this. I’m so exhausted. We reluctantly decide that our last resort is a catheter, which will empty my bladder and hopefully help release the placenta from its retained position in my uterus. If it doesn’t work, however, we will go to the hospital where Julia says there will be a possibility of surgery. Also, Julia informs me that the baby’s hand was on the side of her head when she was born and her shoulder “popped” my perineum, resulting in a second-degree tear, and she can’t stitch it up until the placenta is out. I am angry at my body for being apparently capable of delivering a baby, yet incapable of expelling the placenta. Tears are streaming down my cheeks now, and I begin to cry hysterically. I can’t seem to stop crying. I just keep looking at John, wishing he could make it all stop. Nina holds my legs open and I feel a stabbing sensation in my already-distressed crotch as Julia inserts the catheter. This is truly my breaking point. I cry and cry. Then it occurs to me that if this is indeed my breaking point, then that means I had not reached my breaking point during labor. Labor certainly brought me to the emotional edge, but the experience had not pushed me over. I find a little comfort and pride in this thought.

Thirty minutes later and I am hobbling around with John’s help, trying to put on some clothes to wear to the hospital. I am still crying. The thought of leaving my home with my brand new baby and exposing us to a germ-filled hospital makes me shudder, but I know there are no more options. I hold baby Hero tightly and talk to her quietly as she sleeps during the drive to the hospital. The sun-shiny world appears warped and dream-like outside the window. Cars go by and it sounds like a million bees. I think I am delirious.

At the hospital, I am wheeled to a labor and delivery room on the third floor and a nurse helps me change into a gown. I tell John to not let Hero leave his sight and not to let anyone touch her face. A doctor who appears to be in a hurry comes in and spreads my legs apart, inserting something to examine me, and pain shoots though my body like lightening. I cry out, wincing, and the doctor mumbles to the nurses that he won’t be able to treat me unless I’m sedated.

“I’m sorry, I’m just so sore down there,” I say, sobbing, but no one acknowledges me.

He orders an IV of Demerol and the nurses strap my left arm to a blood pressure machine and my right hand to an IV while putting my legs in stirrups. I feel completely helpless and look over at John who seemed to have been shoved to the side in all the excitement. I tell the IV nurse that I’m breastfeeding and I’m concerned about having drugs in my system, and she says that the dose is really low and that Demerol is perfectly safe for breastfeeding anyway. Bullshit. But I feel so much better when the ceiling begins to spin as the drugs take effect.

The doctor rushes back in, taking a seat in front of my crotch, and discusses what he sees with the nurses. I wish he would talk to me about it, but I gather from his mumbles that the placenta is detached, but my cervix has unexplainably clamped shut. He nods his head toward me and says, “Hold her,” and the nurses hold my legs down and one grabs my hand. Another bolt of pain through my body, this time feeling like someone is squeezing my insides, and I scream several times. He announces, “All done,” and they carry my placenta away on a platter.

A nurse brings me a meal and several containers of juice, and I gobble it up like I’m starving. She takes me to the bathroom after that to make sure I can pee, and when I’m sitting on the toilet, she starts firing questions about my past.

“How long were you a drug addict? When were you diagnosed with bipolar? When was the last time you were in a mental ward? What drugs were you addicted to? Are you still sober?”

I now feel more exhausted than ever. The nurse explains that the information about my past is listed on my medical records and they won’t be able to discharge me until I see the hospital social worker.

“We have to do this because you’re bringing home a baby.”

I’m annoyed at how ludicrous this seems. “I had the baby at home before I got here, without drugs,” I explain, just in case that particular information wasn’t listed on my chart. “And of course I’m not a drug addict anymore, although, if you test my urine, you will probably find the narcotic Demerol in my system.” I hand her my bloody pee sample and go back into the room to tell John and Julia that they won’t let us leave yet.

We wait in the hospital room for what seems like ages as I hold Hero in the rocking chair and nod off with John standing close to me. Finally a young woman with an obvious hair-lip comes in and asks me a thousand personal questions about drugs and my mental health. I am surprised at how calmly I answer each one, and smile as I do. Inside, I am raging with annoyance. You ask me if I’m clean? Am I clean? Bitch, do you even know what I did all night? I birthed my baby at home, and not here, so that I couldn’t take any drugs. Meanwhile there are plenty of laboring women right down the hall, drugged up out of their skulls with epi’s and Demerol and Nubain and Stadol and god knows what else, while their babies are still in their bellies and sharing their blood. Go question them, you hypocritical cunt. I smile and tell her what a great support system I have at home and that I’m actively involved in NA. I can’t stop staring at her mustache.

When the social worker leaves satisfied, the nurse comes back in and tells me that the doctor has ordered that I take a round of antibiotics because of a high white blood cell count, and that I must take the first dose before I am discharged. I tell her I really don’t need any more drugs, that I can discuss this with my midwife, and that I just want to go home. She’s quite bothered by my response and says that if I do have an infection, then I’m putting my life at risk and I might not be able to be with my baby.

“I understand,” I say, even though I don’t, but at this point I really don’t care. She angrily gets on the phone and cancels the prescription, saying that the patient has refused medication. I am swimming with delight inside my head that I am finally discharged.

Back at home, John and I see that Nina has cleaned up the room while we were gone, and we crawl into our bed as evening approaches with our little Hero. I am not sleepy at all now, just feeling thrilled and emotionally elevated at the sight of our baby. The events that took place in this room are a delightful whirlwind to me, and I know that we have scaled the greatest heights and survived the lowest depths for this perfect little baby. We actually made it.

Welcome to the planet, my little girl.