When I heard the quiet noise of the ring I had programmed specifically for them come from my cell phone, I cringed. I was SO TIRED. I could not DO THIS today. Please let her not be in labor. I answer the phone in an excited tone and say… “Are we having a baby today?” My fatigue would have to wait, there were other matters at hand.
The voice that comes to me is that of her husband, but he is not speaking to me. “Breathe; hold me, lean into me, there… it’s okay. I love you…” Then I hear her, softly moaning. She is in active labor. I stand up and pull on my clothes I had laid out just in case. There will be no more sleep tonight. The phone is still to my ear as he directs his attention to me and says calmly, “I think we need you.” “I am on my way. I will be there within a half hour. Do you need anything?” “No. Just you.” he says. They are dancing. I can hear a moan breathing out of her. “I have a minute” I think, “They are still dancing.”
I grab my purse, coat and a pre-bottled coffee and call the hospital as I walk out the door. One of my favorite nurses is the charge nurse that night, what a blessing! I tell her as I drive that it looks like we will be in later and ask if anyone is using the spa room. She tells me no. I give her a brief history on this woman, third baby, intervention free. She says “ok, call me when you are on your way and I will fill the tub.” I thank her and call Dad. “I am on the freeway. See you in ten minutes. Are you upstairs?” “Yes” he says… “She really wants the water.”
Brief interjection here: I am six days removed from the hospital at this point; I have had somewhat of a life changing trauma (future blog. *laugh) that has left me weak and tired. I have intubation pneumonia and small bruises all over my body from tubes and tests during my time in the ICU. I feel like shit. I still can’t eat more than a few bites because I was sustained by IV fluids for almost a week. I haven’t eaten much in the last six days. I was still sipping water because my throat was so raw from almost a week of tubes.
My head was swimming and as I walked to my car in the dark of the morning, I thanked the Universe for coffee, offering a prayer of thanks for the support I knew I would be given from powers beyond my own.
That’s how it always happens. Because you see, I get to watch Goddesses be born.
There was a conversation on Facebook a few weeks ago. One of our local birth professionals asked Doulas and midwives what part of birth was the most moving for them. The answers were varied, heartfelt and beautiful, mostly focusing on the birth of the baby. The first breath, their cute blink as they meet the earth, their first cry, the tiny details of new life and new beginnings.
My answer was decidedly different. My answer was something to the effect of “The magical moment at a birth for me, is when Mom looks down, after all of the commotion has died down and she REALIZES in a wash of consciousness, what she has just DONE. I wait for it. It almost always comes. It is usually one of two responses. Either a fierce, almost primal transition of “I am woman, hear me roar” or sacred wash of realization of the power she has within her. It is especially delicious for me to see it on a fathers face. When he looks at her with awe, wonderment and respect, and usually deep abiding love. “
THAT moment… That is what does it for me. These are the moments that goddesses are born.
Back to the story. I walk in the front door, take off my shoes and walk upstairs with just my medical bag. I quietly push their bedroom door open while singing in a soft whisper voice “Hello!” They are still dancing. She is standing at the bathroom sink with her forearms flat on the surface. Her hips are swaying with him and he is singing with her. Low quiet moans. Perfectly matched tone, breathing together with the rhythm they have allowed and embraced. There really isn’t a lot of pain for her right now. I can see that. She is still just “uncomfortable”, they are just breathing sound together. They are singing her Labor Song. It is beautiful.
Her contraction ends and she stands up and smiles at me with tired eyes and acknowledges my presence for the first time. “Hi.” She steps toward me and melts in a puddle of tears into my chest. “I don’t want to do this Jess. I am fighting my instincts here. We have to go soon. I don’t want to be at the hospital very long, I know. I will just tell them no to all of the CRAP and get in the water. I need that tub. I neeeeed deep water.” A contraction washes over her with an intensity I hadn’t seen or heard. She is progressing. But her instincts are right. She is too tense. I whisper to her to drop her shoulders. “I will hold you… dance.”
