Esmé Hazel’s Birth Story : My VBA2C!
The story of Esmé’s birth can’t be told without the story of her conception. The two are so linked in my mind that one without the other would simply be a half of the truth of her being. She came to me in a dream, she was about three years old and laughing, always just outside of my field of vision. I had seen her before; just after my second son was born, lying breastfeeding him in bed in the crook of my arm I saw so vividly in my mind’s eye, myself standing up and birthing my daughter. I *knew* with certainty the way I look at my hand and know it is mine, here now and attached to my arm, that I would be having a third child and that she would be born through me in a way her brothers had not been. Her two older brothers were born by caesarean section. Both planned and longed for home births that went astray and ended up with my body and heart lying on the surgical alter, a sacrifice to the looming white masks and shiny metal technology. Me praying and wondering as to what had gone wrong? My first son, born to me at the tender woman-age of 21 years, myself utterly absorbed in thoughts of breastfeeding, co-sleeping and the magical family-birth that would see my son sliding out of me at the side of my bed and the three of us warm an hour later and joyous over the miracle of our home birthed child. The shocking birth-reality was a consistently lying posterior presenting baby who could not be shifted and whose long (unsupported) labour meant a hospital transfer and the slippery slope of interventions resulting in a surgical birth. Little brother arrived not quite two years later, this time with support from Independent Midwives, but again a transfer after being almost fully dilated but having a ‘high’ baby who had not entered the pelvis. Waters broken in hospital resulted in a baby whose heart rate dipped so dramatically I was not even awake to see his birth.
Enter myself, four years later, newly raw from a torrential blood-loss miscarriage and recently at the end of a self led- tandem weaning. I was ready and feeling passionate about the visions and dreams I had had about *my* daughter, waiting in the wings for me to be ready for her. I saw myself, again and again, both day and night dreams, standing and birthing my child. My recent miscarriage had been a strange and traumatic one, where my body had held onto a dead foetus for six weeks before haemorrhaging so badly I again needed surgery to extract the tiny dot of a child-life.
After this, months went by while I recovered in body. I took long lone healing walks early or late in the day when Don could watch our two un-schooled boys. I wondered would I haemorrhage again if I tried to be pregnant. Would I die this time? Would another c-section be the end of me or my baby – did I want to even go there with such doubts? How could I even contemplate another pregnancy when the risks seemed so high, for us all; my sons without a mother? Or Don struggling to bring them up, maybe with a baby too but without me? Unthinkable.
It was spring and life was everywhere one could turn and look, flinging its self wide, open and gloriously abundant. One day, desperately unhappy with these inner conflicts I took a stumbling meandering walk through narrow Welsh-country lanes where I never ever saw another person. Crying all the while, trying to decide (it felt – this one last time) whether or not to try and have this other child my heart and body and breasts so longed for. I looked at the grass rippling white in the sunlight and wind, freshly budding lime-green leaves in the trees.... and then a new, large and seemingly perfect leaf fell, blown by the wind from its oh-so-new place in its tree fluttering down to my feet. How could a new leaf fall from the tree? Why? Why this one when that other might stay for months until autumn? What was *wrong* with this one? The tragedy for this leaf that would not live to feel the summer sun, nor ripen and then wither alongside its peers! Mystifying. I held it and turned it over in my hands and staring hard, listening with every cell of my being for the secret of life to be revealed to me. For that was what it felt like: life stripped down to its essence; this one leaf in my hand. Nothing. Silence. But not silence; the rich sound that is life breathing and dying in fields and trees and water and air. I heard laughter, an old woman laughing, but gently so in my head. And the thoughts and feeling came to me in a rush: Life was just there to be lived. Life and birth and death were inseparable. Not bad, nor good. There was no meaning, but there was also every meaning we could ascribe. This leaf had fallen ‘early’ from the tree, but it was not ‘early’ it was just time, for within life there is also no time. Everything seemed so right in that moment standing there in sunlight and surrounded by green and wind. I knew that I would not be living my life unless I *lived* it, with meaning and with the truth that made me stop crying and smile and walk home. Fast.
Towards my family and home.
