Chapter 11 - Drawing on bellies...

     Silently she stared down at her round belly—looked up at me, and then down at her belly again. Her eyebrows lifted into little triangles and she started chewing on her lower lip. She was understandably puzzled.

     “Yes, that’s right. Even though your uterus is twice as large as this, your baby is only this big,” I explained, demonstrating the size of a twelve-week fetus with my thumb and forefinger. Thinking that she might have twins because of the discrepancy between her size and her history, I had ordered a sonogram. The results confirmed the presence of a single, healthy, three-month old baby. The oversized uterus was just an unexplained weirdness—not a problem.

     She continued to gnaw on her lip—perplexed. She looked at me again like I had lost my mind. “Let me show you something,” I said. I picked up a marking pen and drew a little upside down baby just over her pubic bone. I gave it features like curly hair, and tennis shoes and long eyelashes. Then I traced the outline of the uterus with a placenta at the top and the umbilical cord spiraling down and attaching to the belly button that I had drawn on the baby. “There, it’s something like that.” I said.

     Slowly and methodically she took her finger and began to carefully stroke this cartoon baby. Her face had a look of childlike wonder. She started to laugh. “What are you doing in such a big house, all by yourself? You’re such a bitty thing. What do you do in there all day?”

     I sat silently on my stool for a long time, watching her—listening to her converse with her unborn child. Finally she looked down at me, tears glistening in her eyes. “There’s a baby in my belly. I can see that there’s a baby in there,” she whispered.

     She had a three-year-old daughter who had developmental difficulties, and a year ago she had given birth to a little boy in Texas who was premature and who had birth defects. He lived only three days. They had suggested to her in the hospital that she might be to blame, that she had not taken good enough care of her babies when she was pregnant. Now that she was expecting another baby, she was convinced that she was incapable of growing a healthy child in a body that had obviously failed her twice.

     The next time I saw her she told me that “even though this might sound silly”, she started methodically setting a place for the baby at the table, and putting food on the plate, which she ate in addition to her own. “I’m feeding my baby every meal now.” I say, “Are you ready? Here comes your breakfast,” she giggled.

     Each visit she would have me draw the baby on her belly—each month bigger and bigger—and then take a picture of it with her camera. Once she brought in a baby blanket to show me how she covers the baby at night before “they” go to bed. “I feel so different this pregnancy, like I’m already a mama. It seems like we already know each other,” she beamed. “Do you think this is possible—to know someone before you even meet them? “Yes, I do,” I reassured her. “No one could do a better job than you are doing, caring for your baby.”

     A few months later, when she gave birth to an eight-pound healthy baby boy, I was not surprised to see this mother and child come together, like two old souls. She had taught me how something so simple as drawing cartoon babies on bellies, can connect a mother to a visual reality of another human being living inside of her, and could play a crucial role in mother and child bonding before birth.

     Not surprisingly, this soon became a routine part of my pre-natal care…

    

    

    

    

     

Chapter 10 – Transcendence…

     First there was this—and then there was that—right from the beginning. She truly didn’t feel that she could do this—make a healthy baby inside of her body, and have it come out alive. Every different sensation she experienced was a cause for deep concern. “I’m afraid. Something is wrong; I just know it. I feel funny. I think my baby is moving too little…too much…" Week after week, she fretted, and she limped along. “What do you think? What should I do?” 

     She threw up a lot during her pregnancy—said it was her nerves. She’d get so depleted that she would go and see her Doctor and have him give her an IV to tank her up. I started having her come see me every two weeks, then every week; she needed constant handholding.

     My God, I worried…where would she ever find the inner strength and confidence to get this baby born? She was someone who easily gave up her power to other people. “You do it…I can’t.”

     When she went into labor she tiptoed carefully into the birth room like it was mined for explosives. I held my breath. Things went pretty well until she was about four centimeters. Then it started…”Help me. Do something. Help me.” She would shuffle up and down the hallway, dragging her feet like she was being led to the gallows. Her lower lip would quiver, as she sucked in air and whimpered like a little kitten. “Oh dear,” I thought. “What to do here? She is in a death spiral, and her contractions are not even very strong or close together.”