It is the second time I have labored with this couple. It is always such a sacred honor to be chosen to be with people at these sacred moments. It is a bigger honor to be invited back. She is a dancer. They are a strikingly beautiful couple. Vibrant might be a more accurate word. He is handsome and she is unique and exotic. He is powerful and broad-chested, she is thin and athletic. The only changes to her body are that of a large belly bump and breasts that her husband delightedly reported were “seriously bigger”. They are a deeply spiritual couple. And they are in love. Big love. It is always so fun to be with them. They are that sickeningly mushy couple that you always watch because they radiate.
He comes up behind her as her contraction ends and she regains her bearing. She stands up from my arms and takes her own weight once more as he touches her shoulder and says “Babe, what are we going to do? Make a decision before the next one comes so I can help.” He is perfectly aware that his time to speak will be ending soon. During both of her previous labors, just as she hits transition he is not allowed to speak. It is the age old midwifery trick, when she yells at Dad, we all start getting ready. We laugh about it when we see each other. She exhales and leans her head on my chest as she utters a quiet, pleading, thoughtful prayer to God, to help her know what to do to and to give her strength to bring his child into the world. She exhales as her husband and I utter a quiet “Amen”. She turns to him and says. “I want the pool. We need to go.”
He loads the car. I say quietly to her. “Do you want me to help you get in, or do you want me to go ahead and call in for the tub?” “Go. I am good. They are slowing down. I can breathe again.” She stops and takes the two steps that are separating us. Her hand goes to my arm and she squeezes. “Thank you for coming. I love having you here.” There is such beauty and love in her face in that instant. We both weep quietly as she lowers herself into my arms for another contraction. I love this woman.
I grab my bag and head down the stairs, passing Dad in the living room. I say to him “I will go and call the hospital. I will be waiting at the door. I warned them a while ago that she might want the tub. I will ask if they will start filling it for her.” He kisses my cheek and says “Drive safe. See you in a bit”
I hit the door of my car and I am speaking to the nurse. We are on our way. At external reaction I would guess her at 4 or 5 centimeters. I have not checked her, no. This is her second baby, I remind her. She tells me she will fill the tub. I tell her we will see her in 15 minutes.
When we get to the hospital, there are usual intervention, paperwork and absurd demands on a woman who is contracting. She tolerates the briefest moments of this then says to the nurses buzzing around her: “I NEED THE WATER… can I go get in?” They finally let her go down the hall to the spa room.
It is a beautiful space. The walls and floor are tiled with a soothing white tile. There are subtle decorations that speak of “Japanese bath house”. It has all of the emergency medical stuff stored in a wooden cupboard at the side of the room. And… then… there is THE tub. It is a 4-foot square sunken labor tub. The water source for this particular room is in the ceiling. There is a stream of warm water flowing from above waiting to welcome her… and she slides into its depth and comfort.
Her husband finds a place out of the way against the wall in a chair. The nurses are still doing their “hospital policy” buzz and she just wants to be left alone. Her needs are finally recognized and suddenly, there are only three of us in the room.
We have turned the water off. The room is silent except for her slow rhythmic breathing. She moans, this has been her cue for the last hour that there is a contraction building. I squat down and whisper to her. She makes a panicked “hold both of my hands, I need you” gesture, opening her hands repeatedly, but is unable to utter her needs. I prostrate myself on the tile floor and answer her unspoken call. She has both of my hands clenched within her own. I whisper to her the song. I breathe it for her, loudly, to remind her to take long slow breaths. She breathes with me, and releases the completed contraction.
