Chapter 21 - Birth in Spite of the Mother...

      Caroline was twenty-five, but looked twelve. She wore her frizzy red hair in two braids, and a splattering of freckles covered her pale, taut cheeks. At four foot eleven she was as thin as a stick and as feisty as a banty hen.   

     Though she said she was excited to be a mother, she was high strung and anxious and pregnancy was a challenge for her. “Sign me up for baby take out,” she’d joke every visit.

     In her seventh month I broached the subject of birth…

      “I don’t want to talk about that!” she protested, hands covering both of her ears.

     “What do you mean you don’t want to talk about that?” I asked, puzzled. “Giving birth is something you will be doing in a few months. Don’t you want to know what to expect?”

     “NO!” she screamed, and jumped up out of the chair to make her point. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to give birth. Listen to me; this is very important. When it’s time, just knock me out, cut me open and rescue the baby,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Besides…” she added, “I’m not capable of giving birth. I’m too small.”

     “Where did you get the idea that your body isn’t big enough to deliver a baby?” I asked.

     “From my mama, that’s where. She said her doctors told her years ago that her body was too little, and it would be dangerous to try and deliver vaginally—that the baby would just bash up against her bones. All her kids were born by C-section. I’m just like her!”

     “Well, you may be little on the outside, Caroline, but I can assure you that you have a pelvis you could drive a truck through! Your body is more than adequate. It’s perfect.”

     “Why should I believe you and not my mama,” she cried. “I’m too scared to try and give birth. Do you think I would want to hurt my baby?”

     I offered her books to read, I tried everything I could to neutralize the negative seeds that had been planted in her fertile, pregnant mind stream, but the seeds had taken root and there was nothing I could do to assuage her deep and impenetrable fears that vaginal birth would harm her child.

     I had no idea what was going to happen, except that sooner or later the baby was going to come out, one way or the other.

     Sadly I suspected this would be a self-fulfilling prophecy for a C-section. It’s very difficult for a body to open up when the woman doesn’t want it to. There is an innate wisdom there to hold back when there is perceived danger.

     Three weeks from her due date I got a call that they were bringing in a woman in labor by ambulance.

     “Her family called us because she’s hysterical and acting crazy,” the medic said. “Bellowing her head off, hollering…’NO, MAKE IT STOP’… over and over. She’s flinging herself all over the ambulance here, kicking and swinging her arms. This is one freaked out chick. Good luck.”

      I could hear her protests as the ambulance pulled into the hospital. From the low pitch of her voice she sounded like she was far along in her labor.

     She looked at me, her eyes wide and terrified.

     “Hurry. Cut it out before he gets hurt,” she screamed.

     “Caroline, Everything is okay. I won’t let anything bad happen to you or the baby. I need to get your pants down so we can check you.”

     Ducking to miss her flailing legs, I wrestled her pants off and with an exam glove on, could feel that the baby’s head was down on the perineum, ready to be born.

     “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said. “This kid just took matters into his own hands, in spite of his mother.”

     “Caroline, open your legs. Your baby is right here. Do you want the first thing your baby hears to be your screaming? Now hush dear woman and let your baby come out.”

     Lying on her side with one leg gripped around my neck and shoulder, and despite her continued protests, the baby shot out into the bed like a cannon ball without much assistance from anyone.

     She disentangled herself from my neck and leaned forward to scoop him up, incredulous.

     “Is he okay? Is he okay?” she asked fretfully, kissing his head, counting every finger and toe.

     “Did he really come out of my body? My God, it worked. Wait till I tell my mama.”

     “Yep, he’s perfect,” I assured her. “And so are you…”

     I have always entertained a hypothesis that babies are not passive participants during the birth—that the way they get born is often reflected in their personalities.

     Maybe this was the case with this little guy, because as he grew up, he had an uncanny knack of easing the heat of his mom’s fears and infusing her with bravery when she became paralyzed…which she did from time to time.