“Back in the day, when things were cool… all we needed was…”
I was born free, at home. I’ve carried that knowing in my bones. My mother’s third birth, I emerged around dawn on the summer solstice. It’s a story I’d heard countless times. I’m blessed to have been raised with the knowledge and belief that birth is good.
“It’s more uncomfortable than painful.”
“It’s really not that bad.”
“Our bodies can do this, they always have.”
Now, I know not all bodies can safely give birth at all, let alone at home. But most can. And the reasons for that are complex and layered with individual experience and systemic oppressions that endanger and enact violence on indigenous people impacted by colocalization and genocide, women of color, especially Black women, neurodiverse and health diverse women, and queer, lesbian, gender-nonconforming parents, and trans dads. Homebirth should not be held up as some universal ideal. I don’t share my homebirth story to shame or belittle others’ births. I share my story, because I hope it can provide something to others, to mamas in particular, and other birthing people who might be considering a home birth. And I encourage everyone to consider it. Because it was truly awesome, and…shit got real. If my experience can be helpful to anyone, I’m glad to put this out there, as private, intimate, and raw as it is. As births always are. It is also wonderful to be witnessed by others. Just you taking the time to read this account is a gift to me – thank you for that.
This song, and many others from this soul-mama, this Queen, Erykah Badu, kept the wind in my sails and air in my lungs. Singing with her helped carry me through.
Birth is good* — an ancient and unfolding fractal of life-giving,
going all the way back to the origin of life. Mundane as anything, and sacred beyond words.
*when chosen, and embarked upon with autonomy, choice, power, surrounded by and filled with love.
I’d been watching out for shifts in sensation for over a week. The Braxton-Hicks had been coming on in waves, consuming me, though not painfully, for spells of up to two hours at a time before receding back like a tide pulling away from the shore. I was over it, really. Pretending to be zen about it, wanting to be zen about it.
I finally blurted out “I’m SO OVER BEING PREGNANT.” It was a secret to no one, but something I didn’t give myself permission to say out loud.
This pregnancy had been hard on my body. Much harder than last time. I could feel, almost hear my skin give way, a sort of pop, then a strange slithery sensation as a stretch mark would trace its way across my enormous belly. I would watch it happen. I didn’t have a single stretch mark from my first pregnancy. This was so different. Everything about it. I hoped the birth would be different too. I didn’t even notice the Braxton-Hicks during my first pregnancy. This time they consumed me. It felt like I might run out of air sometimes…I was drawn underwater with them.
But, the morning of June 16th, 2018, they were of a different color. I felt far away, like a cloud heavy with rain, but also buried, subterranean, mossy, and green. The world felt muffled but somehow sparkly. The waves were different – a storm was approaching, beyond the horizon, driving the waves harder, choppier, onto the shore. But still, it wasn’t painful. I wasn’t sure it was time.
We had an ordinary sweet day together. My husband Chris, whose gaze makes me feel invincible and fragile all at once, is my favorite adult human. My daughter Lyla, a toddler in every sense of the word, defiant and willful, tender and affectionate, was being clingier and more emotional than ever. I wore my most beautiful pregnancy dress – form-fitting and long, ivory with colorful flowers. I felt like Demeter. Like Gaia. Blossoming. Ripe and juicy. Earthy and damp, like rich soil.
In the late afternoon, I suddenly felt like we’d better stock up on groceries – what if this is it? Off to Berkeley Bowl we went. On the way, the waves became surges – electrical, pulsing, alive. It was on. 4:00pm. We called my mother-in-love Lynn to pick meet us at home to pick up Lyla. We called our midwife, Jessamyn, and my dear friend Nicole who would be helping with the birth, discussing the plans.
I waited in line with the cart, nonchalantly timing the surges. 2 minutes apart. Simultaneously subtle and strong. Work was getting done. A woman asked me when I’m due. “Now.” Casual friendliness and horror crashed into each other on her face. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?”
“Nope.”
We got home and as I put away the groceries I found had to use my voice to get through the surges, which took on a whole new velocity.
“Haaaaaah… Haaaaaah… Haaaaaaaaah…….”
