My contractions feel like a clamp inside my abdomen, its torsion gripping tighter and tighter. The twist clenches, more (breathe), then more (breathe). Then it crests with an unbearable torso-wide pinch (exhale, long and slow). More than anything on earth in this moment what I want is an epidural. But in the midwife center where I’ve chosen to deliver my second child, epidurals aren’t an option.
I didn’t know that it was nearly over. All I knew was that the pain was too hard, and I didn’t want to go on. I didn’t think I could. The midwife whispered words of support: “You’re doing so well.” My birth plan asked for silence. My husband pressed a heating pad on my back. My nurse crouched nearby.
This was my second labor, so I’d been through this pain before. Both of my labors progressed identically. They were both natural, though the first, a hospital birth, by accident. Both labors also ended up taking about the same length of time—13 hours, except for the pushing. My first son took 44 minutes to emerge, and my second, only eight. Eight agonizing, burning minutes of profound discomfort, to put it mildly. I hadn’t planned on so much pain the second time around.
I hadn’t planned on it the first time either, but since it was my first time, I hadn’t known what to expect.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whined to my mother when she entered my room post-delivery. “Why didn’t you tell me how bad it hurts?”
“Because I didn’t want to scare you,” she said calmly.
I get that. I’ve always been hesitant to tell expectant first-time moms how much childbirth really hurts. That’s because I hope that maybe it won’t hurt. After all, 6 percent of women experience something called “orgasmic birth.” This kind of bliss was hard to imagine after my first labor, but I admit I hoped it was possible.
The first time, everything went wrong. I didn’t know the random staff. One nurse stood with folded arms watching me wail. First, she’d told me I’d have to wait for the epidural, then shortly afterward, she announced its time had passed. I gave birth midday under a skylight, with sunlight searing my eyes after my room-change request went unnoticed. The doctor was elsewhere. A nurse delivered my son, and she seemed miffed, too stern. After it was over, I didn’t see her again. I was transferred to a different staff. I felt insignificant, as if no one cared about my needs.
I wanted everything about my second birth to be different. And it was. First of all, I was with a different partner. Our relationship was strong and loving, while my first son’s father had been abusive. I imagined the stress of that relationship must have contributed to the difficult birth.
To prepare for my second birth, I read Ina Mae Gaskin’s books on natural childbirth. I found her work empowering. I decided I didn’t want another hospital. I went for visits and check-ups at the midwife center. I attended discussions with other expectant moms. The staff made sure we met all the midwives and nurses so no one would be a stranger once labor started. I was also asked to write a detailed birth plan. Each midwife and nurse would read it. They referred to it often during my labor. My needs mattered.
My birth plan was precise and exhaustive. I went over everything that still haunted me from my first labor. Not just the sunlight, but the coldness. The lack of empathy. My confusion and isolation. My feeling that no one was listening.
This time, I wanted soft light and soft voices. In the hospital, my then partner kept taking business calls in my delivery room. This round, I spelled out the peaceful, supportive environment I needed. And I wanted my son to be placed on my stomach the moment he was born. There were complications during my first labor, so I didn’t hold my son or see him for an hour after he was born.
I felt so prepared that I honestly didn’t believe I would experience much pain, and certainly not as much as I did the first time.
When my second labor started, I checked into the midwife center’s “desert room.” One of the nurses burned sage. I spent hours in a hot bath—it was like a hotel room. My older son and mother-in-law were permitted to come in and out.
As my labor progressed, I was surprised as my pain intensified. I whispered for my husband to tend to my older son. I couldn’t be conscious of anyone else’s needs. The pain grew gigantic. I couldn’t think. I settled into the rhythm of the contractions. I breathed through each one with closed eyes. My husband at my back, supporting my whole torso now. A nurse and a midwife knelt on either side. All of them quiet. That’s what I’d asked for.
I remember their hushed chatter. Their attendance to my needs. When I had to vomit, they whisked a receptacle to me and then away without my asking.
As the labor wore on, I looked out the small window of my room and watched the first snowfall of the year. I wanted something for the pain. I cried. I remember this: the quiet tumult of support around me. My husband’s love, and the women, listening, attending. Soon, it was time to push.
The moment he was out, the midwife whooshed him onto my tummy. He looked at me, eyes open, arms outstretched. I thought I would want to hold him. That was the plan—but I was wrong again.
“Take him,” I said to my husband, who swooped our baby up. I needed a few minutes to collect myself, to recover. And this time, everyone present was listening.
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