A woman’s birth story is a spiritual journey. It is a warrior’s journey. It is considered a sacred journey, because it takes us to our original selves. This is my birth story.
In this podcast, Emmy takes us on the journey of the birth of her daughter, where she encounters spirits and other special visitors!
"It was moving and profound." JLG, NJ
"SUCH a powerful and daunting story, and as always, SO artfully related! You do such a service to women -- and men -- everywhere, to relate your story with such candor and humble honesty." TLS, OH
www.sacred-truths.com
A woman’s birth story is a spiritual journey. It is a warrior’s journey. It is considered a sacred journey, because it takes us to our original selves. This is my birth story.
In this podcast, Emmy takes us on the journey of the birth of her daughter, where she encounters spirits and other special visitors!
"It was moving and profound." JLG, NJ
"SUCH a powerful and daunting story, and as always, SO artfully related! You do such a service to women -- and men -- everywhere, to relate your story with such candor and humble honesty." TLS, OH
www.sacred-truths.com
Birth Story
Birth: “For each mother, it is an event that shakes and shapes her to the innermost core.” Ina May Gaskin, Midwife
A woman’s birth story is a spiritual journey. In giving birth, we confront our demons, our weaknesses and our strengths. It is a warrior’s journey. It is considered a sacred journey, because it takes us to our original selves. It shows us what we are made of. It shows us the way.
Birth is the most profound rite of passage a person can experience. Each one of us goes through a birthing process, where we cross the threshold from womb to life outside of mother. The mother is the vessel for the baby’s journey. The mother learns to surrender to the event and allow her child’s journey to be. This is how it was for me, when over 15 years ago, I labored with my first and only child. Each step of the journey from pregnancy to birth was an act of surrender. I surrendered to the changes taking place in my body. I surrendered to the constant nausea and tiredness that never really left for 9 months of my pregnancy. And one by one I surrendered to any preconceived notions I had about how this baby was going to come into the world. I had planned a homebirth, with midwives in attendance. I had a birthing tub. It was all going to be mindful, beautiful, a wonderful, gentle, birth experience. Yeah, right.
It was at midday on the 4th day of labor that the dead women showed up. They appeared one by one, coming out of a gray mist from the wall in the hospital room where I was now admitted after laboring at home for 3 and half days. The hospital was in Port Townsend, a small town in rural Washington, and there were four birthing rooms. I was the only patient.
I had started laboring at home on Monday morning. By Thursday afternoon, now in the hospital, I meandered into an empty labor and delivery room, down the hall from our room, where I had been all morning. The baby still wasn’t coming, even though I was laboring harshly. Everything about my laboring felt wrong. I’d never labored before, but I knew my contractions were wrong. The pain was intense – I’d never experienced anything like it. Every contraction felt as if the long extended arm of some horrific beast with talons for hands had been thrust up inside of me, cinching its talons around my internal organs and pulling with all its might. It was extreme agony. I felt mostly terror with each contraction. Terror that it was all wrong. Terror that my baby was in danger. Terror that I wouldn’t make it. Even though this was my first experience with childbirth, I knew that the way I was laboring wasn’t normal. Rather than fall into that deep surrender of opening and surrendering that I’d read so much about and seen in the numerous birth videos I’d viewed over my final trimester, I felt an inner instinct to contract and huddle. It all felt incorrect. I was certain there was a physical problem, the baby wasn’t positioned correctly perhaps, but in trying to manage the pain of each contraction, I couldn’t communicate my concerns to anyone. “Connect with your baby, Emmy,” my doula who had arrived that morning repeated from time to time. I wanted to scream, “I am totally connected with this baby!! I’ve been connected for 9 months!! She is not engaged with my cervix!” I could see it. I could feel it. I had no way of expressing it. And five per cent of me doubted. Maybe I don’t know how to labor. Maybe it’s me.
I am a Kundalini Yoga teacher and when I became pregnant at the age of 42 I was already a practiced meditator. I dove deeply into meditation during my pregnancy. There was something extraordinary to sitting still with my breath and my newly forming baby that was completely mesmerizing to me. I meditated daily, sometimes for hours at a time, where I lost all track of time and went far away, somewhere above time and space, into a vast expanse of blissfulness. Since giving birth, I’ve never been able to repeat the depth of these meditative states I experienced during my pregnancy. During those 9 months of pregnancy, I experienced no stress. I was content to be regardless that my partner Adam and I were extremely poor, and that we needed to find a better place to live. Still, I was resourceful, walked and swam everyday, rode my bike up to the 6th month, and found two good health care providers in the 2 midwives I had selected for my prenatal care. I worked part time for the Parks and Recreation department in our town in Port Townsend, Washington, and on days when I didn’t have to work, I blissed out into meditation. I sang and chanted to my baby, I talked to her. I was aware of her being every conscious moment of my existence.