     She shuffled along like this for hours without any change in her progress. At times like these I was at a loss. Do I, “There, there, her” with my soft voice and reassuring manner?” Do I get tough and have her “Get a grip.” Somehow, neither of these options struck me as being optimal strategies.

     I had an idea… “Carol,” I said, “I’m going away for thirty minutes. When I return I want you to tell me what you want to do. We can do whatever you like. Would you like to go to the hospital? Do you want some drugs? A C-Section? Do you want to stay in the birth room to have your baby? Anything is possible, but you need to decide.” Then I slowly left the room and went downstairs.

     Good grief. What have I done? She hadn’t made a conscious decision during her entire pregnancy. I nervously stared at the clock like it was a bomb ticking. After a half hour I went upstairs.

     “So…” I said, clearing my throat, “Do you have a plan?” “YES.” she shouted, glaring at me, nails shooting out of her eyes. “Aha…and…?” “Well, I’m going to bed. I’m tired and I want to go to bed!” She had puffed up a little, seeming rather pleased with her decision.

     “OK—she wants to go to bed. Great idea,” I agreed. She started organizing everyone. Ordered me to go sit in the lazy boy. Had the nurse stretch out on the floor, and asked her husband to curl up with her in bed. I put the footrest up and leaned back, both ears wide open.

     It was quiet at first. Then I heard the shift in her breathing that comes when a woman’s body is miraculously opening. The pitch dropped lower and lower. She began to moan. I quietly moved to the bedside. Within an hour she was pushing, sitting cradled in her husband’s lap.

     She reached down to feel the baby’s head as he was emerging. “Oh my God. There’s a baby there. It’s coming out. I DID IT. I DID IT ALL BY MYSELF!” She wept and laughed. Tears flooded my face. This was epic. She had come into this birth almost like a helpless child, and ended up a mighty conqueror, victorious— overcoming an inner demon that had paralyzed her most of her life… In addition to a baby, sometimes the outcome of birth is also transcendence.

    

    

    

    

   

     

Chapter 9 – A Tribute…

     The wind whipped her faded dress around her thin legs as she stood in front of her cabin, cradling her swollen belly in her hands. She stood with a broad stance, as if to keep from being blown over. There was a nip in the air. Falling leaves flew horizontal across the sky and skittered down the street. I wanted to put a sweater on her. Give her some socks.

     I had come with fresh baked bread and home made soup. She wasn’t gaining weight. “Sometimes I just get low on food, and I’m too tired to get to the store. It’s more ‘n a mile to walk. We don’t got a car, and my man works in the woods most of the week,” she explained.

      Her husband was an enigma—dark and brooding. When occasionally I saw him in the waiting room, he seemed cold and distant, and would not speak to me or make eye contact. There was no evidence of abuse, but I worried. I watched and I worried.

     I was drawn into her innocent but troubled world. From humble origins, her curiosity about the world was infectious. “That music stirs my blood so,” she’d say, leaning back and closing her eyes while listening to the Beethoven concertos playing in my office. Every visit she asked me to play new and different classical music, so she could see how it “feels”.

     She shared her longings—her loneliness—her desire to have pretty things, and to be a good mother. She loved gentle poetry that was soft and made her cry. She wiggled her way into my heart. I continued to bring her food, and she began to gain weight.

     She went into labor one frosty evening. Her husband was sitting in the hall outside the birth room. Said it wasn’t a man’s business to be in there. When I entered the room she was alone. Relief flooded her face when I walked in. “I need you real bad,” she whispered, tears pouring down her face. “I’m here. I’m here. We will do this together.”

     I became all things because that is what she needed…her midwife, her mother, her sister, her friend, and her lover. As she bent over the chest of drawers, I stood behind her, my arms wrapped around her arms. Her legs were wide apart and her head leaned back against my chest, as she rocked her hips from side to side. I fell into her rhythm—we became linked—we became one breath.

