It was sometime between our second and third child that we decided to let the Lord plan our family. As a matter of fact, I’m not entirely sure there ever would have been a third child if we had not made that momentous decision. We were already feeling the pressure to call it quits, as we already had “plenty” and they were coming “so quickly.” We were talking about taking permanent measures at the ripe old ages of 21 and 24.

Thankfully, the Lord had other plans.

My Beloved had decided to go back to college to get his degree, so we were flat broke. Having another baby made very little sense. But we were blissfully happy and had never put a whole lot of stock in sense. However, the matter of coming up with a few thousand dollars for a hospital birth was a daunting thought.

As Providence would have it, we were attending a wonderful church at the time, and it was there that the terms “home birth” and “midwife” were first introduced into our vocabulary. A few couples there had used a midwife to have their babies at home, and I was immediately intrigued. My Beloved was hesitant, but I quickly threw a hissy fit until he agreed to consider it won him over with my traditional calm rationale. 

We went to visit Donna in the fall of 1990. She lived about an hour south of us and ran her office from a converted garage. We peppered her with questions and she answered them with satisfying frankness. She had been the head nurse of L & D in a local hospital for two decades and had come to the conclusion that, for the majority of pregnant women, the hospital was a completely unnecessary and sometimes downright menacing destination. Since then, she had delivered a little over 1000 babies in the comfort of their own homes and was loving every minute of it.

She exuded warmth and gentleness, never strident in her opinions and quietly confident that no couple coming to her would choose to proceed unless the Lord Himself was leading them. If we were not sure that we wanted a homebirth, she was not in the least interested in trying to convince us. We told her we’d pray about it and get back to her.

On the way home My Beloved was firm that money should not enter into our decision what.so.ever. It is difficult to claim that it didn’t have at least a modicum of influence, however, since Donna charged a princely sum of $800, en toto, for prenatal and delivery care. If she had been brusque, abrasive, or in any way obnoxious, the money aspect truly would not have mattered. On the other hand, when coupled with her pleasant demeaner and undeniable common sense, it was what you might call a no-brainer. After a few days of prayer and no sensation other than utter confidence, we called her back and set up our first prenatal appointment.

Appointments with Donna were like visits with an old friend. There was no waiting for an hour in a waiting room before then being called into the examination room to wait another thirty minutes for the OB. There was no rushing through the examination, or cursory “areyoutakingyourvitamins?goodgirlseeyouinanothermonth.” There was no rushing, period. Donna wanted to know how you were doing, and she wasn’t kidding. If you were stressed, she was there to listen. If you had a prayer request, she took it. Jim and the girls always came along and we were all treated as a unit, not a random and vaguely annoying assembly of disparate parts.

Plus, her hands were always toasty warm. Always.

In preparing for a homebirth, there were many things that we needed to do that we had never considered in the past. We ordered a birth kit, which consisted of various medical items like giant blue pads and sterile gloves. We read books that would only be found in the “Hippie” section of bookstores, if there were such sections. We baked towels in the oven. We reveled in our anti-establishmentarianism.

Mostly, though, we learned that women’s bodies were, miraculously, designed amazingly well to give birth with no special assistance required. Imagine! Donna’s close watch for anything out of the ordinary would alert her to the fact well ahead of time if I happened to be in the 5% of women who did, in fact, require medical intervention, at which point we would head to the hospital. Being on my third child, however, and with no previous complications, this was a slim possibility indeed.

As for the bacteria-laden state of our home, Donna was unperterbed. Yes, she suggested we give the bathroom a thorough cleaning and run the vacuum a time or two, but the fact was that one’s filth is, in the end, one’s very own, and thus we were in no immediate danger from it. Our bodies, and that of our baby, recognized our own germs and found them a non-issue. The same could not be said of the exotic and imported cooties in the hallowed hallways of the hospital, interestingly enough.