That night Esmé was conceived. I joined the rest of the universe, the rest of spring, open in every way, happy to receive life.
I hired independent midwives again. This time though – wow! My midwife said to me once that on some level I had called to her and on another she to me. Each of us gaining. She was not worried by my having had two previous caesareans. And really our meetings never really focused on the physical, instead we talked and talked. Or rather I talked and she listened. I found the true midwife in Sheila, the maiden, mother and wise crone in one woman blessed with having been truly with women in their efforts to bring their babies into being. This pregnancy was the hardest of all three for me. On the one physical side I had SPD (Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction ) but more than this pain I found I was just plagued with fears. Fears that I would haemorrhage and bleed to death either from my scar rupturing or from placental problems during the birth. The fear of dying, this constant nagging worry had me staring dry eyed in terror lying in bed in the middle of the night feeling so guilt ridden that I had chosen a ‘risky’ pregnancy when I ought to have been grateful for the two amazing children already in my life. Then the added twisted knot of feeling that by dwelling on my fears I was positively manifesting them! Added to the imagined negative feelings I supposed my unborn child must be sensing! But they were still there, nagging even when I tried to push them down/away. Thank goodness for feeling so comfortable with Sheila that I could talk to her about them. We discussed so many things, from incidents in my childhood and teenage years to my previous births and miscarriage, my relationships with other women in my life.... Sheila would often turn things around and repeat them back to me in ways which showed my strengths in trying times (rather than my seeing only the failures of body and spirit) , find positives, without trying to buoy me up, respecting the need to grieve for certain things. Suggested meditations, always emphasising maintaining a connection with my child, this little one who had chosen me, talking, sensing, connecting and listening in stillness. Remembering always my clear visions of birthing. We talked about imagining the placenta peeling away from my womb, slipping out, and minimal blood loss. We talked about my going through the birth in meditation (which I would do every night in bed before sleep) and just letting it play out, Sheila asking each time I saw her what had come up for me recently. When I had worries about my scar I rubbed comfrey and St. Johns Wort oil into it every day, imagining the criss-crossing fibres of my womb becoming stronger, more elastic. When I did find myself in moments of peace (lying in the bath was common) I would get an overwhelming sense from my baby of calmness and stillness and that everything was going to be just fine. It was good.
And then it was time. Ripe at 40 weeks, my womb began contracting; my baby was ready to be born1
My mother arrived on the Sunday afternoon to sleep with and care for my two boys and later that same night in bed my womb began to contract. Excited though, I sensed it was still a long way to the birth and when Don asked – what shall I do? I replied– go to sleep! That’s what I plan on doing! And I did. Amazingly I slept through the sporadic, mild contractions, rocking my body back and forth when they overcame me. In the morning I woke and went downstairs and the contractions stopped. Or rather, for the rest of the morning and early afternoon they were alternately spaced out, half an hour between each one, or sometimes only five or ten minutes, varying in intensity. I rang Sheila and she said to call her back when I wanted her to come, even if they were not close together but intense feeling. By 6 pm Sheila arrived, the contractions were still all over the place but feeling much stronger. We had a nice couple of hours in my bedroom, the boys and my mum in and out, Don Sheila and I sitting and chatting. My mum took the boys off to bed and a million stories and Sheila said she would leave us on our own for a bit and to call her when we wanted her.
