I can't think of a better way to start the blog for The Joyous Womb than with my son's birth story. The story illustrates everything that TJW embodies - empowerment, communal support, faith, ease and flow leading up to the finale - bliss. And then, more plainly obvious, the most joyous moment my womb has ever and will ever bring into fruition. Clocking in at 38 hours with unexpected changes and twists from beginning to end, our birthing experience was dramatic to say the least. However, it led us to exactly where we needed to be and I'd do it all over again for my precious baby boy.
THE STORY
Setting Sail
From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I knew one thing about my birthing plan: I didn't want to deliver inside of a hospital. I never agreed with the way most OB's approach the sacred process of birth and was weary of the high mortality rates for black women delivering in hospitals. I wanted to be fully supported in my choice of having a medication free, natural, vaginal birth. Even more specifically, I wanted to experience the beauty of a water birth at a birthing center. I immediately began my search for birthing centers near me and came across Natural Beginnings Birth & Wellness Center (NB). After touring their beautiful facility and birthing rooms with spacious beds, huge pools, and a comforting atmosphere, I knew it was the place I was going to bring my son Earth-side. For the next eight months, I pictured myself in the pool, lights dim, voices soft and low, my body submerged in the warm water, ocean sounds playing on the Bluetooth, lavender essential oil floating from the diffuser, my late uncle's altar set up beside me, and my loved ones surrounding me as I met each contraction with strength and eventually pushed my son out.
What's the saying? Man plans, God laughs. Lol.
Friday, Jan. 5 (4 days past my due date): It’s 2:20 in the morning. I’m going back and forth to the restroom for what feels like constipation, and the first contraction hits. I know immediately this isn’t a Braxton Hick and that it’s FINALLY time. I’m lying in bed, honing into my body, connecting through the breath to feel. The next contraction builds and I feel what I can only describe as my energetic body settling in. It feels like every cell in my body is communicating with one another, getting in sync with the force of life. It’s similar to the subtle invitation at the beginning of a plant medicine journey. I feel excitement rising as I log each contraction in my Stork app. 30 seconds long, 5 minutes apart: am I finally going to meet my baby?! Pregnancy has been more of a breeze than I'd like to admit, so I’m in no rush for it to be over. However, I’m ready to lay eyes on the tiny feet that kick away at my ribs at all hours of the night. I’m getting out of bed to wake my mom and hear her downstairs making her way to the bathroom. Perfect timing. I meet her at the steps and quietly and quizzically mention that I might be in labor. Now we're both excited. I call my son's father and ask him to head over ASAP. I call Haley, the midwife at NB, to let them know my labor has begun. I put the phone down and get a strong urge to sit on the toilet; my water breaks. I instantly know something is wrong.
Instead of a clear liquid stream, I watch the toilet fill with greenish-brown fluid. I call Haley to confirm what I already know. The color is caused by meconium. My baby has taken his first bowel movement inside of my womb, and as a result I "risked out" of the birthing center. With sympathy and care, Haley explains that I can come to NB to be checked. However, I will likely be transferred to a hospital because the meconium is out of NB's scope of practice. I also have the option to head straight to a hospital in Charlotte that they recommend and I would be in the care of the trusted midwives there. I have one singular objective; to make sure my baby is ok. I chose the second option for time; NB is an hour away and Presbyterian Novant is 13 minutes away. We get off the phone and I take a deep breath allowing myself to feel. Shock and worry visit me briefly before I resettle into a place of peace and knowing - knowing that all was ultimately well. My mom and sister are now both bustling about the house, preparing our things, picking up the pace. There’s a focused excitement in the air now. I tell my son's father the news, change of plans, and to meet us at the hospital. His comments are strong and steady. "Stay calm. You sound calm. Everything will be okay."
I’m on the way to the hospital; riding in the backseat for comfort. I can't help but consider the risks that we now face, risks that for 9 months I thought were unlikely. Here I am, beginning my birthing journey in the unlikely events of childbirth. I think about the possibility of a C-Section and if it’s the fastest way to keep my son and myself safe and healthy. I care less about how and I’m ready to do anything to get my baby here safely. We pull into the parking lot, I fightback tears. I breathe again, grab the reins of my energy and sit in my power. My mom's presence alone holds space for me to do so. As I check into triage, I see a text from Haley and I’m comforted to know that NB is with me even in this new environment. My family gathers shortly after and I feel all the pillars of support surrounding me. The hospital staff makes two (excruciating) attempts to find my cervix. They can’t and we have no way to check my dilation. I have no intentions on going back home so, thankfully, they decide to admit me.