What we hadn’t realized until later is that during this time this woman has progressed from 4 cm (I was RIGHT. Lol) when we arrived at the hospital, to a complete 10 centimeters… in less than an hour and a half. To the women reading that have had unmediated labors, please allow yourself a moment to unclench. To the women who lovingly hate her in this moment because your birth experience wasn’t short… I say, an hour labor is INTENSE. My youngest baby had a very precipitous labor. I was only in labor for about four hours and I pushed for less than a minute (literally, medical records… we checked afterward because we were all shocked. Lol) Unmediated precipitous (under 3 hours) labors are HARD. They are exhausting and they are invigorating all at once. She was so amazing to watch.
It is silent in the room, she is between contractions. I am still flat on my belly head to head with her, half of my body hanging over the edge of the pool to be as close to her as she has expressed she needs me to be, without climbing in with her myself. She is breathing. We are waiting for the next contraction to come. I am reminding her to surrender and not fight the wave of pain.
Her husband breaks the silence. “Hey Mrs. Smith.” He calls to her quietly (not their real name) She mutters with her eyes still closed: “Yes Mr. Smith.” His voice is instantly thick with emotion and he whispers, “Thank you for having my babies.” Her eyes open and lock with his. “Thank you for letting me be their mother.” She replies. We are all weeping. It is sacred.
The color of this woman’s skin really doesn’t matter until this point in the story. As I stand up to get her water to drink I see her from a different perspective. (Remember, I have been lying on the floor with her, I am now standing above her.) Her head is on one of the steps of the pool supported by a towel we have rolled to be a pillow. Her beautiful body with her AMAZING belly bump is floating in the water. The tub is a stark white and she is a deep chocolate brown, the water is blurring her bodily features so all that can be seen is color and shape. It is visual magic. I gesture wildly yet silently to her husband to get a photo. As he stands, he is hit with the beauty of this moment as well. I am moved to tears by the image of her, floating in her pain, surrendering to this power beyond her control. She is a goddess now. And she is beautiful. I love this woman.
A few minutes later, at the peak of a particularly long contraction, she gives an obvious push. Her body is controlling her now, she is simply along for the ride.
I call the nurses. She is not allowed to deliver in the water… hospital policy, liability… blah, blah. We get out and walk back to the room, she is wrapped in blankets and she is lightly pushing with every contraction as we walk. They are dancing again, in the quiet of the hallway, dripping water. He takes her body and holds her weight with all of his strength. There is a part of me that wants to rescue him, to offer to take my turn holding her weight as she works through her contractions. But now, she wants only him. He is allowed to talk again. She needs only his touch. This is her pattern. As soon as she is pushing she needs him to pray. He stands over her in the hospital bed, trying to stay out of the way as the nurses break down the bed so she can push. We install a squat bar on the bed. She stands up on the bed as the next contraction hits, her hands on her thighs. I convince her to squat and use us as support. She is pushing in earnest now. And she is beautiful.
I don’t cry at births often anymore. I haven’t since about #25 if I think about it… I have seen close to 150. I watch parents cry, I watch siblings beam, and I watch couples lose themselves in emotion. But I don’t cry very often anymore at births. I am at work. It is my job to be stoic and strong so that the couple can surrender. I am the anchor here. Tears haven’t been allowed in this setting for me for a few years now.
It comes to her now; The Goddess Transformation. It happens in the moment between contractions; not when this baby is born. She finds her Goddess again in a quiet moment of fortitude. She is primal and powerful, but mostly she is flying. She is no longer in her right mind. She has left us. She is in “Labor Land” and she will stay there until she has expelled her son. I am humbled by her strength.
We sit down and whisper to her. She wants the room silent. The couple has requested that no one speak when their son is born. The father will bless him as he emerges. His voice will be the only one we hear other than his son’s cries for the next few minutes. We wait. And we hold space for her. She is bringing the baby Earthside. He is coming.
