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Jennifer Margulis

Mothering Outside the Lines

Faulty Reporting on a Flawed Study on Home Birth

July 21st, 2010

The New York Times, as well as dozens of other media outlets, is reporting this week that a new review of studies shows that infants born at home have a higher rate of death than infants born in the hospital.

This is a strange way to spin a review of studies that, according to the authors, actually shows that in every other index measured, women who give birth at home have equal or more positive outcomes than women who give birth in the hospital.

According to the study’s abstract, women who give birth at home: “are less likely to experience lacerations, hemorrhage, and infections. Neonatal outcomes of planned home births revealed less frequent prematurity, low birthweight, and assisted newborn ventilation.”

However, the study also concludes that the evidence reviewed shows that babies born at home are more likely to die between one week and one month of life than babies born in the hospital.

I have not read the original study, or all of the studies cited to come to this conclusion. But other more knowledgeable critics than I have found that this review of studies, authored by Joseph R. Wax, M.D., et al, ” Maternal and newborn outcomes in planned home birth vs planned hospital births: a metaanalysis,” is seriously flawed.

According to the Midwives Alliance of North America (MANA) press release, Saraswathi Vedam, a nurse midwife and researcher at the University of British Columbia, who is an acknowledged expert on assessing the quality of literature related to home birth, finds the study deeply flawed: “[T]he authors’ conclusions are not supported by their own statistical analysis.” Vedam states that Dr. Wax et al acknowledges the consistent findings of low perinatal and neonatal mortality in planned home births across the best quality studies they reviewed “but amazingly Wax does not emphasize or even mention this in his sole conclusion.”

MANA’s press release continues, “This begs the question of whether the author’s analysis and reporting of reviewed articles on homebirth do not support his foregone conclusion about the safety of homebirth.”

In her article, “Tripled Risk of Newborn Death at Home?,” the Midwife Next Door provides links to and quotes from the original studies cited in this review. Her conclusion: “This is a situation where the evidence simply does not add up to the conclusion. The preponderance of the evidence still falls in support of safety of planned home births with a certified/registered/licensed attendant.”

The Big Push for Midwives also argues the timing of the release of and the framing of the conclusions of this review of studies is politically motivated. “Given the fact that New York just passed a bill providing autonomous practice for all licensed midwives working in all settings, while Massachusetts is poised to do the same, the timing of this study could not be better for the physician groups that have been fighting so hard to defeat pro-midwife bills there and in other states,” said Susan M. Jenkins, Legal Counsel for The Big Push for Midwives Campaign. “Clearly the intent is to fuel fear-based myths about the safety of professional midwifery care in out-of-hospital settings. Their ultimate goal is obviously to defeat legislation that would both increase access to out-of-hospital maternity care for women and their families and increase competition for obstetricians.”

“The conclusions don’t match the study,” agrees Augustine Colebrook, CPM, LM, who has been in private practice for seven years and has attended over 300 births. “Home birth is actually safer for the low-risk pregnancy baby and mother … before, during, and after labor.”

But the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology (ACOG) actively opposes home birth. ACOG issued a statement in February 2008 condemning home birth. The anti-home birth resolution belittles home birth advocates by claiming they are painting a “rosy picture” of birth and, despite the fact that over a dozen large scale studies show that planned home birth is as safe or safer than hospital birth, ACOG cites “safety concerns” as the primary reason for their position against home birth.

The new study will be published in the American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology, a peer-reviewed obstetrics journal that has an advisory board, an editorial team, and a list of consultants made up in large part of ACOG members. Most doctors in America are no longer attending home births. They lose their patients and a significant income stream when women choose to give birth at home. That they have a bias against home birth is understandable, though unfortunate. That they skew the scientific evidence to support that bias is unpardonable.

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[ 16 comments ]

Anything Worth Doing is Worth Doing Half-Assed

January 20th, 2010

Yesterday novelist and retired high school English teacher Peter Ferry was in Ashland. I hosted a book chat with him at my house for about fifteen people and then he taught a fiction writing workshop on campus at SOU. Baby Leone cooed and gurgled through the first event and slept soundly through the second. I wore her all day in a front pack. She was very patient, even though I spilled falafel on her head while she was sleeping.

But, as I suspected, I was not nearly as in tune with her elimination needs. I did catch a poop in the chamber pot during the book chat. I went into the bedroom and held her over her little pot and kept the door ajar so I wouldn’t miss anything. But the rest of the day she did what most American babies do and peed in her diaper.

This morning has been much drier. She’s been signaling when she needs to pee and then going happily in her chamber pot as soon as I take her diaper off.

