11-1-04
And baby makes…five.
My third child, a beautiful daughter, was born into the world last Tuesday. In the wee dark hours of a rainy October night, little Eleanor Paige safely made her way into this world in the attic of our schoolhouse home.
Her story begins last March. I was frantically searching for items I needed for a work deadline. My basement office still housed unpacked boxes from our move one year earlier and it was within one such box I found a home pregnancy test unused from when we were trying to conceive Zoe. Eager to take a break from working, I sat down and thought about when my period was due—always a tricky figure with my irregular cycles and doubly so because I had only had one flow since Zoe’s birth, nearly a year earlier. I decided that if I were a person with regular periods, I would be two weeks late. With no symptoms and no real belief I was pregnant, I took the test for fun. I decided it was good distraction from my chaotic day and when it was negative I could at least know I wasn’t pregnant.
The pregnancy line showed before the control line.
Now, I am not a person for surprises. I can hardly keep my mouth shut when it comes to the holidays and birthdays. I don’t plan them well, I don’t keep them well. I like to know what is coming. I like to plan for things. A surprise pregnancy was not in the plan, thankyouverymuch. Zoe was just over a year old! My hands started to shake, my stomach immediately churned with nerves and the very idea of telling Mike about the pregnancy made me feel faint. My husband is a reasonable man, but he wasn’t (and isn’t!) the type to deal with change without putting up a fight.
I called Jenny, my best friend, who was living in England at the time. “You don’t have to have a baby, you know.” Yes, I knew that. It wasn’t an option for me. She listened to me cry and relate my fears about Mike’s reaction and offered her love and support. I told her I was sure I’d get used to the idea and be happy, but that I didn’t know when that would be.
For some reason, I was terrified of telling Mike. I don’t really know why, but somehow I felt as if it were my fault. I realize it takes two people to make a pregnancy happen, but in my heightened emotional state, I couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt. I imagined him mad at me. My husband rarely even raises his voice, the fear I had was more that he would hold me solely accountable for this pregnancy—it was unrealistic and unfair, I’m sure I was projecting my fears and feelings onto him.
I decided to try and make the actual telling a little humerous. I taped the positive test to the outside of the back door and on yellow tape I wrote the word, “Caution.” Then all of the sudden it was gametime. I saw him park the car and walk across the yard. He approached the door and appeared not to notice the beacon signaling doom. Ever so slightly, he did a double-take as he opened the door. “What does this mean?” He said very sternly. “What does this mean? Are you pregnant?”
All I could do was sob, “Yes.”
He rushed over to me and said, “Oh that is wonderful!” That man. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” I told him I thought he’d be mad at me and he looked at me with a you’re-such-a-wacky-dame expression and I knew I was just a little crazy. “What a beautiful day to find out we’re having another baby!” He hugged me and said, “But we have to stop at three, okay?”
After I was sure my marriage was intact, I realized how unprepared we were to welcome another life into this world. Our cars were crappy and our house was too small. I believe that you can put your needs out to the universe and most of the time the universe responds. Sometimes it’s not what you expect, but it is often what you need. On a photo shoot later that month, I found the house we were to move into—a remodeled turn-of-the-century schoolhouse. It’s 22 miles from the city, which proved both good (more space, beautiful environment), and bad (somewhat isolating). After moving to the schoolhouse, we found the van we needed for sale on the side of the road. It had some body damage but it was priced right and big enough. Oh, and it was purple. A big, gas-guzzling, suburban-mom, PURPLE van. I used to make fun of people who drove vans like ours. Now I just smile as I jauntily place my Starbucks in the cup-holder and listen to NPR. When did I get so….unhip?
The pregnancy was fairly uneventful. I didn’t get terrible morning sickness and had more energy than I had with my others. My weight gain was slow and steady and things were generally easy until September. September was a hard, hard month. All of the sudden my body turned on me. My pelvis began to ache with every movement, a condition known as Pubic Symphsis Disorder. The ligament that holds the two halves of the pubic bone together starts to soften in preparation for the baby’s decent. The only problem is that the bones tend to scat and jive during the process resulting in movement=pain.
On top of the PSD, I got a terrible case of what my mother-in-law calls “hemmies.” Actually, I have no idea if it was terrible in the grand scheme of how bad they could be. All I knew is that my butt was not a happy place to be and that equaled a terrible case.