     “You’re doing it…Your body is so powerful, so beautiful…Rock this baby out now…That’s it…Ahh, so good…Yes, yes…Make your voice heard…Good, good…Here we go…That’s it…Wonderful…You’re amazing…so strong…You’re getting close…Perfect, you are perfect…

     The hours blurred, one into the other. Her strength never faltered. At dawn in the hush of the morning, she pushed out a little boy. He was quiet, and looked at her with big eyes right away. “Hello my son. I am your mommy. Who are you? Who will you be?”

     Her husband came into the room and stood by the bedside, holding his hat in his hands. I could see that he was pleased. He gently reached down and stroked his son’s little head. I quietly slipped out of the room.

     She moved away a year later, but I heard that she had three more children, all of them boys. When they were still young, this beautiful young woman, who had such hopes for a better way, took her own life. I write this as a tribute to her. May this story let her memory live on in everyone who reads it.

    

    

    

     

Chapter 8 - Clearing out the cobwebs...

     They both seemed unnaturally jittery. Tom was staring at the floor, loudly clearing his throat and wringing his hands, looking morose. Caroline was looking at him, clearly puzzled. She and her husband were here for their thirty-six week checkup. They had been married for eight years, and until this visit, had seemed thrilled to be having a baby.

     “So…what’s up?” I asked. Tom’s head slumped down. He seemed to be intently studying the pattern in the carpet. Caroline shrugged her shoulders, continuing to stare quietly at her husband.

      Hmmm…curious… I had a hunch. “Tom, when you try to imagine Caroline in labor—giving birth—what comes to your mind? Any expectations?” I asked.

     His head shot up and he glared at me, eyes bugged out, like I could see into his mind. “Well, I sure hope she isn’t a wimp,” he sputtered, looking away. Caroline looked incredulous, “WIMP?” she protested.

     “I see…and what does the word wimp mean to you, Tom?” I gently asked. He sat pensively for a long while, and then, with a big sigh, he replied…“Well, I’ve been talking to my friends, and they told me that I better start pumping iron right now—getting into shape—because this birth business is painful and grueling, and Caroline is going to depend heavily on me…and…and…” he confessed, while studying the carpet again, “I’m so afraid that I won’t measure up. I’ve never told her this, but when the going gets tough, it’s Caroline that gets going. She is the rock of this family. She keeps everything together. I depend on HER. What am I going to do? What if I fail her?”

     Caroline looked with tenderness at her husband. “My darling, man. I had no idea that you felt that way, that you saw these qualities as strengths! How wonderful!" And then she smiled…”I’ve been talking to MY friends as well. They have urged me to not waste this opportunity by trying to ‘keep it together’ for this birth—that it’s too powerful an experience—and that I should just go for it and see what happens!”

     “Ah,” I said. “Let’s talk”… “Caroline, what do you need from Tom during the birth?”

     “First of all,” she asked him, “Do you want to be there, Tom? Because I don’t want you to do something that you don’t…” “Oh, I do. I really do,” he interrupted. “Well, then,” she said, “I need to be free to do whatever the hell I feel like doing during labor, and I just need you to not worry and freak out.”

     “Is that it…just don’t freak out? Is that all you need?” he asked. “Yep. That’s it. Do we have a deal?” “Absolutely. We have a deal,” he replied, breathing again, visibly relieved.

     With each successive prenatal visit they continued to explore this new territory in their relationship. When she went into labor at forty weeks they felt ready.

     This normally reserved woman took the pins out of her hair, letting it cascade down her back. She threw her clothes across the room. With hands in the air she undulated her hips with every contraction. Sometimes she would drop to the floor and rock from side to side. Between contractions she would look at her husband, grabbing him. “You come and kiss me right now!”

     Then she would pull away from his arms and throw herself onto the bed or strut around the room, moaning and hollering and wailing. She was passionate and sexy. He was stunned and in love. “I have never seen her like this before,” he beamed. “WOW!”