A lot of us, myself included, tend to think in absolutes. We say things like, “I use cloth diapers,” or “I am not a runner,” and treat these statements as immutable facts. This absolutism keeps us from doing things outside of our comfort zone. If I’m not a runner then I can’t go for a jog, because I’m not a runner. If I use cloth diapers then I can’t teach my baby a cue to pee in the potty because I use cloth diapers.

See what I mean?

But what if it’s okay to be more fluid? What if you use disposable diapers MOST OF THE TIME but still buy a dozen cloth diapers and use them SOME OF THE TIME? What if instead of thinking of yourself as “not a runner,” you put the baby in a running stroller and go do three 12-minute miles, even if you only do so once or twice a month?

One of my favorite books is Rachel Naomi Remen’s Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal. In it she tells the story of a woman battling a chronic illness that leaves her exhausted all the time. Because of her sickness the woman almost never leaves the house.

She feels too unwell to be part of the energetic, healthy world.

But then one day she realizes that there is no law that states she has to do things all the way and that there is nobody but herself forcing her to be like everyone else. So she tries going out. She goes to a show, really enjoys it, gets tired, and leaves at intermission.

The realization that she does not have to do things 100 percent frees her up to enjoy her life as it is to the best of her capabilities. Her new motto: Anything worth doing is worth doing half-assed.

I tend to be an overly critical perfectionist. And I often feel bad about what I am doing wrong. After I vacuum I notice the bits of fluff I didn’t get out of the corners. When I exercise for half an hour, I feel badly because I didn’t go for 45 minutes.

The more I think about it with my rational mind, the stupider I realize this is. It’s also so ridiculously self-centered to dwell on the negative. So I am hereby adopting the half-assed motto (or trying to anyway).

When I allow myself the freedom to try and to strive–and even to fail–life becomes a whole lot easier.

What do you think? Would a half-assed approach to life help liberate you in some way?

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[ 10 comments ]

Adventures in Lotus Birth

November 16th, 2009
Our newborn daughter with the cord and placenta still attached

Our newborn daughter with the cord and placenta still attached

When I first read about lotus birth—which is the term people use for not cutting the cord but instead letting the placenta detach naturally from the baby—I thought it sounded … kind of gross.

I was dismayed with myself for having such a close-minded reaction. I decided I should challenge my own assumptions and find out more about why some people choose to do it.

One local midwife’s said it’s done for “spiritual reasons.” She mentioned that people usually salt the placenta and put herbs like lavender and rosemary on it to speed the drying process and keep it from smelling.

As I read more, I came to understand that one idea behind lotus birth is to help you slow down during the baby’s first days of life.

There’s no real reason to hurry to cut the cord. In fact, the longer you wait, the more likely the baby is to get back all its valuable blood and nutrients from the placenta.

It’s hard for me to do anything slowly. I’m from Boston where people talk fast, walk fast, eat fast, and live fast. We took our firstborn out when she was two days old (to buy a changing table and a crib) and I was bicycling to the bagel shop a day later (“baby and stitches be damned,” my friend Sue said.) Then my body forced me to slow down when I got a bad breast infection.

I know it’s better to be in a quieter space and I strive to find that space, so the more I read about lotus birth, the more the idea appealed to me.

Most mammals (even ruminants) eat the placenta but, apparently, some chimpanzees practice lotus birth, carrying the placenta with the baby chimp until it falls off naturally.

James and I agreed we’d try it. We wouldn’t cut the cord. Instead, we would clean the placenta, wrap it, and keep it with the baby. Maybe until it naturally severed (another name for lotus birth is nonseverance) or maybe just for awhile.

the placenta just after delivery: look how thick and white the umbilical cord is

the placenta just after delivery: look how thick and white the umbilical cord is

It wasn’t until more than an hour after the baby was born that I delivered the placenta. I sat up, holding the baby, and squatted by the side of the bed over a bowl. The placenta slithered out with a gushing plopping noise.

I was surprised how big the placenta was! And how interesting it looked!

The cord surprised me too—it was so thick and white, it felt cool and gel-like to touch. I’d never given much thought to an umbilical cord before but I found it fascinating, all twisted and white with dots of clotted blood that looked like brown beans inside it. Who knew that’s what the shriveled black stumps actually looked like once?!

James brought a bowl of warm salt water to soak the placenta, then we wrapped it in two cloth diapers and put it in a plastic bag and then inside a pillow case. The plastic bag part didn’t seem right somehow but we weren’t sure what else to do: Sue had promised to bring a cloth bag for it but she couldn’t come down for the birth so this makeshift contraption was the best we could do.