Had it not been for my trance-like obsession with getting and keeping the house clean, things might have been okay. I was a like a woman possessed, though, and my to-do list for the house was never ending. My children seemed to be in a war against me: making messes, taking off diapers and peeing (or worse) on the floor, cutting and pasting things that should not be cut and pasted—it was enough to drive a hugely-pregnant woman mad. And it did, at times. My body was so tired, in so much constant pain, I felt beaten and worn as I approached 36 weeks.
And then, all of the sudden, I didn’t. One day I woke up and felt a little better. The next day I felt even better. By the end of my 37th week, I was feeling like a new woman. The house was clean, the labor preparations were done and I was more and more ready to have this wee surprise girl.
Mike’s contract at a Seattle theatre ended in my 38th week. He found work the following week. That left one week work-free because his new job started on November 1st. This was my 39th-40th week of pregnancy. After trying all of the low-intervention home induction techniques (walking, sex, spicy food), I decided I was ready for some big guns.
I wanted to kick-start this labor with castor oil. I had a very positive experience with castor oil with Zoe’s birth--labor needed to be kick-started because I was showing signs of developing pre-eclampsia. If I wanted a homebirth with her, it was a “now or never” kind of thing. With this baby, I knew Mike only had one week off and I wanted him around as much as possible. Generally, I’m not one for interventions but knew if my body wasn’t ready, castor oil wouldn’t start labor and we had nothing to lose.
On Monday the 25th, we went to my midwifery appointment. I was seeing a pair of midwives in Olympia, just about an hour away. As luck would have it, the women who delivered Zoe was on call for that week. I was excited to have her again even though I knew I was in capable hands with either of them. The two women compliment each other beautifully: Constance is tiny in stature and tremendous in strength and Marijke is sturdy, tall and graceful. When I first started going to their practice, Constance had been ill with the flu. Marijke excused her absence from our introductory appointment and said Marijke said Constance had been racked with fever and the chills, so much so that Marijke had to wrap her up in her arms to calm her shaking body. The thought of Marijke holding her friend through that kind of illness has always made me feel safe. I often marveled at the dance they must do behind-the-scenes to make it all appear so effortless to their clients.
Constance asked me what I had in mind for jump-starting labor. When I said castor oil, we both knew how serious I was. I could see her putting on her game face and the tenor of the appointment changed. She remarked that I looked ready, that I seemed really clear and centered. I felt that way, too.
“Do you want me to strip your membranes?” she asked. “Yup. Do it all. Let’s get this show on the road.” She reached in to feel my cervix. I was at a 1 and very soft. She massaged the cervix a bit and worked her fingers slowly between the bag of waters and my uterine wall. Yowza. My body remembered what labor felt like right away. By the time she was finished, I was dilated to a 2. It was not a pain-free experience, but it was well worth it if it would get labor started. My orders were to go home, blend 3 oz of castor oil with 1 pint of ice cream and one cup milk. After I had chugged that, I was to take a hot shower, then a long walk and then have sex. At the end of four hours, I was to call Constance with an update.
The ice cream of choice this go-around was plain chocolate. At 1pm, I mixed the shake in the blender as Mike got busy doing various last-minute house hold things. The house was pretty cluttered, so after my shower, I got busy cleaning. Zoe napped and Violet drifted from me to Mike, helping when she could. The castor oil cleaned my bowels fairly quickly and painlessly. The contractions I had been having for days seemed to regulate a bit and pick up—ever so slightly—in intensity. At the end of four hours I was disheartened because the contractions I was having seemed very mild. With Zoe, my water broke after the mandated sex portion of the instructions. No such luck this time. I figured I’d have to repeat the castor oil—which I didn’t know that I was capable of because it was so disgusting the thought of retaking it made me want to vomit.
5pm. I called Constance. Yes, I’m contracting. About every 4-6 minutes. They are really mild and I’m able to keep busy, talk, etc. though them. They’re regular and they are more intense but I’m not convinced this is labor. She advised me not to retake the castor oil—if I was in early labor, these contractions were doing the job of further effacing me and the big guns would come out later. If not, I could retake the castor oil the next day after a good night’s rest. She asked me to call her before I went to bed. I was disappointed.