I'm in the room now and reality is setting in. "This is it!" My baby will be born today! After months of wondering, I know his birthday is Jan. 5. It’s 5 am, so I (naively) calculate a few hours of labor, maybe a couple of hours for pushing and we have a baby! In the labor room with me are my son's father (my labor partner), my mother, my younger sister, my partner's mother, and his younger sister. I really want to be present so I give my mother a list of people to share the news with, then hand my phone over to my sister for the duration of my labor. I’m entering sacred space and need all of my focus and energy to be on my baby. The midwife and nurses stop in to introduce themselves; everyone is extremely kind and welcoming. They ask for a copy of my birth plan and go over it with me for any clarifications they need. This is extremely comforting for me. I wasn’t sure if there would be resistance to my plan now that I’m in a hospital. They are more than happy to follow my birth plan as closely as possible. We start with dim lights and intermittent monitoring.
For the greater part of my early labor the contractions are one minute long and I’m able to talk and laugh through the pain. I’m cracking jokes and being my typical unserious self. A contraction hits and this one lasts for an entire three minutes, taking complete control of my attention. This pattern continues. The pain begins to intensify and linger, I recall the words of my cousin Journey, who'd given birth naturally the year prior. "You'll be just fine with the pain because you know how to breathe. That's the key." I’m experiencing just how right she is! With each wave, I start with a deep, slow inhalation. The exhale is also slow, with an audible low, controlled moan. With each wave, I position myself in the L-shaped bed, kneel to face the elevated head of the bed, and hang my arms over the top. With each wave, my partner puts his hands on my lower back and applies pressure. This feels doable; I’m confident I’ll make it through with (relevant) ease.
It’s been 16 hours and the contractions are more sharp and gripping, still 3 minutes long, but five minutes apart. I sense something in my room needs to change to help my labor progress. I wonder if there are too many people in the room. I think back to the birthing informational course from NB. It mentioned the feeling of being "watched" can slow down labor and it’s quite common. I’m not sure how to ask everyone to leave. My mom picks up on the vibe and asks if I want them to take a walk. I want to see if anything else is stalling my labor first. I try new birthing positions and adjustments to the monitoring. We go back and forth between the ball and the folded hospital bed. The hospital staff came in and changed my monitoring from intermittent to constant with a wireless device due to his heart rate dropping with each contraction (they suggested this could mean his umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck). It hurts my heart to know that my baby is going through it. I know I need to do everything in my power to speed up labor so he doesn’t go into distress. I ask my sister to play music, hoping to ease my mind. We’re singing, laughing, and dancing to songs by Ariana Grande, Tori Kelly, and Destiny's Child. It feels like it’s just us. I challenge myself to sing through contractions until I can't any longer and then pick back up as soon as possible—another nice flow. Singing songs from these artists is one of our favorite things to do together, so I’m happy for the break in my labor to share such a beautiful moment with my sister that I'll never forget.
Navigating the Storm
More hours have passed, and still no progression; by this time, the voice in my head requesting privacy is LOUD. I struggle with speaking my needs aloud because I don’t want to hurt anyone's feelings. Mentally, I’m okay with everyone being there and want them to experience this moment with me so badly. However, my body feels differently and I have to listen to it. My body instinctively leads me to the entryway with a curtain blocking off whatever’s behind it from the rest of the room. Now it's just me and my birthing partner and I labor there while I try to muster up the courage to express my need for privacy. Thankfully, my mom walks over to the corner and places her hand on my back. "Would you like for us to step out?" Yes, please!! The room clears out; leaving just myself, my partner, and mom. "Mom, I don't want anyone coming back in. I need to be alone. I can tell that my body needs to let loose and I need to feel free to do that," She tells me no explanation is needed. "Whatever you need," my partner agrees. I feel another contraction coming on and begin to panic because my partner is more than 3 feet away. Seated on the birthing ball, I lean into my mother's chest, hoping her presence will provide the same level of pain management. It does. My partner makes his way over to massage my lower back and at this moment, it’s clear I need just the two of them with me until the end.