The only problem with all this was I felt worried about hurting the baby by accidentally pulling on the cord. But everything else about it felt right.

Doing it this way made me wonder why in the hospital and even at most home births there’s this almost urgent rush to separate the baby from the placenta. Keeping the cord and the placenta attached made me feel like the baby and I were still connected in a visceral way, since the organ that had grown inside my body was still attached to her.

We left the placenta on until the next afternoon. It had started to smell like roasted coffee (we forgot to actually salt and put herbs on it) and the long twisty white cord had started to blacken and dry up. Though I stopped worrying so much about it, I did find it a bit cumbersome. I tucked the pillow-cased placenta under or over the baby when I was holding her but it felt a bit awkward.

James and I were both glad we left it on for so long, and we also both felt ready to cut it off when we did.

We cut the cord with a sterile razor. We didn’t need to tie it because it was already dry and almost brittle. Then we cut it close to the placenta so we’d have a nice long piece of cord as a … keepsake?

“It’s mine,” my 6-year-old son shouted. “I want it! I want it! I call it!!”

The cut length of umbilical cord is still on the dresser. It looks like something from a different planet and in a way it is—it’s from a time when the baby and I were still living in the same body, sharing oxygen and nutrients, growing together and keeping each other company. Looking at the dried cord fills me with a strange nostalgia.

In the meantime, the placenta’s in our freezer. We’ll plant it in the spring. Maybe under the raspberry bushes.

Our new baby just after she was born, with her placenta and cord wrapped up with her

Our new baby just after she was born, with her placenta and cord wrapped up with her

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A Baby Born on Wednesday: The Story of the Unassisted Birth

November 12th, 2009

Author’s note: Our new baby was born at home in our bedroom a week ago this Wednesday without a birth attendant present. This is the last installment of the story of how we came to choose an unassisted birth. If you’re visiting the blog for the first time, the story begins here. JustBorn

When you’re expecting your fourth child and you’re past the due date, you become convinced that the baby will be a full-grown adult before coming into the world, which is why I pretended I wasn’t in labor for about 12 hours of regular but light contractions.

My uterus had been twitchy for days, and since the tightenings on Tuesday night were mild enough that I could sleep between them, I didn’t really think James and I would have a baby anytime soon. Besides, the squeezing feeling that woke me up was almost pleasurable.

Me: I wish I were in labor.

Myself: Maybe you are.

Me: This is way too easy. I wish real labor could be like this.

Myself: Maybe it can. Maybe labor can feel good. Maybe this is real labor.

Me: I hope I can get back to sle—

Myself: ZZZZZZZZZZZ…

I slept better Tuesday night than I had in a long time.

Wednesday morning James bustled the kids off to school. Before they left I felt my uterus tightening so hard I had to lean against the kitchen counter to catch my breath.

“Mommy! Are you having a contraction? Wait, let me get my joke sheet,” my 8-year-old, Athena, cried.

I’d been reading about how humor can really help a woman along in labor and Athena had secretly compiled jokes for me.

“Where did seaweed go to find a job?”

My mind couldn’t focus. Seaweed? Job?

“The kelp-wanted ads!” We both cackled with laughter as the contraction subsided, mine a tad hysterical.

“Maybe you’ll be coming home from school early,” I said, kissing the three kids goodbye. “Or maybe not…”

Then they were gone. I was restless and puttered around the house doing breakfast dishes, folding laundry, tidying the bathroom. I think I even vacuumed. Then I set my camera on a tripod and took some photographs. A couple of times while I was fighting with the self-timer I felt something crampy and jagged going on in my uterus but I ignored it.

I had no inkling that in a little more than three hours I would no longer be pregnant.

James came home.

“I’m not sure what to do…” I said. “I have an article to finish…”

“We could go for a walk,” he suggested. “Or watch the romantic comedy I rented?”

I sat down by the computer and realized I couldn’t sit down.

“Do you think I’m in labor or am I just being wimpy?”

James smiled at me. “Well … I’m inclined to think you’re just being wimpy…”

Nonetheless, I emailed my editor and told her I was in early labor, maybe, and might need an extension.

That was around 8:50 a.m. I put Sadé on the stereo and took a shower, then a bath, then a shower. By now it was obvious, even to a denialist like me, that I was in full-blown labor. I oohed and aahed and breathed through contractions.
laboring_in_the_shower
Me: This isn’t so bad, see? Mind over matter really works.

Myself: Aaahhh. Ooohhh. That was a good one.

