From MIDWIFERY MATTERS, Issue No.105, Summer 2005
WHEN I MISCARRIED my first baby, Frehel, I was cautious about building hope that I would conceive again, but we had crossed a Rubicon, and my body and all the people that Frehel's tiny life had touched were changed (Midwifery Matters, no 102, Autumn 2004). Frehel opened the way, for me, for John, for my family, for our journey from death to life.
Frehel's due date coincided with the May Day bank holiday weekend. John and
I headed out to Herefordshire to spend the weekend with friends on a meditation
retreat. It was bright and sunny and the grass was very green. I had not come
across the Buddhist practice of 'touching the earth' before. I prostrated myself
flat on my front. The grass smelled good. A few sobs welled up from inside me.
The earth took them; it earthed my residual grief. The months that would have
been Frehel's gestation were complete and I could move on, lighter. My period
came on the Monday. Later in May we were on holiday in Devon. As I came out
of the rough sea a big wave invaded sand under my swimsuit and into every crevice
and orifice of my body. My nipples were unusually tender and I wondered if I
was pregnant again. A test in early June confirmed I was.
I was well and fit through my pregnancy and my belly grew which it hadn't with
Frehel. At 11 weeks I asked a colleague to do a scan to check the presence of
a heartbeat. I calculated by menstrual dates that the baby would come some time
in February. I decided against other scans or tests for foetal anomalies. When
people asked "Do you know what you're having?" I answered that I hoped
I was having "a baby!" When they responded, "Oh well, so long
as it's alright." I would think and occasionally say "even if it's
not!" Once I recognised the baby's movements I was reassured by wriggling
and hiccupping and later, legs stretching out under my ribs. There is a tradition
in John's family of alternating Theodore as a first or a second name for the
firstborn son of the firstborn son. It means 'gift of God'. John is John Theodore.
I thought our baby could be named Theodore, or if it was a girl, Theodora.
I was thankful that, as a midwife, I knew about pregnancy and birth. It meant
I felt calmly confident about what I wanted. I booked with Sarah, my friend
and colleague. I trusted Sarah completely - with my life. I knew she would be
my advocate if I needed her to be. I planned a home birth. I also booked at
a neighbouring maternity unit where Sarah would have an honorary contract if
transfer was needed. I hired a birthing pool. I invited my sister to the birth.
I handed in the final copy of my dissertation for my master's degree on the
Thursday. On Friday I felt a period-like heaviness in my groin. Saturday morning
I went to the toilet to discover I was having a show. On Sunday my Mum and Dad
came to visit for the day. They had been keeping out of the way for me to finish
my dissertation. I hadn't seen them since Christmas. They helped bolt together
the birthing pool; Dad played Chopin mazurkas on the piano; Mum put her hands
on my belly and felt the baby move; John made us scrambled egg. I spoke to Sarah
and rang my sister to warn her something was happening. Monday morning I was
woken by my first real contraction at 3.15 am. I got up, cleaned the kitchen
floor and black polished the fireplace and laid a fire. The contractions eased
and I lay down and rested on the sofa. Sarah was planning to go to London for
the day. I rang to tell her I had been having contractions but I thought she
could go to London as planned. John however stayed home from work.
Together we made the birthing room beautiful, hanging out our wedding banners.
We had pancakes for lunch. Tomorrow would be Shrove Tuesday - Pancake Day. After
lunch I went to bed and slept. At 4.15 pm I was woken by contractions starting
again. They were painful and strong from the start coming three to four in ten
minutes. It felt as if the baby was bashing against the brim of my pelvis at
the front. I was soon hot and sweaty with effort, breathing hard. We rang Sarah
at 4.40 pm. She was on the train on her way back from London. I rang my sister
and Jane, another midwife and friend. By 8 pm the birthing team had gathered.
Another friend rang from her mobile. She was outside the front door. It was
her birthday and she had brought us birthday cake. She had guessed something
was happening. "Labour was a piece of cake!" we laughed. We filled
the pool and I got in about 9 pm.
From this point I have had to actively seek to remember. It felt like my brain
had been tampered with. It seemed like the experience had been wiped. I'm not
used to not remembering things. But labour hurt. It was 'mega' and 'excruciating'.
It took 23 hours and 17 minutes. I pushed for 3 hours and 27 minutes. I actually
need to forget it and that is what my clever brain is ready to do. But although
my labour was traumatic it was also a triumph. I want to record it. To write
this I have struck a deal with myself. I have decided to remember, and then
I can forget if I still need to.
I was in the pool throughout the night. Every time I had a particularly painful
contraction I was sick. I also had heartburn. Large pots of yoghurt were the
answer and I tried to down a spoonful whenever I could. I examined myself at
about midnight and felt the baby's head was low but my cervix was far back and
not open much. I needed to find a way to relax. I asked John to get into the
pool with me. The room was dark lit only by nightlights. I didn't want to be
watched so asked if the others could go into the other room. I requested a tape
of Celtic harp music. I was figuring out what I needed. "Let's make love"
I suggested. John found points on my back that he could press to relieve the
pain in my front. For a while I was pain free.
The night wore on and Sarah took over from John pressing my back. I tried to
stay present to each moment, not looking back or forward to the last or to the
next contraction. "Present moment, wonderful moment" I intoned. "Here
and now", "All is well", "I relax the long length of my
back" - I could hear the voice of my antenatal yoga teacher. Later my back
became more painful than my front. It became so tender I couldn't bear it to
be touched. I asked Sarah to just hover over it with her hand when a contraction
came. Before dawn I got out of the pool. I did yoga lunges on the stairs and
used the birthing ball. I had been in labour for over twelve hours. I was exhausted
and I felt I could not go on much more. I didn't know what else I could do to
help myself or be helped.
