powerful birth

 I wanted it to be powerful. 

I’m a feminist and a scholar of gender studies, someone who has devoted years to recovering women’s voices and emphasizing their innate power. When I learned that I would be giving birth to a child, I was so proud. I would get to watch my body perform this miracle, this deeply painful and powerful act of love. 

I was so excited. I told my midwife I was, in a strange way, almost looking forward to the pains of labor. I could imagine each strain and ache would fill me with the knowledge that I was doing one of the hardest things humans ever do, and that I would be the one responsible for pushing a whole new human into the world. I chose to birth at home, where I knew I would feel the full weight of that responsibility. I was ready. 

When it started, just as I was getting ready for bed, I eagerly felt these new sensations. I was already amazed that my body knew what to do, and I cheered it on. This was it! 

But, it hurt. It hurt so much. And we were only just beginning. It had only been an hour or two and I was in shock at the pain. Was it supposed to be this hard? How could it get worse than this? 

It got worse. It felt like an out-of-body experience, hearing myself screaming as loud as my throat could scream; it didn’t sound like me. I knew it was “back labor,” the more painful labor I’d heard about but assumed wouldn’t happen to me. The pain in my back was unthinkable. Even with my mom digging her thumbs into the place it hurt the worst, it was still unthinkable. Even with the tub and the midwife coaching me to breathe deeper, it was still unthinkable. 

Hours went by, I had no idea when the sun rose, but suddenly it was day. I knew this would be the day my baby would be born, but I had no idea how I could do it. It felt like an impassable chasm from here to there. I’d heard so many women say that when it feels like you can’t do it anymore, you’re almost there. But I’d been in absolute agony for hours, and nothing seemed to be happening.

Come on, body, I screamed inside. Just a little longer, you’ve got to be almost there. But still no water breaking, no head appearing. Still just screams. 

We tried new positions, we broke the water, we pushed and pushed, but all that seemed to happen was watching my body writhe with creeping terror at this pain that suddenly felt inescapable. 

In the moments I could think, all I wanted was to be in the hospital - give me the shots, the meds, the epidurals that I had so gladly forsworn. My midwife said we could go whenever I was ready. I could keep trying, but there was no shame in going for an epidural. I cried - between screams - realizing that the dream of a beautiful home birth might not come true. I needed that epidural, but it felt like giving up. And more than that, I could not imagine getting out of the tub, into clothes, out the door, into a car, and to the hospital. I could barely take a breath between screams, it all felt like one unending contraction. I had to finish this here, I had to. 

I could feel a head pushing. Push, push - no closer. Push, push, scream - no closer. The midwives checking the baby’s heart rate, and looking at each other. I could not talk, but I could hear from their voices something was wrong. She put a hand on my arm.

“The heart rate is dropping, it’s time for us to go to the hospital. Now.” 

Still screaming, I stood against the bed as my mom threw a shirt on me. She wrapped me in the bed sheet in case the baby came in the car. 

I couldn’t walk. But I had to. I couldn’t get to the car. But I had to. I couldn’t do it. But I had no choice. Somehow I took steps, I still don’t know how. Somehow they got me into the van, the midwife beside me and my mother-in-law driving. I just screamed. The head was pushing, but not coming. 

It was surreal. Everything I’d thought this would be was gone. The power had disappeared into agony and fear. All the “It’s possible, but rare,” all the “knock on wood,” it was all happening. 

We pulled up to the hospital, they slid me into a wheelchair, and we rolled into the birth unit. In my delirium, I could still tell the nurses were all expecting me. They were moving fast. They got me onto a bed, they asked me some questions that I must have somehow answered between screams. I signed something. All I wanted was the epidural, and to hear the heart rate. They said the baby was okay. They said I had to sit still for the epidural, and by some miracle I did, even as my body contracted and the head pushed and the pain still left me reeling. 

They said to try to push again. But before I could say, “I can’t,” my body contracted again. The doctor watched the heart rate and said, “I don’t like what I’m seeing.” It dropped lower than ever. They called for a c-section. 

In the same breath I was terrified and relieved. Relieved that I wouldn’t have to push this baby out, because I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. But terrified that after all this, I could lose them.

Within seconds I was being rolled down the hall. Mom was wearing a suit, mask, and hair cover. The doors to the operating room opened, huge lights that looked like a TV show blasted into my eyes. They lifted me onto the table. My voice was nearly gone from the hours of screams, but I kept trying to ask, “Is it okay? Is it okay? Is it okay?” A nurse gave me a shot. They said they were starting. I held my breath and tried to feel it, wanted to feel them opening me up so that I would know my baby was out, was okay. But I couldn’t feel anything. 

I waited. I didn’t think. I just waited. 

And then I heard it - the cry. The newborn cry. 

I breathed. 

I couldn’t see it. Where was it? 

I kept trying to ask, “Is it a girl or a boy?” but my voice was so hoarse I’m not sure anyone could hear me. 

Where was it? 

Then, that tiny, round face. Wrapped and capped. Someone said, “It’s a boy.” They set him beside my face. 

I was too exhausted to move. One grateful tear slid down my face. Then it was a blur. 

It was nothing like I thought it would be. I didn’t get to push my baby into my husband’s hands. I didn’t get to see my body accomplish this greatest of feats. I didn’t achieve my powerful dream. 

And yet, I am not ashamed. 

I am proud. 

I was powerful when I fought through contraction after contraction, hour after hour. 

I was powerful when I took those steps to the car despite the agony.

I was powerful when I held my tortured body still for the epidural. 

I was powerful when I allowed my body to be cut open so my baby could come out. 

And there was power all around me: my mom’s power to ease my pain, ever so slightly; my midwife’s power to guide me and to choose help when it was time; the nurses’ and surgeons’ power to intervene and ultimately save both of our lives. 

It was nothing like I thought it would be. It was the opposite of the story I thought I would be telling. 

But I had wanted it to be powerful, and it was.