     After the baby was born, I sat back and quietly watched this family welcome their new son. Something very important had happened here, and it would deeply inform the way I cared for women. Their ability to honestly explore together their felt experience and expectations, freed them both to touch fully into their richest instincts and truth. I realized that it could have gone so differently had we not done this.

     "There must be a problem. Something is wrong with my wife!"...

     Husband freaking out. Get it together—Get it together—Birth stalls out...

     How many women, I wondered, are subjected to unnecessary birth interventions for “failure to progress”, when it might be more truthfully, “failure to dust out the pre-birth cobwebs”…

    

Chapter 7 - Transitions...

I’m scared…

“I know. I know. I’m right here. I won’t leave you. You’re almost there. You’re doing a great job,” I whispered.

Water—please, some water…

”Here you go. Sip slowly. That’s it. Let me moisten your lips,” I offered.

This is so hard…

”I know. I know,” I said softly, cradling her head in my arms.

Am I almost there?…

“You are so close. You’re almost there,” I replied, kissing her soft cheek.

I love you so much…

”I love you too. I’m here.”

I’m going to be sick…

”It’s OK. It’s normal to be sick right now. Here’s the basin. I'll help you.”

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…

”It’s OK. It’s OK. I love you.”

I’m tired…

”Yes, yes. Close your eyes. I will sit here quietly. I won’t leave your side.”

Why is it taking so long? I’m ready…

”Yes, you are ready, and you’re almost there,” I murmured, wiping her head with a cool cloth.

Hold me…

”There. There. Let me curl up beside you,” I said, as I crawled into the bed and wrapped my arms around her shaking body.

That feels so good. I need you to stay close…

”I’m here. I am right here.”

Her breathing deepened, and she grew quiet. I sat calmly by her side, fully present, a witness—the midwife accompanying her on this journey. And then—her breathing stopped, and my mom slid gently from this life…

…

Chapter 6 - God knows it to be so...

     I believe that some people come into our lives to crack our frame. Mary was one of those people for me.

     One summer morning she pulled up in an old Cadillac and sauntered into my office, a warm smile filling her face. She was not yet eighteen but looked fourteen—a small, delicate girl with a quiet, confident manner. She and her boyfriend had been on the road through most of her pregnancy, and now, at eight and a half months pregnant, she had come to stay with her parents in a nearby town.

     “I got a hunch my baby’s coming soon, and I reckon it’s time I should get a check-up,” she explained. “Yep, any day now…I’ll be a mother.”

     She walked back to the examination room and jumped effortlessly onto the table. As this was her first visit, I spent two hours with her, trying to cram thirty-seven weeks of care into one visit. I started to bring her up to speed about what to expect for the birth, but she interrupted me, patting my hand.  “Oh, don’t you worry about all that. My mama had six kids and she told me that when it is time for the baby to be born, all I need to know is that I will feel the power of God in my body, and every contraction will be a cause for rejoicing. So, if you don’t mind, I need to go now… I’ll see you again in a few days.”

     “Well, you have a few weeks yet, so we’ll just get you an appointment for one week from today.” I patiently explained. Again, she patted my hand. “Well…we’ll see about that.”

     Four days later she walked into the office with a big grin on her face. “Didn't I say I’d be back! Hallelujah…It won’t be long now.”

     Uh huh, I thought. Labor? I doubt it. She looks way too comfortable. No visible signs of contractions, no sweat, no moaning… She strolled back to the exam room and slid on to the table. I put on my glove and proceeded to check her, fully expecting to offer reassurance and send her home…EIGHT CENTIMETERS! Whoa… Not possible! She giggled, “I told you so.”

     She jumped off the table, clapped her hands and exclaimed. “So, where is this birth room of yours? My baby is on the way!” “Here,” I stammered—incredulous—tripping over my feet as I followed her up the stairs.

     She undressed and crawled up on the big bed in the middle of the room where she proceeded to direct the festivities. Her boyfriend crawled into the lazy boy chair in the corner, and, as if on cue, proceeded to play a soft melody on his guitar—a sound of gentle rain falling. She invited me to sit at the end of the bed.