Arms straight, I propped my hands on my knees, which allowed my belly to feel suspended, and I kept the warm water pounding on my back.

Pretty soon, though, the tightenings got really intense.

Me: This is what I wanted. This is what I wanted. This is what I wanted.

Myself: Careful what you wish for.

James made juice with garlic, ginger, kale, beets, carrots, lime, and orange. He brought me some in the shower.

“I can’t,” I sobbed. “I’m sorry.” All the sorrow in the world seemed to enter my body because I couldn’t drink the juice my husband had so kindly prepared.

By then I was starting to lose it. I could no longer ooh and aah through contractions. They weren’t coming in waves with a peak building slowly but instead slamming into my body like a truck crashing into a cement wall.

Me: If you relax your eyebrows and your mouth, your vagina will relax.

Myself: F**k off. I can’t do this. It hurts too much.

Me: What about mind over matter? This isn’t pain. These are interesting sensations you need to pay attention to.

Myself: Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.

Me: Breathe in and expand your belly, everything is opening up.

Myself: Shut the f**k up already, will you?

James stayed in the bathroom with me. I wasn’t breathing anymore. I wasn’t groaning. I was screaming, rocking my weight onto the balls of my feet, making loud animal noises that came from some primitive place.

“Help me,” I begged him. “Help me, help me, help me.”

“There are a finite number of contractions,” he said. “You’re getting there.”

I turned off the shower.

“Should we get the kids?”

“I don’t think I want them to see me like this,” I whined, utterly miserable, during a lucid moment between contractions.

We put a pillow on the back of the toilet and I made it through a couple of contractions, gripping James’s hands for dear life.

I stood up from the toilet and a flood of fluid flecked with blood gushed down my legs onto the bathroom floor.

“I think my water broke,” I moaned.

“Oh good!” James sounded chipper.

All of a sudden I felt like bearing down. By this time I was talking to myself in an almost schizophrenic way. “You’re okay Jennifer. You’re okay. You can do this. You’re doing a good job.” I didn’t really believe it but the reassuring words helped me anyway. I was also chanting in a tight and whiney voice, “Honey, honey, honey. I don’t think I can doooo this.”

Everything felt like elbows and hard angles and cramps and my body seemed to be taking on a life of its own. But it—I mean we—were going so fast I could barely hold on.

During another lucid pause, I looked at James. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’re not worried?”

“Not at all.”

He was so focused and centered, completely unfazed by how miserable I was. Though reluctant about doing this birth by ourselves, once in the moment James was totally there, totally present, and totally calm.

After my water broke I somehow managed to walk the 10,000 miles between the bathroom and our bedroom though I’m not sure how. We put down a cloth pad and some disposable chux. I leaned against the dresser. I leaned on James. I squatted. I stood. I went on all fours. My legs were shaking. I was sweating. I was dying of thirst. I wanted to be touched. I couldn’t bear to be touched. Nothing felt right. I was pushing now with my eyes squeezed shut and the most animal-like groans coming out of me.

Pushing during my last three labors was easy and pleasurable almost—I only had to push two or three times before each baby came right out. This time felt different. I felt like I was tearing in half. The pressure was unbearable. Everything felt stuck. I was pushing so hard I felt sure the baby would emerge from my rectum. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done and by far the hardest stage of this labor.

But in between the knee-weakening, body-shaking Mack truck pushes, time stopped. I was completely lucid and pain free. I could have talked about the weather, the stock market, or Obama’s health care proposal. I felt strong, healthy, in my body. It was so surreal that I wasn’t sure I was really in the bedroom squatting on chux, moaning for water (which my husband gave me sips of through a straw), trying to birth a baby.

James grabbed the flashlight. “I see the baby!” He cried, full of joy. “I see the head!! There’s tons of black hair! I’m the first one to see the baby!!!!” He sounded as happy as Etani, my 6-year-old, trick-or-treating on Halloween. His glee was contagious. I started to laugh.

After the next overwhelming, body-numbing, elephant-pressure need to push, a tuft of hair stayed out even as I felt the head retreat. On the next push the head was out. James told me later the baby, eyes closed, was frowning, moving its head from side to side disapprovingly, as if to say, “Where is this place anyway? Do I want to be here?”

“I don’t think I can do this,” I cried after the head was out and there was a lull between pushes.

“You can. It’s happening.” James was so matter-of-fact and logical. “Here comes a shoulder!”