Not for long, though. Things started to get interesting. Not convincing, but interesting. At 8:30 pm we called because, wouldn’t you know it, my contractions were 2-3 minutes apart. They were close but they were not impressive, not knock-your-socks-off contractions. Mike was kind of freaking out that they were so close together, but their frequency was not a indicator of their intensity. I did feel good making vocalizations through them. Constance heard me vocalizing through them I was vocalizing through them and said she and her two assistants, Carolee and Melanie, would come right away—which meant they’d be there in 1-2 hours because of our location and traffic. We called Jenny, who had returned from England by this time, and asked her to come out. I needed a distraction and knew that the girls would love having her there if we wanted to go for a walk.
When Jenny arrived, we all danced to Dar Williams, “The Christians and the Pagans” and Jenny massaged my hands and feet. Pure heaven. Zoe snuggled with me on the couch, nursing now and then. Violet watched with concern when I had a contraction, held my hand and said, “It’s okay, Mama.” When she knew I was okay, she smiled big and said, “Baby coming! Baby coming out of mama’s yoni!”
Then Mike and I walked. We went down to the cove and looked at the water. The night was black, slightly foggy and it was sprinkling. I held our huge umbrella. Mike went hatless. I was worried about his head. My contractions were regular and strong but not overwhelming at all. I felt good. I did not feel as if I was in labor, though, and figured it would all go away once I stopped moving. I was so afraid of making a big scene over nothing.
Constance, Carolee and Melanie arrived around 10pm. Everyone was in good spirits, including me. I found that if I stood up, my contractions maintained their intensity. I leaned against our large sofa and relaxed my lower body. I paced and paced, fearing sitting and the end of contractions. The midwives took my vitals and I asked Constance to check me. Earlier I told Jenny I would be disappointed if I was only at a 4, but I figured I was at a 4. I layed down and was hit by a much stronger contraction. It took my breath away and surprised me quite a bit. “You’re at a 4, oh wait…make that a 5…and mostly effaced!” Okay, okay, I thought, at least that is progress.
For an hour I chatted and paced behind the couch. Honestly, I was getting bored of it all. My contractions were great but so unimpressive to me in my state of denial that I was just sure I was going to stall out. Constance said that I had a lot of fluid; so much fluid, in fact, that the baby wasn’t really putting any pressure on my cervix. I decided that being a watched pot was not doing me any good. “I’m going to go upstairs and lay down.” Constance thought it was a great idea. Everyone marched upstairs with me and tucked me in. “Am I really in labor? Are you sure it’s not going to stop?” Constance looked at me, smiled and said, “Yes! You are really in labor!” I believed her.
Everyone left the room.
11pm. I relaxed into the bed and began my familiar mediation with my baby. As the mother of two, often the only time I had for the baby within was at night. I would envision my labor, quick and easy, though meditation. I retreated into my mind and connected with my child. I saw soft blues and greens when I thought of my unborn daughter. I could see her head in my mind’s eye as it floated between my pelvic bones. I told her it was okay to come down further in my pelvis. I saw her head lowering, I told in a wordless message that it was time to be born. Coaxing her silently in my mind, I saw my baby move down into my pelvis. I didn’t notice the rising contraction within my belly. I told her it was okay for my water to break and as I envisioned her head breaking my water…
My water broke.
No really, it did. It was amazing. My body jolted when it happened, surprised by the force behind it. I yelled, “Hey! Hello! HELLO!” But no one heard me. Again. This time the whole gang heard. “I’m coming, honey!” Constance said with urgency. I felt safe, I knew I was taken care of. They arrived and I recounted what had just happened though my meditation. Constance said I was amazing, that I had such a special connection with body and with my baby. I felt excited and overwhelmed with love. Love for my birth team and love for my special heart-child.
What I do know about the next two and a half hours is that I entered laborland very quickly. I hardly remember details—it comes to me in waves of images, snippets of conversation and sense memory. I took a bath, I labored in the big, brown, ugly chair, I tried laying down but it was terrible, I tried leaning against Mike and that didn’t do much for me. It’s like I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop walking, moving, pacing…my body and mind wouldn’t rest. The contractions were intense but manageable. It seemed like things were dragging on. At one point I asked for direction. Constance said if I wanted to rest I could try laying down again. No, No. What can I do to get this over with? So I walked the stairs. It helped. When I returned, I sensed the room was tired. I, too, yawned between nearly every contraction. When I entered transition, the time of biggest trepidation on my part, I was standing by my bed with one foot on the bed and one on the ground.