He isn’t saying it, but my partner needs rest so I insist my mom and he take shifts. One sits with me while the other takes a nap. Not even ten minutes after the room cleared, my labor takes a sharp turn towards "I can't do this anymore." Contractions are so intense that finding my center and focusing on breathing is extremely difficult. I’m approaching the 24-hour mark, and not sure how much longer we have to go. My legs and arms are shaking from holding my body up for so long. I am exhausted. I need sleep. I request an epidural. The midwife, Valentina, knows my birth plan and offers alternatives. "We can try water labor first, get you some nitrous oxide (laughing gas), and if neither of those help, we'll go ahead and put the request in for an epidural." As we fill the tub up, I’m elated, well, in-between contractions. A water birth was the highlight of my original birth plan. So having this option feels satisfying. I’m getting close to my vision for my birth. This could be it! As my body enters the water I feel so much relief. Maybe too much. My contractions begin to space out even more. I now have about a 7-minute break in between. I don’t complain. I take advantage of two pauses between contractions to take a quick nap and then get out of the tub. As relaxing as it is, I have to get my baby here and it’s clear the water is stalling my labor. The contractions reach an apex and my primal side emerges. I move to the floor, on all fours, and roll my neck around like a wild horse. I look up at my partner, realizing how surreal it must be to see me like this. He shows no signs of being uncomfortable, remaining supportive and present with every wave.
The nitrous oxide comes in right on time. My contractions are now three minutes long, coming back to back in waves of three. So they actually feel like nine-minute-long contractions before the break comes. My resolve is starting to crack; I don’t know how much longer I can take this. The nurse and midwife give me words of encouragement. "You're doing so great. I can see your contractions and the way you're handling it. You make it look easy, but I know these are some wild contractions." I feel proud knowing my breathing method is working. However, I’m past the point of exhaustion and need relief, promptly. Our wonderful nurse, Mandi, instructs me on how to use the gas mask. "You'll still feel the pain, but you just won't care". I take a few inhales and that’s exactly how I’d describe its effect. It feels like after hours out at sea, trying to swim ashore, a life jacket had been thrown to me. I’m so overwhelmed with happiness. Although still tired, the distraction from the pain is giving me confidence that I can do this. The time to push has to be near. I can make it to the finish line without getting an epidural! "This is the first time I've seen you smile," Mandi jokes. She is right. For the first time in hours, I feel like myself and I’m back to being cheerful and chatty. I see relief wash over my mom and partner’s faces.
Unfortunately, my moment of triumph is short-lived. Just as I settle into comfort and ease, the pump stops working. I’m now only getting about 30% of the total dose of gas with each breath. Despair grips me. I’m frantically taking deep inhales to get as much gas as possible. Each time I put the mask down to take in a breath of oxygen, the pain of my contractions engulf my body. Mandi and my partner work quickly to troubleshoot in between contractions. They try everything they can to get the mask back to maximum power. We finally had a way through and it’s slipping through our fingers. They bring in a new machine. It doesn't work. They try replacing each part, one by one, to no avail. They even call in the technician who is also at a loss for solutions. When it sets in that the gas mask cannot be fixed, I begin to cry, feeling hopeless and highly disappointed. Valentina comes in at the 24hr mark to check my cervix. 5cm…. FIVE cm??? We’re all absolutely crushed. There is no way. The last ounce of fight I had left in me exits my body. I officially give up, throw the towel all the way in. As badly as I want to experience a natural birth, I know my body and this level of exhaustion is unsustainable. With tears rolling down my face I beg and plead for the epidural. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long to get one. The administration of the drug isn’t nearly as painful or scary as I thought it would be. The epidural floods my body with warmth and I feel the effects instantaneously. I know I made the right decision.
Anchored in Serenity
I wake up from my nap completely amazed, looking at the monitor screen. My body is still contracting and preparing to bring my baby here, but I feel no pain. I’m able to experience the pressure of the contractions without the pain. I can still even feel my baby's kicks. And to my surprise, I’m able to feel and flex the muscles I'll need to push—pure magic. I invite our families back into the room, and we sit in sweet anticipation for the moment we've all been waiting for, pushing time. Our new nurse, Katelyn, points out that my contractions are still coming in waves of three, which is abnormal and not optimal for pushing. She suggests Pitocin to try to get the pattern to be more regular. My mother gracefully interjects, "Maybe the contractions are that way for a reason and her body is doing exactly what it needs to do." (We learn later, thanks to my mothers superwoman-of-a-midwife friend, Sara, that the contractions were called "couplets". Based on other details from my birth story, she concluded that my son's head was in an awkward position and the contractions were so intense and long because they were working to move his body into an optimal position for delivery. I was relieved to know that the contraction pattern wasn't a mistake of nature but instead, my body doing exactly what it needed to do, as my mother suggested). At the moment, I accept the Pitocin. They give me a peanut ball and move my lower body into different positions to help my baby descend naturally. It’s now been 37 hours of labor and Pitocin hasn't made a difference. Valentina comes in to check my dilation. Before inserting her fingers, she exclaims, "His head is right there! Wanna see, dad?" He peeks over. I see wonder and amazement all over his face. It’s finally time! We can SEE our baby!