James_and_babyIn a slippery gush after the first shoulder, the baby came out. James caught it. I was on all fours as the baby was being born and with the relief of the baby coming out, I sat down backwards. He handed the baby to me. I was laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh my god, we did it, we did it.” The baby–it was a girl–started bawling lustily, coughing amniotic fluid and spluttering with discontent. I cried with her and so did James. We were so happy—finally—to meet the tiny being who had been growing inside me for nine and a half months. The whole world had changed now that this new life was in it.

I was such a baby during the contractions—crying and pleading and screaming, “help me”–but birthing this little person by ourselves was the most empowering experience of my life.

Human women have been having babies unassisted for more than 200,000 years. I’m not strong or brave or exceptional. If I can do it, you can too.

Jennifer_baby_Etani
Baby_and_siblings
P1020960

Coming up next week: 10 Things No One Tells You About Pregnancy; Experiments in Lotus Birth; When a Baby Spits Up Blood; Nervous Nellie 4th Time Parents, and more.

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[ 46 comments ]

A Baby Born on Wednesday, post 4

November 11th, 2009

Author’s note: Our new baby was born at home in our bedroom this past Wednesday without a birth attendant present. This week’s posts are the story of how we came to choose an unassisted birth and about the birth itself. The first installment is here. The second installment is here. The third installment is here. The final installment, about the labor itself, will be posted on Friday.
bathtowels

“So, who’s your midwife?” A friend asked.

“Oh, someone from out of town,” I heard myself lying into the phone.

“Have you chosen a midwife?” A mom from my daughters’ school wanted to know.

“Um, well, sure, yeah,” I hedged. “Hey, have you signed up to volunteer at the Winter Faire?”

It was my mother who asked the most urgent questions. She called James on the sly and told him to make sure we picked someone—anyone—as soon as possible. Away on a business trip close to my due date, she phoned from Puerto Rico to be sure we had a birth attendant.

“We found a midwife Mom,” I said. “A young woman who’s very competent. You have nothing to worry about. She’s great.”

“I’m. Just. So. Relieved.”

I hung up the phone and went into the kitchen.

“I think I just lied to my mother,” I said to James.

“You told her we had a midwife,” he laughed. “But you didn’t tell her the midwife was going to be at the birth.”

It had taken him a good four months but James had come around and actually seemed to be looking forward to the birth. He was as excited and impatient for us to be in labor as I was. And we really had identified a midwife in the Valley who supported our choice to have an unassisted birth and offered to be our “knowledgeable family friend,” willing to come over if we needed her, though not technically as a midwife (for which she could lose her certification) but just as a friend.

I told fewer than half a dozen people our plan for an unassisted birth. I didn’t want to talk about it because I didn’t want people sending negative or fearful energy in our direction. I also found it trying to allay other people’s irrational fears.

“I’m not a hero,” I heard myself say several times, “I have nothing to prove … if something goes wrong or if there’s any reason that we need to, the hospital is a 2-minute drive from our house. I trust my body. I trust myself. I trust that I will know if something is wrong…”

I spent an hour on the phone reassuring my best friend that unassisted childbirth was safe. Sue wanted me to talk her through everything that could go wrong, so I did.

I told her what most people don’t know: that taking a shower is more dangerous and results in more deaths than having a baby, that driving in a car to the hospital is the most dangerous part of labor—besides what can go wrong because of hospital intervention—that large scientific studies most recently in Canada, but also in the United States, New Zealand, and Australia have all shown very clearly that homebirth is safer than hospital birth, and that there are women all over the United States having unassisted births, but because they fear social disapprobation and people’s irrational rage, they mostly keep it to themselves.

I suggested she read Heather Cushman Dowdee’s incredible cartoon about the unassisted birth of her son and look at Shauna Mama’s unbelievably moving and amazing photographs of herself catching her own baby during an unassisted birth.

I told her about Sarah J. Buckley, the Australian family physician, whose husband is also a doctor, who decided on an unassisted birth at age 40 with their fourth, a daughter who surprised them all by coming out breech (with no complications).

I also spent a lot of time preparing for the birth. I bought two kinds of “chux’s”: one package of disposable absorbent pads and one single chux made of cloth; I also bought ultra thick sanitary napkins and witch hazel (you put witch hazel on the napkins and put them in the freezer for after the birth); we had a handy man install a metal bar in our bathroom shower so I could lean against it during labor if I needed to; I drank loads of red raspberry tea, which is supposed to tone your uterus; I exercised every day; washed our cloth baby diapers; cooked and froze a huge batch of burritos; and started being obsessive about keeping the bathroom—where I expected I’d be laboring a lot of the time—clean and tidy. My friend Jenny leant me an herbal tonic to stop post partum hemorrhage and I asked friends to be on stand by to drive the kids home from school (Athena and Etani both wanted to see the birth) or pick them up from after school activities.

