Echo – A Tale of Six Births

Echo – A Tale of Six Births

by Lisa Doran

ONE

She is Naked and Panting and sweating.  Working so very hard.  Another contraction begins.  Her eyes snap open.

“Lisa!” she pants.  “I can’t do this.”

“Melissa”, I say.  “Look at me”.

She looks at me as her contraction peaks and I can see that she is struggling.  I can see that she is suffering.  I can sense that she is reaching what she perceives is her limit.

“You can do this”, I say, and I open myself up completely to her in that moment and I let her see that I have been where she is at this moment and I let her see that I understand her struggle and her suffering. That she is safe, that I am here for her and that she is strong.  I also let her see that if she is willing to dig even deeper that her “self” is capable of enduring this.

Her contractions subsides.

She laughs.

“You have done this before,” she says – meaning that I have lived the moment she is living now, finding my limit- learning to reach past it and transform my pain and fear and exhaustion into motivation and ecstasy.  Yes I have been there.  Joy, pain, ecstasy, transformation.

“Here comes the next one.” Her tone of voice shows that what she means is, “I am ready.”

 

TWO

I can’t do this.

It’s too hard.

This is more work than I thought it would be.

It hurts.  I feel uncomfortably out of control.

I am hot.  It’s too hard.

I look at Tim.

“I can’t do this,” I plead.

And he simply takes me in his arms and runs his fingers lovingly through my hair and he whispers:  “You can do this.”  We cling together and sway together.  Connected in this moment, bound together absolutely in the experience of the birth of our second child.

And I remember to breathe.

It is that simple.

What he conveys in his perfect statement and through his touch is unconditionally this:

I trust you,

I love you,

I am here for you.

You are strong.

I breathe again.  Her comes the next one.

I am ready.

 

THREE

She is slow-dancing with her midwife to the rhythm of contractions.  Hands on hips her midwife reminds her how to sway and move her baby down.  I squat in the corner in the dark and watch this ancient and familiar dance.  It is in my bones too.  This knowing.  They are dancing, forehead to forehead.  Women gathering.  We hold the space.  Murmer murmer.  Gentle secret.  Midwife holds her, midwife guides her. Mama leads.

 

FOUR

Men.

Men who soften as they tend to their wives or simply crack wide open as they hold their blood and vernix covered daughters in their big hands.

Men who cry at birth.

Strong men who gentle their birthing women like I’ve seen a scared horse gentled; softly in wonder of this powerful creature.  Open hearted and connected.

Courageous men who have reached the point where they know and accept that they cannot fix the solution or make it better or rescue their beloved.  This journey is hers and they will keep her safe and protect the space and will calm and support her because they know instinctively that this is the only way to get through.  This is hers alone.  Surrender and acceptance is difficult for most men but sometimes surrender is the only way through.

 

FIVE

They are pounding at the bathroom door.

“Do you want me to call 011?”

I grunt “No.” I know the midwives are on their way.  We are OKAY.

“What is going on in there?”

“Baby,” I gasp as the first spontaneous push causes my entire body to bear down.

I feel the burn of my baby crowning as I am standing leaning against the bathroom sink.  I reach down and feel his head between  my legs.  All I can think of is to hold his head.  My legs won’t hold me anymore, so I squat down onto the toilet – the only close-by support as another powerful contraction moves through me.  I feel him wet and wiggle out.  I hear him splash into the toilet.

Now silent and put calm instinct takes over.  Things become surreal.  Somehow I know exactly what to do.  I don’t hear my husband at the door.  In fact, I don’t hear anything.  I lift my baby to my chest.  He is grey and soft.  I suck the mucous from his mouth and nose.  I turn him over and rub is back.  I sing gently, “hello baby hello baby,” and suddenly he is pink and flexing his arms and legs and crying.  I am dripping blood and fluid and shaking, holding my pink and squalling newborn whose cord and placenta are still inside of me.  Adrenaline surges and I am powerful.  I feel like an amazon goddess warrior!

My midwife arrives dashing up the stairs to an excited welcome from my 3 year old.  We HAD a baby he proclaims.  I am tucked into bed and I gaze blissfully at my third son.  I am in love as the world rushes and frets around me.  We are OKAY.  Of course.

 

SIX

We are pushing.  Eyes screwed tight, lips pursed more tightly.  Tension in every muscle.  Resisting.

I push too, I almost can’t help it, mirroring her effort – and then I feel the tension in my body, my shoulders, my yoni.  I remember my Ina May and I show what is missing.  There is power here but birth should also be beautiful Ina May says, or there is something that needs correcting.

“Sarah”, I whisper, “Sarah, look at me”

Because when you are pushing with this wild feeling in your breast sometimes watching is easier than words.

She opens her eyes and I grin at her.  Her eyes communicate momentary incomprehension at this doula-friend who is nose to nose and grinning.  And then it dawns on her and I see she understands.  She remembers Ina May too – we have talked about it together, heads bent over our lattes one cold winter afternoon four months ago.  Talked about the beauty in birth.

She closes her eyes and collects herself and when she opens her eyes she smiles.  She smiles with all of herself – thoughts, eyes and heart.  She is angelic, radiant, beautiful.  There it is.  All is good.

I sigh.

The room shifts, brightens somehow.

Her body softens and relaxes.

Little boy crowns.

All is good

 

-Excerpt from “Joyful Birth.  More Childbirth Stories Told by Doulas”  Fox Women’s Books 2012.  Edited by Lisa Doran and Lisa Caron