     “Well then,” she said when everyone was in position. “I guess we’re all ready.” She then closed her eyes and caressed her belly—her breath hushed. I sat perfectly still on the bed. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was a child really. Her face flushed and radiant. Her expression exalted.

     Moments later she whispered, almost with reverence, “Look.” Her water sac had appeared at the opening of her vagina, like a luminous balloon. It broke and the clear water trickled down like a small waterfall. The baby followed on the heels of the wave—wet, matted hair curled like a cap around the head—the body slippery and pink. I continued to sit quietly—watching—as her hands drew her new daughter to her chest. Mother and child enfolded. Lost in each other’s gaze.

     “My placenta is coming,” she said, as almost an after thought. “Right”…With a small push the placenta slipped out into the basin. I folded up my birthing kit after the cord was cut, and tip toed from the room.

    I had witnessed a different kind of knowing that day, a knowing that cannot be taught. She relied on her inborn understanding and faith that everything in this world is ultimately perfect and need not be feared. She reminded me that some people do not need to be reminded about something they have not “forgotten”.

Chapter 5 - A Biker's Song...

     They arrived on motorcycles, including the woman in labor. They were part of a loving and boisterous sub-culture of families who lived in one of the more remote parts of our county—Harleys being the glue that bound them together.

     The labor support team swept in…Three guys, dressed in leather vests over tattooed arms, wore hats with feathers protruding from the bands. They brought in a cooler of beer and gathered around the father-to-be. Three women encircled the mother—bangles dangling from their wrists, laughter and maternal cooing filling the room. They all knew their roles and confidently went to work. They had helped to bring a lot of children into this community.

     I alternately moved from hunkering down with the men, discussing how things were progressing, offering commentary as needed…to penetrating the clouds of patchouli that surrounded the mother so I could monitor the well being of the baby. I had delivered many of their babies, and we all worked well together.

     “This woman of yours is getting down now, Buck. You got yourself a good one. Listen to her. This baby’s gonna pop any minute,” they reassured the father, giving him another beer. The women swirled around the mother with constant, devoted attention—cooling her face with a wet rag, massaging her back and hips. “There, there…you’re doing great… Yes. Yes. You’re so beautiful. A magnificent goddess if there ever was one,” they burbled…”We’re right here. We won’t leave your side... OK, here it comes. Here’s another one. Ride baby baby…”

     Hours passed…the energy stayed strong and unwavering. At last it was time to push. She wanted to deliver standing up, so two strong guys on either side held her up. Her husband sat on the floor with me, ready to help receive the baby.

     Now—during her prenatal care—I had persuaded the two of them to participate in an experiment with me. I had been studying how babies in the womb, when exposed to the voices of their parents singing, will demonstrate an astonishing recognition of those songs once they are born. I thought this was so cool, and found them to be willing subjects. The father was, perhaps, overly eager. Throughout her pregnancy he drove his wife crazy because he would put his lips to her belly and sing a folk song with his soft Oklahoma twang, a song that his mother used to sing to him when he was a child.

     So, when the baby was delivered, and the mom had sat down on a pad on the floor with the baby held close to her chest, Buck broke into song. The baby stared straight into his father’s face, listening almost as if mesmerized. At that moment Buck was moved to scoop the baby up in his arms. I quickly intervened. “No, wait! The cord. We have to cut the cord first…”

     When the mom was cleaned up and back in bed, she put the baby to breast where he nursed with vigor. Unable to contain himself, Buck crawled up on the bed, and with unbridled enthusiasm, began to sing again. The baby popped off the nipple, spun his head around and locked eyes with his father. “Buck…this may not be the time.”  “Right. Time to suck titty. Right,” he agreed, as he continued to hover. Finally, with marked reluctance, he moved away to sit in the midst of his mates. Popping open another beer, and beaming with moist, proud eyes, he said. “Guess that boy knows his father alright!”