Swaying, leaning on the counter, breathing deeply, letting out “Haaaaaaaaah…..”
I walked my precious daughter out to my mother-in-love’s car. Holding her, my firstborn, in my arms, so in love with her, tucking her into her car seat, knowing everything would be different for her when she would return in one week. Life was changing for all of us.
Chris and I walked back into the apartment, steady and feeling good.
The surges continued to build. I put Erykah Badu on. My favorite person in the world to sing with is her. This wasn’t a premeditated choice, but it was so obvious, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t called on her last time around.
“Back in the day when things were cool….”
Chris went to make us some dinner. He got the food prepped and started on the stove, then turned to wash his hands — NO WATER.
We checked with our neighbors. No water. Shit. A water main broke out on Park Blvd, by Oakland High School. The entire neighborhood was without running water.
SHIT.
“You’re in labor!! Oh NO!”
“We’re doing it old school — we’ll make it work.”
Our neighbors gave us some of their emergency water so we could set up hand-washing stations in the kitchen and bathroom. We had water to drink.
No big deal. No anxiety. No stress. I came out of a surge singing …
“Gimme some’a that Bom-bom bom-bom bomp-a-domp.
Well, well, well…”
It was around 6:00 pm. I ate a hearty meal, chatted with Nicole, my girl. She holds pristine, happy, loving space. She was perfect to be with during my birth.
7:00 pm and Jessamyn arrived. We danced to a few songs, then she checked my cervix once only — finding I was at six or seven centimeters already! I was prepared to hear two or three. Oh, this is going to be a different birth. Just like the pregnancy. This child is their own.
“Hello, baby. We’re doing this thing.”
Jessamyn was concerned about my blood pressure, running in the 130s/80s, higher than my prenatal measurements. I wasn’t worried. I felt fantastic. Not like the blood pressure issues I faced in my last birth, much higher and accompanied by swelling and generally feeling unwell. I felt great! I danced and sang this baby out of me. They had me lay on my left side to see if that would bring my blood pressure down. It worked, but it was not my favorite position for labor…it’s hard to dance on one’s side. The surges were incredibly intense…bringing tears to my eyes. Chris stayed with me through them all, present and constant, while granting me space. I felt my eyes overflow with tears. It wasn’t fear, but awe. I couldn’t believe how much I was experiencing. Every cell was on. Every neuron in my brain. Every tinsel of muscle was engaged, vibrating with aliveness, pain, strength. A unique electricity. Lying on my left side in bed, snuggling, kissing Chris. “I love you.” Nicole and Chris took turns rubbing my back, holding me.
I’d come out of a surge smiling, dancing. “Yes, this is so good. So so good.”
Between surges, I would surprise myself singing…
“Bom-bom bom-bom bomp-a-domp…..Well, well, well…”
I was having fun, even through the enormity of transition. Ellen, the second midwife, arrived. She was shocked and tickled when I acknowledged her arrival.
“Hi Ellen!”
Apparently, in transition, people aren’t typically so jovial.
But I was having a great time. It felt like a weird private party in my body and my home. A birthday party. Where I could cry if I wanted to.
I got up to pee, and it was clear we were very close. When I came back to the bed, I wanted to be upright. I stood on my knees, surrounded by my team. I felt myself, my vulva, how it was transforming in the process of birthing my child. It was me – my body. I felt a smooth, balloon-like surface emerging, and announced with some amazement and nerdy awkwardness “I think I can feel my bag of waters” adding to Jessamym “… you wanna feel?” She laughed, wanting to make sure it wasn’t the baby’s head surprising us all with a sudden debut. I was just so blown away to be feeling my own amniotic sac, I proclaimed “it’s definitely the bag of waters…I…”
“WHOOSH… ” (or more like skadoosh).
“WHOA! well, not anymore.” Everyone’s eyes were wide. “Whoa.”
So. Much. Fluid.
I belly laughed. Everyone else joined in, once they shook off the surprise.
