The books all say you shouldn't push until you have to, but I ignored them. I had been doing a lot of reading on second-stage labor, and I wanted a chance to think about how it felt to try some new ideas before I stopped being able to think clearly. The midwife had brought a length of fabric for me to pull on during pushing, and I gave it a tentative try from the birth ball: chin tucked, jaw relaxed, thighs relaxed, pu-u-u-ull on the fabric and push gently.
"I think that'll work," I said. "I need to be able to plant my feet a little more securely. And first I need to use the bathroom."
We trooped into the bathroom, and here things begin to get kaleidoscopic. I have been mulling over the best way to tell the end of this story because there was so much happening. Maybe I'll lay out the separate threads and you can imagine them interwoven. Here's what we had going:
Body. My contractions became more painful quickly. But there was an important difference between this pushing stage and my others: it was not nearly as overwhelming. I don't know how well I've conveyed the intensity of my previous pushing stages, but they were crazy -- like a bullet train, like an F5 tornado. The urge to push was like the urge to breathe after someone had been holding my head in a barrel of water for a minute or two: Push or Die. It sounds dramatic, I know, but it's true. This time around it was more like a freight train -- it's still a big powerful thing, but it's not as scary to see it bearing down on you. And it gets where it's going.
You know, that's a bad analogy, actually, because in this country right now freight trains get where they're going more reliably than high-speed passenger trains. Maybe this is a better one: have you ever been out walking on a summer's night and been caught in a storm? The thunder is loud and the rain is heavy and you think, Boy, am I getting wet and I wish I were at home. But when you get home and towel off your hair you remember the power of the thunder and the warmth of the rain and you think, Wow, that was amazing.
And wow, it was amazing. I felt for the first time like I could choose how much to push instead of going flat-out with each contraction. Less bearing-down effort meant more pain, but I could pick my spot on that curve. I could ride it instead of running away from it.
Mind. I don't remember anyone coaching me about pushing while I was doing it, but my mind was busy talking me through it. Keep your weight forward in hopes of triggering a fetal-ejection reflex, thighs relaxed, don't hold your breath, jaw loose. "Oh, Dr. Odent?" I remember thinking, "what does a person have to do to get a baby to fall out around here?"
Heart. The most extraordinary thing about this stage was the peace I felt going through it -- I felt enfolded in love, secure in the goodness of God. For a few years now I had prayed regularly for JP2, for a gentle death in God's time. I asked him to intercede for me now, for a gentle birth in God's time. I remember praying little snippets of familiar prayers -- Queen of Heaven, rejoice! Alleluia! I said, God, were you listening to Renee's prayer for me? But I was okay with taking it slowly.
As the contractions intensified my voice got lower and lower and louder and louder, until the neighbors must have wondered, "Is there a livestock exhibition at the Gladlys' house tonight?" One of my favorite memories of this birth is of a contraction when as my throat poured out a tenor moo my heart sang out, "Glory to you, Lord God!" I thought about an image I love -- of all creation, from angels and archangels to rocks and trees, giving glory to God -- and I laughed to myself at the thought of my contribution to the blend. I am forever telling my children, "God can use anything you give him," but it still makes me chuckle to think of my birthing noise as part of the celestial music. The next morning I got an email from a friend saying, "I will pray for you, that you can give glory to God in the midst of your pain." Isn't that cool?
Probably I should add a fourth thread: mouth. Another thing I am always telling my children is "out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks," but my mouth took on a life of its own during this birth. "I hate this part," it said with feeling a few times; also, "who brought the plunger?" They asked me whether something -- maybe warm compresses? -- felt right and I bleated, "There's a head in my pelvis -- nothing feels right." They said something encouraging -- maybe "just a little more work"? -- and I bellowed forlornly, "THAT'S EASY FOR YOU TO SAY."
So here we are: relax your jaw and glory to God and I hate this part all spliced together with an overlying haze of pain. (But please, if you are considering a natural birth, don't be put off by the pain bit. I am usually a wuss about pain but Ina May Gaskin is right: labor pain is clean pain. It is gone forever now and I honestly cannot remember how it hurt, only that it did hurt but that I could handle it. You can too!) I pushed in the bathtub, remembering Renee's experience and hoping my baby would ease out in one push (no dice), and I pushed on the toilet seat. I squatted on the bathroom floor and pulled down on my husband's arms while he pulled against me. I headed back to the living room and pushed some more -- hands and knees, semi-squatting, combinations thereof.
It seemed like I'd been pushing for a while when the midwife checked me again. Baby was only at 0 station and I had a moment of discouragement. "I can't do it," I thought. "Let's just go to the hospital so they can pull the baby out." But then I realized I hadn't been pushing very hard; I had wanted to see what happened if I let my uterus do the work. I began to put a little more of my back into it. "It'd be faster in a full squat," said my mind, so I did one contraction that way and BANG my water broke, nice and clear. I wasn't really in a hurry, though, so I didn't stay in a full squat for long.
A little while longer and the midwife checked me again. "I can only get one knuckle in before I feel the baby's head," she said excitedly. All right then, I thought, let's do it. She and her assistant were going to check the baby's heart tones again, but I called out sharply, "Crowning!"
My Joe slid out in a whoosh once his big head was ready to go, but this time there was a lag. I thought, "I bet the baby's shoulders are sticking. But I'm in the right position and she knows what to do." Turns out there was a loose loop of cord around baby's neck, easily passed over his head. A shoulder was born, and a second shoulder, and --
-- and there was a new little person in the room.
He is nursing as I type this, his face already engraved on my heart. But oh, I wish I had the words to tell you about that first moment when I scooped him up, still tethered to me, and held him close as his little purple body pinked up. I am crying too hard to see as I remember, but in the moment there was no room for tears -- only joy, and elation, and relief. Is there any moment more precious than that one, when the pain evaporates and the groans give way to coos of welcome?
And maybe that's where I'll leave it for today. Welcome, baby, welcome. We're so glad you're here.
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