But most importantly I spent quiet time every day imaging the kind of birth I wanted us to have, relaxing, and meditating. If you know me in real life, you know that I’m not much for relaxing and I tend to dismiss the hooey-wooey stuff that people in Ashland like so much. I usually don’t have the patience for baths or the concentration for meditation but I’m trying to change that. To prepare for this birth I made myself slow down. I lit candles and sat in the tub and practiced making “aahh” and “oohh” noises, thinking about the baby moving through my body, being gently squeezed by contractions.

“I will have an easy, gentle birth,” I told myself every day. “I can do this.”

“My body is strong,” “The birth will be fun,” “I will keep a sense of humor,” “James and I will catch our baby,” “Contractions are an interesting sensation to pay attention to,” “This will be an easy, gentle birth.”

I said these things over and over to myself and made myself believe them. But here’s the truth: I wanted to have an unassisted birth more than anything and I couldn’t wait to go into labor but there was a small person in the back of my mind who thought I was asking for too much and was secretly terrified that something would go wrong.

Cartoon courtesy of Heather Cushman-Dowdee.

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[ 8 comments ]

A Baby Born on Wednesday, post 3

November 10th, 2009

Author’s note: Our new baby was born at home in our bedroom this past Wednesday without a birth attendant present. No name (yet). No weight (we don’t own a scale). No midwives. This week’s posts are the story of how we came to choose an unassisted birth and about the birth itself. The first installment is here. The second installment is here. To read the rest of the story, please check back daily.

The not-yet-certified midwife we chose for our second home birth, M., had dreadlocks down to her ankles. She didn’t have an office. Instead, she brought her 4-year-old daughter with her when she visited our house for prenatal appointments.

Mostly we just talked.

She told me about how everything always got broken in her house but she didn’t get angry at her ten children because there was no point. She told me about how one of her daughters was autistic and would walk in circles for hours, a smile on her face. And how her second oldest wanted to be a midwife too.

I told her how I tore during Athena’s birth.

“You won’t tear this time,” she said. “You didn’t need to tear.”

“I didn’t?” I knew instantly that she was right.

But the birth process with my son started inauspiciously. My water broke at 11:00 p.m. and catapulted me into active labor. With my oldest daughter my water had broken at 11:00 p.m. as well, though she wasn’t born for another 22 hours.

I sobbed as amniotic fluid went into the toilet. I didn’t want to have another birth like Hesperus’s and I felt scared and tired. I didn’t wake James because I was afraid that everything would happen like the first time and that he would get exhausted. Instead I sat on the office couch and sewed up his robe, inside out, until the contractions were too intense to stay still. By then M. was there, though James was still sleeping.

M. was right, of course. I didn’t tear. The labor lasted only about four hours and was not nearly as bad as I had feared when it started. My friend Kathleen, a medical doctor who came as a friend not a doctor, showed up about twenty minutes before the birth.

When our son’s head crowned, I started walking away and Kathleen panicked, “Jennifer! Where are you going?!”

“JUST DON’T DROP THE BABY,” I cried, and twisted my body onto the bed as he slid out. M., who was crouching behind me, caught him.

My son's birth, attended by a midwife-in-training and a friend, had the least intervention

My son's birth, attended by a midwife-in-training and a friend, had the least intervention

That’s when Kathleen flew into a frenzy of action, grabbing a towel and vigorously rubbing the baby, directing James on how to cut the cord, whipping out a tape measure to measure his tiny perfect head. (“Can you leave him alone, please?” I said, annoyed. “It’s better to have a baseline, Jennifer,” she answered, clicking her pen closed as she finished writing on the chart.)

Our bedroom was small and it felt like there were a lot of people present. M. had essentially done exactly what we needed her to do: nothing. She checked the heartbeat five times while I was in labor but she did it so unobtrusively and gently that I did not even notice. Kathleen, who later told me that sitting on her hands and watching—this was the first and only home birth she had ever attended—was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, had done too much.

M. and Kathleen being there made James’s presence that much less important.

They were the authority we were deferring to, directing a natural process that could have unfolded on its own.

As much as I love and appreciate both of them to this day, their presence made the birthing that much less intimate, that much less about our family, that much less about our love for each other and our trust in the process.

We still weren’t at the same place about unassisted birth, but James agreed that our best birth had been Athena’s BEFORE the midwives arrived, when it was just the two of us, James and me, working as a team to ride out the contractions and help my body open up.

Maybe, just maybe, this birth could be like that one. But sans midwives.