As soon as Don and I were on our own with only a dim salt crystal lamp radiating pink-orange my contractions - whoosh! They became fast and powerful, regular. I knelt at the side of the bed, leaning forwards. Don lay down and dozed I think and in silence I rocked back and forth using Don’s steady-as-a-rock hand as my anchor, clasping it with my own, pulling myself back and forth while he kept it steady for me. I lost track of time, maybe we were like that for a couple of hours. The house was silent and dark. I can’t recall if I asked for Sheila or if she came in, but quietly she knelt beside me and checked the baby’s heart rate and my pulse. Checking my pulse was done from then on every 10-15 minutes I think, which is supposed to be the best indicator of anything ‘wrong’ happening – internal bleeding causes the pulse to go down and then up. I decided I needed the pool. The contractions seemed powerful and the pain I couldn’t think what to do with anymore. The pool was up and ready, just awaiting hot water. I stayed with Sheila for a few contractions while Don went downstairs to the study to set things up, but ohhhhhh! I needed him, his steady hand which I could exert any amount of pressure or pull, his hulk, his love, his body. I needed him back and I think from then on he would dash to check on the water in between contractions to be back in time for the next one. I needed to move and so we went downstairs. Earlier in the day we had laid camping pads on the floor covered with sheets, bean bag and cushions, my birth ball, the pool. At the side of the pool on our wooden craft cupboard I had lovingly set up some special items to look at: an amethyst, a moonstone that I had given to my sister in law and which she had kept close throughout her two special births and which she had returned to me with its good birthing energy! A clay goddess offering bowl I had make years earlier, a ‘picture’ I had made with images of inspiration and strength. Last of all was the red thread tied around my wrist. I was not the only one to wear a red thread that night; friends from all over the globe were wearing one too in birth-support after my online message earlier in the day. Don told me later that although I seemed oblivious, his seeing that thread tied around my wrist gave him great support in imagining many women all holding us in their thoughts. How powerful! What an amazing gift!
The pool was not yet body temperature and I was itching to get in, the pain – of which I had given very little thought my entire pregnancy seemed to crash down on me and I felt wretched. Had I really not considered this happening? I cursed myself for such little foresight – so much time had been spent by me getting through fears, meditating –and aside from borrowing a friend’s birth pool I had thought very little about the actual labour and the pain imagining in a vague way that my yoga experience would help out. I tried getting in to the water then anyway and had to get straight back out. Problems with our boiler had to happen just then (of course!), and Don would run outside in the February coldness to the out-house and try to get the heat going. Until that time I was on my knees again, leaning over the beanbag stacked with cushions and gripping vice-like to Don’s hand, moaning.
Despite my pregnancy worries, during this time not one fear overtook me, I felt carried away in my darkened room and had no thoughts other than the pain, diving into it and then resurfacing for air. The pool was ready! The warmth was amazing. At each contraction I would lean on the side and grip Don’s hand again. The contractions were so intense. I could not recall this feeling with the other labours. This was so powerful. The pain was so incredible, and despite wanting to smile and rejoice and welcome each contraction that brought me ever closer to my baby I just twisted and moaned and felt cross and irritated with the height and force of each wave. I had not much anticipated the buoyancy of the water and dislike the way my body floated up! I needed to be down, low to the earth and so got out to the pool. Maybe the cooler air kicked the contractions into yet a higher gear but I told Sheila I really wanted to be examined now to see how far along I was. I really needed to know so that I suppose I could do some crazy calculation in my head and work out how much longer I had to go! The intellectual part of me knew was inaccurate but the pain screamed at me to find out how much I would have to endure. Sheila was reluctant as I knew she would be, having told me earlier that after the first examination the clock ticks – so to speak on the paper-work side of the labour note taking and had asked me not to ask to be examined until the last possible minute! It was a very quick internal as I needed to move but she thought at least 6cm dilated. 