witty_name

When my second child repositioned himself quite sideways in gestation Week 23, I felt like a funhouse mirror looks.

One assumes that precious baby will quickly complete the turn and head for the exit per normal, but, no. When four weeks' time finally brought something more comfortable I rejoiced without asking.

Our private midwife knew to ask, and Maria’s wisened hands felt baby’s head now at my ribcage. One very successful natural birth already under my belt, this breech position worried me not. But Maria’s College of Midwives forbade breech home-births, and so jeopardised my plans.

How to turn a baby? Stretch, relax, hang upside down. Failing that, find a morose obstetrician to retch the little bugger into place. Ouch. And, unsuccessful, as I felt my stubborn inmate engage his tiny rump into the birth canal soon after the second attempt.

So we requested a trial of labor. The Law here allows natural breech births but the hospitals hate them - Dr Morose asked us to go away as the hospital didn't want the bad press if something went wrong.

But I was the perfect candidate for a natural breech birth as I had: already birthed naturally with success; a frank breech-positioned baby (bottom down, toes at the nose); and a confident team of myself and the same midwife from my first child. So the public hospital could not deny my trial of labor (which means ‘to have a go naturally before resorting to a cesarian section’).

Still wanting my home-birth, I lay alone in bed, imagining the extraordinary sensations of 02:30 at Week 38 to be the baby turning. Yet I was open to whatever was happening - all expectation and judgement had ceased as greater forces took command. (Also, an orgasmic bowel movement had left me in a state of happy delirium.)

04:00 had me wishing company so I shifted into the bedroom where daddy and soon-to-be big brother lay sleeping. But their tiniest movements rattled me to my core, so daddy got up and brother shifted to the far edge and slept on until after first-stage labor.

But was I in labor? I neither knew nor needed to know as I had unconsciously relinquished all assumptions.

Intensity increased, so I rolled back and forth. Needing to vocalize, a "MOO" came out and I accepted this without question. MOO-ing grew louder, longer, operatic.

Then I needed to move, so circuited between toilet, change table, and bed.

(Comic Relief: every time I neared the toilet I felt, "NO! I DO NOT WANT TO SIT ON THE TOILET!" But I continued, sat, and then felt, "I AM SO GLAD I AM SITTING ON THE TOILET!" This repeated at least three times and the relief of laughing at myself was good medicine.)

Daddy rang the midwife who asked me seemingly ridiculous questions, such as, "Are you having contractions?" and "What do you think is happening?" Talking was not what the baby or I needed, but I am polite and managed to murmur a few, "I don't know"s. Maria asked me to feel my own abdomen, which was excruciating under gentle pressure, and said that something may be happening and she would casually make her way over in about 45 minutes.

So evil. Time was not a thing until she said 45 minutes and then my anticipation of her arrival was the first stressful moment in Whatever-This-Was.

She arrived and in her wisdom did nothing but silently observe me at first. She now knew that this was quickly-progressing labor and baby would come soon. She asked the same ridiculous questions (bless her, but baby and I had this all sorted without any intellectual thought!).

You must know, at this point in the story, that my midwife Maria is most excellent. From here, we were on the same page and her questions were asked bare moments after I'd silently reckoned the exact same thing. At around 06:00 I wondered if I was dilating (when the cervix opens, to 10 centimetres, so the baby can exit). I completed the thought and immediately she asked if I wanted her to check.

She checked me… and then she lied to me. "Um, maybe about 8 centimetres, maybe. So, no hurry, but if we're going to hospital we should go now." I didn't want to go, I had everything I needed to birth at home, but I'd promised her to breech-birth at hospital, so off we went.

***

The 20-metre walk to her car took ten minutes as I had many contractions to stop for, and once there sitting down was not an option. I held myself up on hands and knees over the towels lining her back seat, leaning on the backrest. Car motion caused me stress and I feared my body closing up, so I chanted "OPEN, OPEN!" (to my midwife's silent dismay as I was 9 centimetres and she didn't fancy helping me birth on the side of the road).

I had transitioned in the car (I realized later, from first to second stage labor). The hospital wheelchair I was offered in the driveway could not be used in the common manner, as my baby's bottom was sitting on his exit, so I kneeled and held the drip-bag pole.

***

The gentlemen who designed the new hospital had placed the Maternity elevator just passed the food court, so everyone gets a view of the panting, intense women on their way to one of life’s most private and sacred events.