Talking about our previous births, reading about unhindered childbirth, and thinking more about it, James started to believe that an unassisted birth might actually be a good idea.

Maybe, just maybe, our next birth could be without midwives

Maybe, just maybe, our next birth could be without midwives

Interested in reading more? Post 4 tells the story of our unassisted birth.

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[ 11 comments ]

A Baby Born on Wednesday, post 2

November 9th, 2009

Author’s note: Our new baby was born at home in our bedroom this past Wednesday without a birth attendant present. No name (yet). No weight (we don’t own a scale). No midwives. This week’s posts are the story of how we came to choose an unassisted birth and about the birth itself. This is the second installment. The first installment is here. To read the whole story, please check back daily.

When Athena was born I got an unnecessary tear

When Athena was born I got an unnecessary tear

“We both started at the same place,” James explained during another “conversation” about unassisted birth. He put his hands side by side to show me what he meant. “And we both moved away from that place together.”

He kept his left hand in place and moved his right hand to show how we had both changed together: We started off as children of divorce who grew up in the 1970s playing soccer, eating Fruit Loops and Ding Dongs, watching TV every day after school, and participating in the mainstream without question, and together we became young parents who had a traumatizing hospital birth with almost every unnecessary intervention possible (except a C-section) who decided after months of research not to follow the CDC vaccination schedule, to make our own organic baby food, to hold our baby when she cried despite doctors telling us we would “spoil” her, to use cloth diapers even though everyone we knew said it was too much work, and to question the assumptions of our childhood.

After educating ourselves about it, reading everything we could, and meeting people who were more progressive than the limousine liberals I grew up around and the right-wing conservative business people from James’s side of the family, we left the world of medical hospital births behind and decided to have our second and third babies at home.

“But then,” James continued. “You made this even bigger leap,” he put his right hand as far from the left hand as he could. “Now you’re over here,” he bobbed his right hand up and down. “It’s taking me a lot longer to catch up, but I’m trying. I’m almost there.”

Our friend Nik was sympathetic. “I think it’s amazing what you want to do,” he told me. “But I understand it from James’s point of view, too. He has a lot to lose.”

Most people in America believe what Nik was implying: to have a home birth without midwives present is dangerous.

I could die.

The baby could die.

Maybe that’s what James was really afraid of.

But when James and I talked about our two home births, we realized that the only things that went wrong during Athena’s birth were midwife-induced.

Because it was February in New England during a snowstorm, the midwives did not come until the last 20 minutes of the labor. Even though I was in full-blown transition, I still remember Jharna barreling into the room.

“Have you checked her?!” she asked loudly to Kristen, who had arrived a few minutes before and had just enough time to set up her equipment. Jharna’s tone of urgency broke into my concentration—I was standing by the edge of the bed having a toe-curling contraction and my water was breaking.

“No need to,” Kristen replied. “I know she’s in transition.”

Though Kristen was calm and centered, Jharna started ordering all of us around. “You need to get on the bed,” she told me. “YOU NEED TO GET ON THE BED RIGHT NOW!”

James and I had not considered where I would birth the baby (other than at home) and this sounded reasonable at the time. I clambered onto the bed, gave three terrific pushes, and the baby practically flew across the room. During the minutes this took to happen Jarna managed to yell at me again to say that if she didn’t call my friend and toddler they would miss the birth. Then she bellowed down the stairs for Sue and Hesperus to come up.

Hesperus watched Athena being born

Hesperus watched Athena being born

At the same time, Kristen looked at the baby’s head when it came out and said, “Oh good, no cord.”

James pointed to the white serpentine thing wrapped around the baby’s neck and said, “What’s that?”

“The cord,” Kristen conceded, gently pulling it up and away from the baby’s neck.

Because I had pushed from a supine position, as ordered by a midwife, I ended up with a second-degree tear in my perineum that needed stitches.

Athena was a small baby and I am a wide-hipped woman.

It took years for me to realize that the tearing was completely unnecessary, the result of Jharna’s arbitrary idea that the baby needed to be born on the bed.

Or perhaps the idea was not that arbitrary and was actually for their convenience: if a woman is lying down and still (instead of moving, alternating between standing, squatting, and being on all fours), it makes it easier for the midwives to see what’s going on and to catch the baby.

After the birth, Jharna and Kristen disappeared into our guest room because Jharna’s back and neck were tight and she needed a massage. I’d like to think now that they were trying to be considerate and to give us some space, but even at the time I remember feeling slightly put out: they had been in our house for less than an hour and were already thinking more about themselves than about us and our new baby.

