The story of my daughter's birth

Amelia’s birth story begins one year before my pregnancy began.  It was May 2004 when I anticipated attending my first birth as a doula. It was an experience with unexpected trajectory.  The hopeful first time mother and I arrived at the hospital labor and delivery room for evaluation.  From the first, it was bad news.  The baby’s heart was not beating.  An ultrasound confirmed the tragic news.  We were all shocked.  No heartbeat.  So she labored, I supported, she cried, I held her.  It went on until the next morning (Mother’s Day) her baby girl arrived dead.  It was horrible and holy.  

During my pregnancy with Amelia, I attended eight other births that resulted in health babies and happy mothers.  I did not doubt that my own pregnancy would end any differently.  My husband and I took a local childbirth class and decided we wanted to have our baby at home.  We wanted choices about who was there and how things were done. 

The plans for a home birth came together when we met our midwife Lynn.  We felt that we could trust her professional experience and midwifery skills.  The healthcare she provided was personalized and conscientious.  As the “due date” of February 23 grew closer .

It is a classic end of pregnancy story common to many in that last weeks of pregnancy were physically uncomfortable.  In the midst of the waiting I got swallowed up by anxiety.   My baby’s head was engaged, low in the pelvis and it hurt to walk.  My hips and pelvic bones ached.  The daily task of caring for our 2 year old son was all I could manage.  Emotionally weary, my fear of the pain yet to come grew fierce.  The moments of calm and peace eventually unraveled to anxiety. Will my baby die before it is born?  The thought stalked me, kept me from sleeping. I hesitated to speak the fear, sure that if it passed my lips to words somehow it was more likely to come to pass in my womb. 

Sensing that there was something bothering me during a phone call my midwife pressed, “What are you holding back?” The images and memories crept into my mind.  I managed to tell her a bit about my first doula birth and the stillborn baby.  I played down my anxiety, admitting how haunted I was induced near panic.

In the days following that conversation I became convinced my baby was not going to come out.  My contractions started, the crescendo of intensity and spacing played out over the course of an afternoon and evening.  The labor team was summoned, birth pool filled, candles lit, lights dimmed.  Then a decrescendo, winding down and calming of contractions.  I was Jonah swallowed whole in the belly of despair.  This baby would not be born.

A few days later my body awakened during the night at the return of rhythmic contractions.  By morning light it was certain this labor was here to stay, this baby to be born.  Birth team reassembled, birth pool refilled, coffee brewing in the kitchen, it was time. 

I felt safest in the darkness and close to my husband.  He was patient and stayed nearby. I could tell he was nervous, but acted with confidence and experience.  I obsessively waited for the moment it was time to listen for my baby’s heartbeat.  Always strong and steady I tentatively pushed away the anxiety.  It came back to me like a tide pulls in at the shore.  Now in the midst of labor, still I was not convinced this baby would be born. 

Contractions paced themselves over the course of a few hours without any progress in my opening.  Lynn our midwife approached me again wanting to know “What is it that is holding you back?”  I erupted a live active emotional volcano of hot tears.  Sobbing I let it all pour out, guilt, fear, shame, worry, disbelief, lack of confidence.  Silently my doula and midwife listened, holding my hands.  Passing me fresh tissues.  Raw and vulnerable I was emptied out.  Their words of love and encouragement filled me back up.  I began to believe it was ok for this baby to pass through and be born.  That she would be ok. 

My spirit renewed I expected my labor to pick up.  Contractions persisted but were not strong enough to cause me to dilate.  Lynn sensed that my labor was not improving despite my emotional release.  An enema was administered to encourage my labor to progress and it worked.  Physical sensation dominated and finally muted out my emotional brain.  Finally I was one with the surging contractions able to surrender to the ancient course of pain and relief all women in childbirth experience.

All at once I knew it was time to get into the birth pool.  The warm water relieved the intensity of the pain and eased my aching muscles.  Sheltered in the watery nest I was able to rest between contractions and stay loose as they inhabited my body.  An hour later the pressure in my hips so intense I found myself pushing.  All the sudden I got up on my hands and knew, leaning over the side of the pool.  “The baby is coming’” I mater-of-factly told everyone.  I felt it happen.  She moved out of my pelvis into my birth canal. The intense pressure eased when I pushed.  My body worked on auto pilot following its own course bringing my baby down and out of me. 

“Pull you baby out of the water,” the midwife’s assistant instructed as she helped me sit back.  With disbelief I reached down and pulled her from the warm water.  “Is the baby out?  Am I done?” I asked in disbelief.  My husband smiled through his tears, “You are done… you were amazing.” All along I harbored a hope I was carrying a girl, but we didn't have any ultrasounds during the pregnancy. The moment of truth finally upon us, sweet joy a daughter!  Amelia Elizabeth Black weighing in at over 9 pounds alive and well and breathing.

Mother’s Day, the anniversary of the baby’s death, came two months later.  I gathered with the parents and their extended family for mass, then a lavish Mexican meal.    The mother took me aside to her bedroom where an alter had been laid.  The alter held the cremated remains of her baby, photos from the birth, and an abundance of gifts, sweets, and fruit.  Tearfully we talked about her baby’s full head of hair, plump body, and perfect feet- just as you would with the mother of any newborn.  The sacredness of her loss the privilege of witnessing such love and grief was not lost on me.  Suddenly my ears perked at the cries of baby Amelia fussing in the other room.  I rose and went to her.  Nursing her I wept, grateful not only for my living daughter but with a new respect for the delicate connection between birth and life and death and gratitude for the process.