6! Only 6! Arrgh! Sheila though it was great – at least 1cm an hour since those bedroom contractions had began. I got back into the pool and somewhere around this time the second midwife arrived but stayed out of the room, respecting my desire for seclusion, privacy and my pre-mentioned fear of being ‘watched’ and no doubt her own sense of how another person can change the dynamics of the room. It seems hazy in my mind this period, I am not sure of the time length, only the intensity of the pain. I couldn’t believe this pain! I thought I knew all about it but this was unlike any previously. It was all consuming and left no space in me for anything. All I wanted was Don’s hand. I moaned and reeled and felt totally desperate and in a flash hoped that Sheila would tell me something was wrong so that I could happily go to hospital and get some serious-knock-me-out pain relief. I only just managed to refrain from asking this out loud, when instead I wondered aloud if she happened to have any gas and air in her car. Yes! I saw Don’s face darken as he must have remembered how last time in hospital I totally abused the stuff and became sick and delirious not letting go of the plastic mouth piece. With this shot of happiness though, I had the obvious and alluring thought that this time could be different –I could use it in a different way! It was such a marvellous idea that it made me smile. I had one or two breathes of the stuff and lay back in the pool and for the first time felt myself relax properly. And with it, found myself voicing a nagging feeling out loud; that I was afraid to lie back and float (which I really wanted to do) in case lying back caused my anterior presenting baby to turn posterior...? Do whatever feels comfortable, was Sheila’s reply. So I did. And it felt very freeing. I used the gas and air on and off and breathed through some contractions without it, after I had used it I slotted the mouth piece into the handle on the pool, like a gun in its holster. I giggled about that. I wanted dry land and again felt that same increase in intensity once out of the pool. Suggested by someone that we try walking upstairs, I did and went straight to my bedroom and bed. The contractions felt immense now and I plummeted down somewhere and really wondered for how much more I could do this, I felt tortured and really wanted to die. Just for some peace, just for a little rest. It did not occur to me that I must be in the phase known as ‘transition’ – between being fully dilated and pushing, despite having read about a million and a half birth stories where it was always slightly amusing to read those bits where the woman says such things and a moment later out pops the baby. So I cried and said I thought I was going to die, that I couldn’t believe I was really going to die in so much pain! I truly felt that I was going to die, and I felt myself feeling and thinking that this was it – I was ‘giving up’, I had nothing left to give, it was the end and now I was just going to give myself over to death, let it have me, welcome me, because I had failed at this birthing thing - again. I let myself flop back into Don and cried and let my body ‘give up’ and relax and when the next contraction came I stayed like that, letting it sweep me away. Only it didn’t. There were no more words, no more thoughts, nothing, just me and the pain and now I was the pain and not the me I always imagined I was. I felt like a total failure.... and then, I was up on my knees and felt a pushy feeling and my waters exploded in one massive gush. I felt inside myself for the head and could feel something at the end of my finger, something more squishy than hard like I imagined a head would feel. I was up on my feet, walking into the bathroom, I turned and hung onto Don’s neck for the next wave of pain, I literally hung my whole weight from his poor neck! I transferred my hands to the ladder like towel rail on the wall and gripping high up I let my body hang, standing there. I pushed and rested and pushed and rested and had a fierce wave of feeling pass over me that I was going to make it. That I was going to stand here until the end. Whatever ending, I was doing it. I hung there for two hours pushing my baby’s head lower and lower, I stretched, and stretched and centimetre by centimetre her head began to emerge. I panted and pushed and panted and was in some faraway place and didn’t even, for one moment, think about this baby – it was just about the pushing. Her head was out! I stood still and my midwives asked me to kneel to deliver her body, another push and she slipped out of me on to the floor. I looked down between my legs and saw fat blue-white slippery looking legs kicking and saw that my baby was a girl. It felt right; I knew she was a she. I was stinging and burning still and sat back on the floor, Don rushing to sit behind me so I could lean on him, tears pouring down his face. I sat stunned in shock, amazed, exhausted....’call to you baby Claire’ I heard their voices and looked down, my baby still on the floor. Waiting. I reached down and picked her up, lay her in my left arm, she felt so utterly like she belonged there, that she had always been there, she looked so familiar.
I had no tears, a graze where her hand had been raised as she was born. The placenta came out an hour later, in bed.
Ten hours. The last two spent pushing. Was it only ten hours? A lifetime had passed in that one night. Esmé’s brothers woke and came into greet their baby sister. She weighed 8lbs 5oz, was pink, alert and wide eyed.
I still can’t believe it most days. That it happened. That I did it. That I was lucky enough to have the most quiet and trust-radiating midwives, that despite any fears Don may have had he was my steady hand, confident in me every second. Two days later reflecting, in the bath, I realised that my moment of ‘giving up’ was my most powerful. I had surrendered. Surrendered to this bigger... this huge ‘thing’ which I interpreted as pain, but which really was both life and death and the grey area between which we all call ‘birth’. Thank you little guiding leaf, thank you Esmé Hazel.
38 weeks pregnant
Earthside Esmé