When I got pregnant for the third time, I called Kristen and told her I’d like to hire her but I did not want Jarna—who had no children of her own—at the birth. Kristen and I had become friends and I told her frankly that Jharna’s energy felt really negative. Though she initially agreed, she changed her mind. “You’re asking me to go behind my partner’s back,” she said. “I can’t do that.”

The birth attendant we chose this time, Megan Hill, was not yet certified as a midwife. But she had ten children of her own, all born at home. Five of her ten had been born without any outside assistance.

Photo of Athena, 3, taken by Hesperus

Photo of Athena, 3, taken by Hesperus

Interested in reading more? Post 3 tells the story of our second home birth, attended by a midwife-in-training and a doctor.

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[ 13 comments ]

A Baby Born on Wednesday, post 1

November 7th, 2009

Author’s note: Our new baby was born at home in our bedroom this past Wednesday without a birth attendant present. No name (yet). No weight (we don’t own a scale). No midwives. This week’s posts from Monday to Friday will be the story of how we came to choose an unassisted birth and about the birth itself. To read the whole story, please check back daily.

CoupleAtOdds
“The thing is, I don’t know if I really want a midwife,” I said to James when I was nearly five months pregnant and still had not chosen anyone.

“Oh God.” He furrowed his brow and looked unhappy.

We’d been having “conversations” like this one for months. Every time we interviewed a midwife, James would say, “Great! She seems great,” and I would hesitate.

The midwives were great—I liked every one I talked to on the phone and the three I met in person. They all seemed smart and knowledgeable and compassionate and interested, definitely women I’d like to have as friends.

The problem wasn’t with the midwives.

It was with me.

Though I liked all these women, I didn’t want them touching my belly or sticking their fingers up my yaya or telling me what to eat or to have blood work done.

No one had been in the room when James and I conceived our baby. I was beginning to feel like childbirth is as private and intimate as making love and I had trouble imagining having anyone else present.

“I don’t think I want anyone at the birth,” I tried to explain to my worried husband. “I think I want to do it by myself. With you.”

There’s a term for this: Unassisted childbirth. Some people call it “unhindered birth” or “free birth.” There’s a forum on Mothering.com dedicated to it. And some incredible Websites about it.

I started reading everything I could about childbirth—hippie books from the 1970s about home births, manuals written for emergency medical professionals in case they unexpectedly have to deliver a baby, unassisted birth stories on the Internet and in magazines, classics like Spiritual Midwifery, and a book by Laura Shanley called Unassisted Childbirth—and talking to women who had had successful unassisted births.

The more I read, the more convinced I became that we could have the birth we wanted, by ourselves, without anyone guiding us, interfering, or telling us what to do. And the more I read, the more I thought about my three previous birth experiences, and how I wanted this one to be different.

But James wasn’t completely on board. I knew what I wanted, but how could I convince my husband?

Interested in reading more? Post 2 tells the story of our first home birth attended by midwives.

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[ 18 comments ]

Why Gloves?

November 3rd, 2009

NoGlovesI snuggled in bed with my 6-year-old son Etani last Saturday and we decided to watch some home birth videos on the Internet. In order to feel prepared for this labor, I’ve been reading everything I can about home birth, practicing breathing and vocalizing, visualizing the kind of birth I hope to have, and talking to my kids a lot about what to expect.

Etani wants to be there. He says he doesn’t want to be involved but that he’ll peek around from the door and watch. My daughter Athena, who’s eight, also wants to be at the birth. My oldest daughter, who turned ten this summer, says she thinks it’s “gross” and has plans to walk to a friend’s house once I’m in labor. (I’m secretly hoping she’ll change her mind … I’ll let you know what happens.)

There are dozens of home birth videos on YouTube and the one Etani and I watched was of a baby born on Christmas Eve. It was a calm and inspiring birth but there was one thing that bugged me: The midwife who caught the baby was wearing these bright green latex gloves, which means the first thing that touched the baby’s skin was latex.

Isn’t it better for a baby’s first tactile experience to be a human being’s hands? If your hands are washed, what could the danger of touching a baby possibly be? I guess midwives wear gloves in case something goes wrong and they have to put their hands up the woman’s vagina, but it seems like we should trust the birth process enough to skip the gloves. If they become necessary, a midwife (or doctor) can quickly put them on.

Athena and Etani were both born at home. James was hoping to catch them but I needed him beside me and we let the different midwives who attended each birth catch the babies. I’m sorry to say the midwives were wearing gloves. This time we’re hoping to do it differently: either James or I will catch the baby. And we won’t be wearing gloves.

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[ 8 comments ]






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