Then… WHAM. We were shifting gears in a major way… headlong into the next phase. Calling it the “pushing phase” seems ill-suited to my experience. This was a volcanic eruption. Completely involuntary. A force of nature. I held on to the headboard, standing on my knees, in the same place we conceived this child exactly 40 weeks prior and felt the fabric of reality tear open.
This cannot overpower me because it is me.
“Open, open, open,” I told myself to OPEN!
I thought the walls of my apartment might be blasted out around me – the force of my voice sending the plaster and wood flying like a bomb going off. 7 minutes of “pushing” – in one blast and the baby’s head was born, one more, and our slippery, swimming child was born into the hands of my husband Chris and Jessamyn, my midwife. 11:33 pm, 6/16/2018, just before Father’s Day.
They hand the baby to me, through my legs. I sit and hug them to me, their warm, wet body. I sit back and recline. I’m smiling and crying, overjoyed, and shattered, and whole. I lift the baby’s leg to get a peek, and announce with glee “She’s a girl! Another girl!” I’m just overjoyed with her. She’s crying a little, but mostly has calmed down, wrapped up against my chest, and looks remarkably clean. Hardly any vernix at all. Chris and I kiss her wet little head, in a timeless moment, delicately crafting our family with love.
“Naomi Rose. You are perfect. We love you.”
I glance up from this new being’s face and see between my legs there are faces heavy with a great deal of seriousness.
“Are you feeling any urge to push?” Jessamyn asks.
Nope.
“Tell your uterus to stop bleeding,” Jessamyn instructs me.
There’s some hustling about. I’m given two injections of Pitocin in my hip/butt muscle, a dose of misoprostol in my cheek, and another between them.
“You’re bleeding too much, Elisabeth. Tell your uterus to stop.”
“STOP BLEEDING, UTERUS. STOP BLEEDING,” somewhat amused, I instruct my body, believing it would help. I felt great and was not afraid.
I felt Jessamyn help my placenta emerge, and then pushing into my belly, down onto my uterus, kneading it like dough. My mouth was dry with the bitter taste of those pills in my cheek.
“That is one of the biggest placentas I have ever seen,” exclaims Ellen, the second midwife, who’s been practicing for as long as I’ve been alive, “that explains it.”
The bleeding slows and disaster seems to be averted. My blood pressure is normal. My heart rate a tad high. We won’t have to transfer me to the hospital unless I start bleeding rapidly again. I didn’t see how much blood had been lost – but I could tell from their faces that it was far too much to be taken lightly. Later, they took the pads and chucks and sheets into my daughter’s room to estimate the blood loss — 6 cups at least. Wow. That’s enough to warrant a blood transfusion in most hospitals. But my vitals were stable and good.
“Good news! The water is back on. Wanna shower?”
“YASSSS!”
I had so much energy! Ellen accompanied me, and I marveled at how amazing it is to take a shower — what a gift! And…this is definitely my last birth. All done. Two and through. That’s my big finale. I took a bow.
Since I was able to walk around, take a shower, use the restroom, without any wooziness or dizziness, they concluded it was safe for me to stay home, but I had to monitor my vitals and bleeding closely. They handled the situation with profound respect and professionalism and treated me with prudence and individual care. I was not a protocol, but a person, with unique abilities and needs. I’m so grateful to have been cared for on my own turf, to be the leader of my care, and to have a team of people in support of my vision for birth – rather than being crammed into the expectations and protocols of others. It was a perfectly imperfect birth – perfect exactly as it was, with the challenges and foibles of a raw human experience. It was real, unadulterated me, giving life to a pure being. I am so proud of myself and the group of people who made it happen.
“Soulflower, take me flying with you…”
I pray that every birthing person may have this. This sense of power and peace. This flood of ferocious love and courage. This experience of self as life itself. What might the world be like if we claimed that? Reclaimed that? Shared that? We might save ourselves.
Jessamyn and Ellen lovingly clean up, feed us, tuck us into bed with our beautiful brand new child, and quietly leave.
It’s about 2:30 am, Father’s Day. Naomi Rose falls asleep on her sleeping daddy’s chest. I just watched them till my eyes closed.
“This is the meaning of life, I think,” I remember saying aloud to whoever might hear.
“Well, well, well…”