My doula was a kind woman, but when I called her on Monday to tell her labor had started, she had hurt and back and wasn’t able to come. My two midwives were in the middle of another intense delivery an hour away and wouldn’t be able to come and check on me any time soon. They told me to try to slow the labor down. They explained that sometimes a little alcohol can slow down contractions, so they advised me to sit in the birthing tub and have a drink. That’s what I did my first night. I sat in our birthing tub and sipped port. For two days and two nights, Adam and I were on our own, in a small cabin in the woods. I was able to eat a small bit of dinner on Monday night, but didn’t have much of an appetite. By Tuesday morning, I was deeply nauseated. I couldn’t think about eating. When my midwife heard this, (Adam fielded all phone calls for I was not capable of communicating to anyone), she asked him to put me on the line and she reprimanded me like a child telling me I needed my energy for pushing later and that I’d better eat now. Somehow, it felt like I was being difficult. In response, when the next contraction gripped me, I grabbed the nearest thing to me, which was the bowl I had reserved to catch the placenta when the time came, and threw up in it. Have you ever tried to eat when you’re throwing up? Not possible. That’s when I knew: oh, this is going to be one of those awful labors. I said good-bye to my vision of a blissful 12-hour labor and suddenly I’m pushing and look, a baby, how marvelous. Nobody told me I might be throwing up. But there I was. I couldn’t even keep water down. With each powerful contraction, I grabbed the placenta bowl, as I now called it, and threw up whatever was left of the contents of my belly. Adam gave me ice cubes to suck on so I could stay hydrated, but these came up too. Nothing was going to stay down. I became concerned about the threat of dehydration.
Women don’t sleep while in labor. There is no sense of, wow, that was a tough day. Let me go to sleep now and I’ll continue again in the morning. No, the contractions pay no regard to the day’s rhythms and a body’s needs. They simply continue. I was on my knees all night, my forehead buried in the couch, for that was the most comfortable position, but by the time morning came, I couldn’t bear to kneel, it hurt my knees so much. But there was no other comfortable position. Adam slept briefly on that first night of labor, a Monday night, for my contractions were manageable, while I labored quietly in the dark. We were up all night together on Tuesday night, and finally, around 10pm on Wednesday night, one of my midwives was able to come over. She determined that I had only dilated 2 cm (10 is the goal) after 3 days and 2 nights of non-stop labor. I sank to an all time low with that news. I had very little stamina left.
I was also leaking amniotic fluid with every contraction. I had been told, or was under the impression, that at a certain point, my water would break and I would go into labor. After the water breaks, the baby has to come out, for the placenta does not remain a viable living situation for long. No such luck. My water never broke. Instead, I started leaking with each strong contraction. There was no telling how much fluid I had lost. My mid wife didn’t seem concerned, but I was very worried that maybe after 3 days of labor, I didn’t have enough amniotic fluid to sustain my baby. This, and the threat of dehydration were reasons I was considering going to the hospital, for an ultra sound could determine the amount of fluid that was still in me. Another reason was pure exhaustion. It was absolute torture to be up for 3 nights straight managing the pain of my labor. Adam was barely functioning at this point from lack of sleep. I needed help from staff who were refreshed and knowledgeable. And at this point, I welcomed the thought of morphine, just to stop the pain and allow me to sleep for a few hours. So it was at 3am on Wednesday night that I awoke my midwife, who had conked out on our bed upstairs, and Adam, who had collapsed on the couch, that I wanted to go to our local hospital, a half hour drive away from our small cabin in the woods. My midwife called to make the arrangements. Adam grabbed a small overnight bag packed with things I might need, and at 3:30 in the morning, as I labored in the front car seat, Adam drove down the dark, winding roads through the forest that led to town, our midwife following in her car.
After I was admitted, I was given an IV and something to relieve the nausea and hooked up to a baby monitor. The baby was not in distress. And finally, I was given morphine, my pain ceased, and I slept for four blessed hours. I awoke hungry and refreshed and I ate a tunafish sandwich. So good! My ultra sound told me I had just enough amniotic fluid so my baby was safe. And then the morphine wore off and the laboring continued. I wandered around the hospital birthing floor in my hospital gown. My doula, whose back had recovered enough, arrived. I wandered the halls, I went into the stairwells. I clung to tables and hospital beds with each contraction. I was not making progress and I knew it. Adam followed me everywhere, wiping my brow, holding me up. He had followed me into an empty birthing room as I thought a new room might somehow change the labor for me. It was cold in there. I felt an odd chill settle across my body, like when one enters a deep cave stepping out of summer heat, into a cool, dank underworld of sorts. I wasn’t sure if the cool temperature was a relief or a sign that something was seriously wrong when I turned toward the far wall and that’s when I saw the dead women. Slowly, one by one, a group of women started to appear. It was foggy and hazy, and they stepped out of this mist. Most of them were undecipherable, but as I watched, they slowly came into view and focus. The first to come into focus was a very young, pretty white woman who stood in the center of the group. She had long blond hair that was severely parted in the middle and pulled back over her ears into a bun. She was dressed in a fitted, black Victorian dress with the collar buttoned tightly at the neck. She was astonishingly young (19 I thought) and I wondered why she wore such a dress. There were many other women clustered with her and slowly they started to come out of the fog and into focus. I saw more Victorian dresses and what appeared to be several indigenous women. None of them were as clear to me as the young woman in front but there were at least 20 of them, clustering into the room and I had the sense that more were behind them, they just hadn’t come into view yet. They were filling the room with their presence. And at once I knew who they were. These were women who had died in childbirth. A midwife had once told me, “You may find that in labor you connect with all women who have labored.” But I knew at once that I was connecting with women who had died while laboring.