Transition is the time to face the greatest fear, look it in the eye and move through it. In my life I struggle with facing and simply being with pain or hurt. In the moments of a transition contraction, I see/sense/feel/be the pain and it takes all I have as a woman to face it and not let it consume me. Constance’s voice, her steady, strong voice often reminded me that I would be able to get to the other side in once piece, I would remain whole. Like a great shaman, she walked the path with me, supporting me with her love and strength.
I can’t do this. I’m going to die. Maaaaaaaa mmmmmaaaaaaaaaaa. Even hearing myself echo the word mama, startled me. Was I calling for my own mother? Was I calling on all mothers? I don’t know. Anyone who knows me knows that my mother does not fulfill the role of mother in my life in a traditional sense and would also know that I would not call on her in my greatest time of need. I don’t know where those words came from, but I found myself saying them over and over. I think those words were my cry to be mothered. My need to be mothered. I don’t anyone do this because most of the time I’ll resent them. I’m strong. I’m powerful. I don’t need anyone, especially another woman helping me. But I do. But I do and I don’t know how to ask for it. I fear so much: rejection, judgment, abandonment that I find it safer to simply rely on myself. I know I won’t let myself down.
Constance in her role as my midwife is really the only woman I’ve let fill this role without me resenting them later. The relationship is one that burns so bright for such a short time, perhaps I feel safer in it than in my day-to-day. Regardless, she is a kindrid, special woman whom I hold in the highest regard.
I’m going to die. Constance assures me I am not going to die. “Jesse, look at me.” I can’t open my eyes. “Jesse, you have to face it to move through it. You can do this. Stay on top of it.” And I do. And it’s time.
I move to the bed on all fours. Instinctivly, I know this is the best way for my baby to be born. I feel the urge to push as she slips past my tailbone. She feels so big, the urge to push is coupled with pain and fear I didn’t remember having with Zoe. Constance tells me the baby is probably bigger, that it’s okay and I can do it. I pushhhhhhhhhhh again and reach inside of myself to feel her head. She’s half way down. She’s coming, I say. She’s almost here. They ask me if I wanted to watch and I say I can’t move from this spot. “Someone wake up Violet.” No, no. We’ll wake her after. “Get the camera.”
Pushhhhhhhh and I feel her head against my perineum. I’m ripping. Help me. “You’re stretching beautifully.” Pushhhhhhh and her head is born. I hear the assistants say, “Head!” to mark the time. “Come on baby, which way are you going to turn?” Constance asks. Pushhhhhhhh. Baby has so much room, she doesn’t rotate her shoulders, just comes straight out. I feel her body slide from mine in one motion. Rush of fluid. Immediate relief. It took just six minutes.
She cried straight away. My other girls didn’t—they were slow to start. I heard Constance say, “Jesse, hold your baby…” but I can’t move from my hands and knees position. They helped me roll over, but her cord is too short for me to move while she is still attached. They have to cut it before I can move. Jenny cut the cord this time. Finally, I am able to lay on my back and they give her to me. Oh, baby, baby. You’re here. We did it.
1:28am, October 26th, 2004. She weighed 7 lbs., 15 ozs and was 20.5 inches long. We named her Eleanor Paige. She has blonde hair like her sister, Violet. Because I had so much fluid, she hardly shows any signs of labor. When we woke Violet up (we decided not to wake Zoe because she is harder to put back to sleep), she is elated. She especially loved the placenta lesson Carolee gave her about the “tree of life” in the placenta. She watched as Jenny and Carolee make a beautiful placenta print on paper. Remarkably, the print shows a clearly defined tree.
My recovery was difficult, despite the ease of labor. I felt as if the umbilical cord was electrocuting me every time it moved and my uterus and pelvis felt painful in a way that is hard to describe. My body shook with aderenaline let-down. Finally I began to feel better after I am cleaned up and given some homeopathic rescue-remedy. Eleanor nursed very well right from the beginning, something I am eternally grateful for.
Before everyone left us around 3:30am, I remember Constance smiling, talking to us and giving Mike instructions before I fell into a into a deep, peaceful sleep next to my sweet girl. It was a thankful sleep. Sweet, sweet…