Her baby slips into the doctor’s hands as she exhales the breaths that have built in her soul while she couldn’t let them out completely. There are tears then. The parents gather around their son and they welcome him. Dad prays a powerful prayer to God, asking that their son be blessed with wisdom and strength and leadership skills, and ceremoniously pronouncing his name upon him. And then, his prayer changes. He remembers his wife. He stops praying to catch his breath. He is struggling with the tears that are spilling down his face. He has no shame for showing this emotion. His voice fails him for a moment as he then thanks God for this woman. His Woman. For her strength and her power. For her beauty and her Grace. For her presence in his life and for their growing family. All at once, the nurses and doctor and I are crying. It is sacred. And I am once again washed with honor. And tears.
She is born then. And so is he. The Goddess and her son, both birthed into being through her transcendent pain. The nurses take her baby to wash him and measure him. She closes her eyes and rests her head back on the white pillows. Even with her eyes closed, you can feel it. She is radiating. She is contemplating what she just did. And she is celebrating herself, as a woman. And it is powerful. Her husband finds me, remembering that I am there. He encircles me in his arms and holds me. I am sobbing now. He whispers to me, asking me if I am alright. He remembers then how tired I must be and pulls out of our hug to look into my eyes. This man is my friend. We have shared many confidences and he has stood by me though many moments of my life.
“Are you okay, Jess?” I nod, lips pursed, unable to trust my voice. I try to speak then, with eyes that are floating in emotion I look at him.
The voice that comes out of me surprises me. It doesn’t seem to be my own. I am, at once, embarrassed. I look into his eyes and whisper:
“When did I forget? When did I forget what beauty is?”
He does not have the answer to my question and we both know it. I look at him, and then at her and say. “Thank you for allowing me to be here. That was one of the most exquisite moments of beauty I have ever witnessed.” We look at her then, he and I. We are standing arm in arm. He whispers to me while staring at her. “She is…. Amazing.” I only nod, respecting the power of silence and his own personal realization.
The question I presented stayed with me for many days afterward. When DID I forget? When did I start telling myself that because I was shaped differently and thought differently and lived differently... that I was not beautiful? And how does that happen? I still had no answers.
When did WE, as a culture, forget that life begins with womanhood? When did being a woman stop being “special”? In my quiet repeated meditation, I am reminded of the song in “Fiddler on the Roof”… where “The Papa” sings about “The mama’s proper double chin.” He is singing about his woman being round and soft. And it is not only DESIRED… it is PREFERED. When did women with curves start believing that they are less than because of their “proper double chin”? When did I, as an individual, adopt the mentality that “thin is better than fat”? When did men stop believing that padding on his woman made her more feminine, more lush, more… More.
The recovery from my hospital stay involved many more moments like this; moments of remembering beauty. I am sure I will get around to writing a few of the moments some day.
The answer came to me a few months ago. There is a blog… it is worth reading. It is from a male perspective and it is about how men see women. It is called “Single Dad Laughing”… and for those of you that struggle with beauty issues… read ALL of it. There are a few that are ESPECIALLY poignant.
http://www.danoah.com/
He suggests that part of the problem has root in men. The way they look at women, and use women against their will. Men who feel the need to explain that fat women are “less than” because they are more than what they want. He proposes that culture, media, and the greed and competition of men is part of the cause. And he offers his opinion that women have allowed it to happen in an attitude of “It is all I will get, so I will take it.” His writing is powerful. And it is accurate. Please take the time to read some of it, ESPECIALLY the women that feel less than beautiful because they are more than thin.
I will give you the answer that I have come up with to my own rhetorical question as a close to this blog.
We, as women forget how beautiful we are when we forget about the power that we have, the women we can be and the Goddesses we become. We forget our own beauty when we compare ourselves to others, instead of the woman we were yesterday or the woman we see in our moments of complete self. We forget our beauty when we rely on others to remind us and forget to remind ourselves. We forget our beauty when we decide we are unworthy because of someone else’s beliefs, or our own. We forget our own beauty when we forget that we are women. And THAT is what makes us beautiful.
I remember, most days. And when I do somehow forget, I am allowed the miracle of witnessing it in another woman… that moment of a Goddess being born. And I am reminded.