Luckily, I did not care as, my consciousness was about two meters above my body viewing everything through a mist - pure observation, lacking judgement or any emotion aside from serene certainty. I could also see inside my body in black and white (hey, it’s dark in there), with a moonlight-like glow to whatever needed my awareness.

06:54, wheeled into Room 9, I was left alone to climb off the wheelchair and walk around the elevated hospital bed, where I then raised my arms, leaned forward over the bed, and broke the waters. Bang! I didn't KNOW what to do - I simply did what needed to be done, without thought or question, and smiling like the pretty lady in the birth video I’d seen the week before. Standing birth position, leaned forward over the bed, turning my head gently from side to side, breathing and smiling.

Since my first natural birth, I had come to hate Hollywood's stereotypical birthing woman - hysterical, helpless, screaming at people. So I now politely called out, "Excuse me, the water's broken." My eyes closed, I viewed the scene from above and within, the sound of shoes entering the room.

Baby birthed a tiny, slippery bottom and I held it in my hand.

Contractions, quickly, still painlessly. Out fell the legs, then the hips and torso. The exiting shoulders caused a tiny internal tear that I could see in moonlight but knew was not a problem.

Now comes the moment of truth.

A breech birth means that the head exits last, and as the uterus is empty it has nothing to contract onto, so the mother must push out the head unaided. I knew this and was preparing for it as the second midwife, who had arrived and jumped over the bed just moments before, reached inside me to tilt baby's chin downward to protect against extending the neck. I said, "Can I push the head out?" and the midwives unisoned, "PUSH THE HEAD OUT!"

You have to get the head out quickly. So I took a breath and pushed. But the breath wasn't big enough, and the push wasn't strong enough, and I felt fear for the first time since the journey began. So I pushed just that tiny bit more. 07:11.

Out came baby’s head, caught by Maria as I was already holding the bottom and back. Like my first son, his skin was the color of grey clay and he still slept. I stepped back and he was lifted up as they came with the scissors. I asked for delayed cord cutting, but now the hospital staff were taking over and my natural birth was cut short. (But there was but a drop of blood that came out the cord, so the little man got what was his.)

I took a quick look around and saw that 1) I had barely bled either, 2) I was naked but for a pair of fuzzy red and white striped socks, and 3) my baby was face-up on the Neonatal Resuscitation table - awake and screaming loudly.

Two neonatal paediatricians and a neonatal nurse were trying to resuscitate a breathing baby. This is standard hospital procedure for a breech birth, but baby was very upset, bright lights in his eyes, and using his brand new little hands to beat away the oxygen mask they forced over his face.

I may have been disturbed by this, but the comical bouncing of his freed-from-breech legs, up and down again and again, boing boing boing, warmed my heart.

I stood above him, stroking his little head and letting him know it would be ok.

I am an older mother with about 12 years on the two male paediatricians who stole glances at the standing, calm, naked, and somewhat tattooed woman now in their personal space. Natural births were not their forte, and I may have been one of the only happy and healthy mothers they had ever seen.

My request to pick up my baby was denied, so Maria came over and asked with her stern gaze and the hospital staff had to admit that they could stop trying to resuscitate a screaming baby. I picked him up, he quieted immediately, and I hoisted us upon the bed for a cuddle.

Still reeling from the natural birth, the staff stayed for awhile to observe and I was happy to have them. All that mattered was me and the baby - Dr Morose could have shown up and I would have greeted him warmly.

All was now calm and quiet.

***

Postscript: There was one un-natural thing, as baby's placenta wasn't coming out and after two hours I felt quite unwell, so the midwife administered a shot of hormone to knock it out of me. The shot was painful, but effective.

Natural birth, especially when breech or multiple, is not for everyone. A mother should have the information, resources, and support she needs to make an informed choice for herself.

Considering how sensitive I was to the slightest movement or my own gentle touch, and my inability to answer even simple questions, a more standard hospital birth full of strangers moving and touching and demanding answers to difficult questions would have been an absolute nightmare for me. But some women are happy with the system and use it time and again, and unfortunately not everyone can afford a private midwife.

Obstetrics and maternity are still new fields of medicine and the experiences of women need a much larger place in the decisions made by hospital administration and staff.

The media’s portrayal of human birth is often vulgar, misleading, and degrading to what in many cases can be a calm and sacred experience for mothers and family. People who are disturbed or mislead by those images should abandon the media service that provided them with a note of dismissal to the management.

I hope that this story, Casper's birth story, will inform those who read it so that more mothers are supported in their birth choices.