The moments that follow truly feel like heaven on Earth. Serenity. Bliss. Peace. Before I begin pushing, my mother and sister place my uncle's photo-obituary to the right of me. It means a lot to see him beside me, I know he would have been here if he was alive. My legs are propped up, with my mom holding one leg and my partner holding the other. His mother stands to my right and my sister stays around the perimeter with her camera to capture this special moment. Valentina puts a huge mirror up at my feet so I can see for myself what’s happening. I begin the process of pushing. With each contraction I push with everything I have, motivated by the fact that I’m minutes away from seeing his face. I lie down to breathe and meditate during each break. Every push is met with encouraging and loving words from everyone around me. "Wow, Maya, that was a good one." "Yes, Maya." "Amazing," "You can do this," "He's almost out; you're doing great." Their gentle, sing-song voices sound like angels. My mom's stands out the most, soft and sweet like honey. Before I know it, his face is out; then I feel the shoulders exit and right after the rest of his body. After an hour and 15 minutes of pushing, his strong cry fills the room. The second I see his face, tears erupt from my eyes. I’m overwhelmed with the greatest love I've ever felt. They immediately place his body on my chest. My heart swells, seeing his eyes look up at mine, his hands on my chest, and taking his first breaths in this foreign place but recognizing and taking comfort in being on the body that held him for nine months. The body being mine. His mama.
MY TAKEAWAY
Where there is healthy detachment lies strong faith and plenty of room for the universe to work its magic with the unknown. As excited as I was to have my "dream birth," I’m grateful I wasn't too attached to that outcome. Once things changed, it was easy to release prior expectations and go where spirit led without any feelings of regret; trusting that things were unfolding in divine order.
I imagine the way my birth would've gone if I made it to the birthing center before discovering that he had a premature bowel movement. Due to my sons head position, I was in for a long, painful labor with abnormal contractions regardless of location. Attempting to birth at NB would have inevitably led to me being transferred to the hospital, either due to meconium or my need for an epidural. Their protocol for transfers is to be transported via ambulance to the nearest hospital, Iredell. The midwives at NB aren't able to continue care at Iredell and the hospital has none of it's own. Thankfully, I ended up in an environment that had pain relief readily available and still provided excellent care. The nurses and midwives at Presbyterian Novant were exceptionally encouraging, accommodating, and knowledgeable. Even with the complications present, they gave us the space and freedom to have a successful vaginal delivery with minimal interventions. I'm forever grateful for their support and advocacy as they played a major part in our positive experience and outcome.
I think back to the main reason I chose to labor at NB: I dreamed of a water birth. Everything I'd visualized was centered around that pool. Now I know that water stalls my labor, but with no way to have known that prior to, I would have been absolutely devastated. What I thought I wanted wasn't what was best for me. Another example of this being NB's 6hr postpartum care maximum vs. Novant's 48hr period. Before experiencing labor, I just knew I'd want to hop right in the car and go home as soon as possible. Lol. Post-labor and delivery, I cannot imagine going home so soon. Our nurse's assistance with swaddles and overnight diaper changes, the lactation consultants frequent visits, and the 24/7 food service helped us have a smooth transition to our new normal, parenthood. Our experience at Novant confirmed that everything played out the way it did for a reason. In retrospect, it was meconium that got me to where I needed to be. The meconium, which in the end had no negative effects on either my son or myself, was simply a redirection to the path that was in alignment with our highest good.
The birth I planned for would have been beautiful. However, my experience ended up being exactly what my baby needed, and it was just as beautiful, empowering, and sacred. It was not only a testament to my strength, but also that of my son's. His birth story was truly a chaotic, miracle of a marathon that wouldn't have been possible without divine order and the presence of our support system. Thank you mommy. Thank you Kaya. Thank you to my partner, his mother and his sister. Thank you to all of the amazing nurses and midwives at NB and Presbyterian Novant. I move forward on this new journey of motherhood with the upmost confidence knowing that GOD got us and our family holds us.
Ase.
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