And so the Big Day approached. My mother came to stay for a week and we were desperate for her to be in attendance, so we were gratified when contractions began a few days after her arrival. My Beloved and I headed out for a walk to keep labor at a steady clip.

It petered out instead.

The next day Mom and I went shopping to take my mind off the disappointment, and I got a speeding ticket. Contractions began again, not surprisingly. My Beloved and I walked brisquely and with determination.

They petered out.

Each new day dawned with me disappointedly and undeniably pregnant. At Donna’s house for our last prenatal (we hoped), she expressed the opinion that the baby was posterior and all the “false labor” was in fact moving him/her into a more serendipitous position. This cheered us up a bit, and we headed home with the assurance that I would not, in fact, be pregnant for another month.

That night, contractions began again. In the wee hours of the dark spring morning, My Beloved and I walked. Someone might have had the sense to suggest that I save my strength. By the time we felt confident enough to give Donna The Call, FIFTEEN HOURS LATER, I was pretty well pooped.

Donna arrived with a giant black bag that reassured me more than anything else that Damn The Torpedoes, Full Steam Ahead, There Would Be A Baby Eventually, By Golly. Her declaration that dilation was happening, slowly but surely, gave me strength. My MIL also entered the scene, determined (in spite of her initial misgivings about this whole crazy “home birth” thing) to remain open-minded. Her own grandmother had been a midwife and so, even though she would have preferred the reassurance of the Machine That Goes Ping, there was no way she was planning to miss the show.

Throughout the night Donna monitored periodically as My Beloved and I danced about the apartment. This involved his staying In Front Of Me At All Times, Don’t Even Think About Getting Something To Eat Or Taking A Break, You Blissfully Painfree Bastard so that when a contraction came I could lean on his outstretched arms.

Donna and her assistant thought we were so cute and loving together.

At some point near 2am I collapsed on the bed, stuck at 8 cm, and swore that I Could Not Go On. The walking…and walking…and walking…and walking…ad nauseum from the days previous had worn me down too much. Donna did a quick check and decided that the baby’s head was simply still to high to be applying enough pressure on my cervix yet to get me to the pushing stage. Although she was reluctant to interfere, given my fatigue and state of mind, she thought breaking my water might do the trick. We readily agreed.

Water broken, things progressed, although I did not leave my bed again. The urge to push descended upon me and snoring relatives awoke in a hurry, although the two little girls a-snooze in their beds across the hallway stayed fortuitously asleep. At around 3am our third daughter came into the world, weighing a full two pounds more than our first, and was welcomed straight into our arms.

As the placenta was delivered we were given the unique opportunity to examine it as we never had before. It was interesting, to be sure, but nowhere near as interesting as the baby, so I didn’t pay a lot of attention. And then there was the dawning realization that Donna was concerned-yet-trying-not-to-betray-undue-concern over my bleeding. And bleeding. Oh, and bleeding some more.

I was quickly given a largish glass of a red concoction and told to drink it. Don’t stop, I was instructed. Don’t even take a breath as you drink it or you might not finish. Just suck it down, posthaste.

And so I did. And then my head exploded into flames and I burned to the ground, at which point I was re-assembled and brought back to life.

But it brought a halt to the hemorrhaging, and that was the important thing.

Given the long and drawn-out labor and the size of our new daughter, I was told that sometimes hemorrhage can be an issue. I was forbidden to climb stairs for at least a week (um. okay.) and, as a matter of fact, to avoid doing anything, even such as a trip to the bathroom, without someone to hold onto.

Room cleaned, baby declared healthy, myself stabilized, and everyone generally falling over from sheer exhaustion, visitors headed home. My Beloved and my mother fell asleep faster than was previously thought humanly possible, and I was left to gaze at my new sweetness until the dawning light of the new day suffused the room and I drifted off. We were a family of five now, and we were safe at home.

What could be better?

Stats
Baby: Miriam-big, bald, and beautiful
Weight: 8lbs, 8oz
Labor: 23 hours

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