John remembered the TENS machine and with it on I lay down in bed to rest. For
half an hour I slept between contractions which were still coming every few
minutes. I agreed to an ARM. The liquor was clear and my cervix was 6 cms dilated.
While on my back I had another contraction, had to urinate and was sick at the
same time! Sarah suggested music. I needed to loosen up my tense back. Kate
Bush's The Hounds of Love got me moving. Jane left to go to work. Karen joined
us in the bedroom. John reminded me I could finish long difficult projects;
I had finished my dissertation!
Sarah asked if there was anything psychological holding me back. Sarah's question
gave me space to clear the way forward. I cried with frustration and exhaustion
as I named my psychological blocks. I was thinking of friends who had planned
homebirths, got to 6-7cm dilatation and stuck there. As midwife I had felt out
of resources to help them. I felt guilty for their ending up with C sections.
I felt I had no right to move into the birthing mother space when they had not
been able to.
Similarly, I felt inhibited about becoming a mother when my sister could not.
She had grieved twenty years for a baby she did not have and would now never
have since having a hysterectomy. Seven years old when I was born, Karen changed
my nappies. She was aggrieved that my mum's midwife had not allowed her to witness
me being born. When I miscarried Frehel, Karen experienced physical symptoms.
With this pregnancy she went up a bra size. She had talked regularly on the
phone to her 'nephew /niecelet' in my belly. I had invited her to be at the
birth and she had negotiated special leave from her teaching role to be there.
But in labour I found her presence difficult. I wanted her to leave. but I wanted
her to stay. Once I named my inhibition it was easier. I didn't have to big
sister my big sister but I was also no longer little sister. I could become
a mother in my own right.
I got into the bath again and roared. I was banishing old grief - banshees;
I was sending family ghosts packing. My grandfather died when my mum was pregnant
with me. Irish in England, her grief and isolation far from home flooded round
my tiny form inside her. She herself imbibed grief at the breast as my Irish
grandmother mourned my mum's eldest brother who had died. I needed to shift
two generations of mother grief. I was performing an exorcism; moving from death
to life.I had to focus on our baby and the present, not on history or other
people's birthing experiences.
It was day now; a beautiful day. I sang along to a compilation tape of positive songs: Bob Marley's Three Little Birds, the Beatles' Yellow Submarine, and Julie Andrews' My Favourite Things. I needed John in the pool again. Focusing on the goodness of John I connected with our baby. "I want you." I told the baby. I felt inside myself and could feel the head well down. My back pain was excruciating. I had no urge to push but I decided I was going to push anyway. It helped with the pain. Sarah didn't stop me. It was midday Tuesday.
Pushing in the pool I soon felt spaced out. I needed to touch the earth again.
I got out of the pool and we burned lavender oil to bring me back. Sitting on
John's lap to push, Sarah said she could see our baby's head. But it felt a
long way away to me. I pushed on the loo for a while. My perineum was tense
and hot and tender and I asked Sarah to use oil to ease it for me. I pushed
on all fours. I pushed best with my knees together. I could hardly catch my
breath, plunge the TENS booster and slurp a swig of water between contractions.
I felt my chest would burst. I was pushing to relieve my back pain, rather than
to give birth. I was roaring again. "I know what I should be doing, but
I just can't do it!" I exclaimed. I was in mental denial that I was making
any progress. I didn't want to go forward but I couldn't go back. "I want
to be someone else!" I said. I didn't want to transfer to hospital. Then
I decided I was going to do it. Sarah's praise was measured not effusive. I
pushed for Sarah's praise. "Have you a ventouse in your bag Sarah?"
I asked. My labia were burning. I pushed through the burning. Suddenly our baby,
Theodore was in front of us attached by his chunky cord which disappeared up
into me, the mother - not the midwife.
Birthing the placenta was the best bit. It slipped out satisfactorily. A few
days later we buried it beside the apple tree in our garden near to where we
had laid Frehel.
I had never properly appreciated what an express train of body changes for mother
and baby the first fortnight can be. I simultaneously telescoped in opposite
directions like Alice in Wonderland; my wobbly belly shrank while my breasts
swelled and went lumpy. For Theo, coping with my triple cream colostrum, every
burp, posit, rumble, fart and explosion of poo was like an earthquake and sent
him into a panic for which he would accept no consolation. I was ravenous but
rarely had a free hand to feed myself. Sarah and Karen spooned nourishment into
my open baby bird mouth. When John went back to work I feared I would fade away.
After the fullness of pregnancy, I looked down at my wasted legs and wept. I
feared being famished. My great grandmother was born in west Cork shortly after
the Irish Potato Famine. Friends and family brought round meals to fill the
fridge. I gave thanks for health and strength, daily bread and central heating.
John's mother brought an aconite when she visited the first day. I picked snowdrops
when I ventured into the garden to feed the birds on day three. A herbalist
friend provided marigold flowers (calendula) and lavender oil for my bath to
heal my raw torn labia. I dosed on arnica 1M. Visitors, phone calls and cards
piled into our home. I laundered white terry squares stained with brilliant
red, yellow and green; my blood, my milk and Theo's poo. We strung prayer flags
with the same bright colours out the upstairs window and down the garden. They
fluttered in the wind and flurries of snow as I breastfed.
Giving birth to Theodore David (David after my Dad) was as much an act of will
power as body power. Deciding on a homebirth with Sarah made the rest possible.
I had time and space to work out what I needed physically, emotionally and spiritually.
When I finally gave birth it was a personal and family triumph. Karen witnessed
her nephew being born and her special bond with him continues. My mum and dad
are proud and delighted grandparents at last at the age of 70. No one has died.
With Theodore David's birth we have moved from death to life.
April 2005
Updated LW July 5, 2005