I was not on any drugs. The morphine had long worn off. This was not a drug-induced hallucination. I knew what I was seeing. These women were not here to scare me. They came to show me compassion. They told me they all knew exactly what I was going through. And they knew where I was headed. They came to be with me. They came to offer support. We know, they said. They didn’t actually speak, but I heard their message. We understand – was the biggest message I received from them. And when it was my time to die, which clearly was coming soon, they would help me, they would be with me.
It wasn’t until much later, after my child was born by c-section, that I realized who these women were. The town of Port Townsend, Washington, where I was laboring, was once a lively Victorian seaport. These were the women, the Victorian women and the indigenous women of this land that we now called Port Townsend, who had died in childbirth.
I felt the chill of death in the air in that room. I did not want to commune with these well-intended woman. I could not resign myself to death, so I told my partner I needed to get out of there, and we quickly left the room.
After this incident, and after a terribly painful contraction, I managed to gasp some words to the obstetrics nurse who was on duty; that I believed I needed a c-section. She smiled very nicely and said, “Now, dear, let’s not rush into things.” I could not argue, I was not capable of forming sentences and verbalizing thoughts. I knew I would have to prove to the staff, through more agonizing fruitless labor, that I was a candidate for a c-section, even if it meant my death – for the dead women in the other room were waiting for me. C-Section became my mantra. I wanted it more than anything. I wanted an end to this agony.
There is a Sikh belief that on the 100th day after conception, the soul enters the body. This is something we celebrate in the tradition of Kundalini yoga and while I wasn’t sure if it was true, I decided to honor the tradition. On what I believe may have been the 100th day after conception, Adam and I held a small gathering at our home with friends where we chanted, sang and meditated to create a loving and receptive space to welcome the soul of this baby that was growing inside of me. It was a way of honoring the responsibility I was taking on to be the mother of this person, whoever he or she may be. Afterwards we celebrated with food and socializing. It felt really beautiful, and special, and regardless of whether a soul actually entered or not, it was a conscious act of highest intention on my part.
Two nights later, at 3am, I bolted upright in bed from a sound sleep for I distinctly felt the soul of this baby enter my body. An active being just flew in and settled and immediately I was transported to a place beyond time and space and was reminded of something that happened long ago, that happened long before I became Emmy in this body and in this life. I remembered that I had made a contract with my mother and this child. I had agreed to be the child of my own mother. And I had agreed to be this child’s mother. We were all in it together and it had been agreed upon long before any of us came into existence. My mother and I had agreed to these terms so that this child could come into the world under just the right circumstances. We had lived our journey together so that this child could come into hers. There I sat in the dark, in my bed, in complete bliss for this memory was crystal clear to me. There was no mystery and I wondered how I could have ever forgotten about this contract. I was now fulfilling another part of the contract. How wonderful to bask in the bliss and the knowledge and the comfort of knowing everything was working out just as planned. After a few minutes however, I grew sleepy. The vision grew hazy and my memory groggy. Eventually I lay back down and fell asleep. In the morning I couldn’t remember if it had actually happened.
Back in the hospital, I continued to labor unsuccessfully. At my doula’s suggestion, I tried squatting with Adam lifting me into standing position after each contraction. It felt dangerous and was even more painful. I got in a tub of hot water which was unbearable. I asked for more morphine and labored some more in bed. The morphine did nothing to relieve the pain and instead gave me hallucinations which grew out of my 3rd eye point, between my eyebrows. With each contraction I saw a vision and it was something I had to wrestle with. The visions weren’t helpful. Sometimes I saw the cervix from the baby’s perspective. Sometimes I saw a little demon who laughed at me and I had to shoo him away. Why don’t these people realize I’ve been laboring since Monday, I wondered. Don’t they know that I’m probably in danger? After the morphine wore off I was incredibly hungry and Adam fed me my now cold dinner that had been sitting there on a side table for 5 hours. In between contractions he fed me forkfuls of green beans and mashed potatoes. It was now close to midnight and my obstetrician came to visit me. She asked me if I had a consistent sharp pain across my lower abdomen, because it’s a sign that my uterus could burst. Indeed, I did have a sharp, consistent pain there and told her so. Then I imagined what happens to a woman when her uterus bursts. Do I just bleed to death?
Meanwhile the obstetrician and the nurse were still wondering what to do to activate labor, how to get the cervix to dilate. They suggested the drug Pitocin, to activate contractions. That felt terribly wrong and I refused. Then they thought perhaps an epidural was called for, for then I would relax and then perhaps the cervix would dilate. I agreed to that Not because I agreed with them. I wasn’t going to argue with them that as a yoga teacher I was trained to relax on command. I knew I was relaxed and connected to my baby, and there was no psychological block regarding this birth. There was a physical problem. I agreed to the epidural because it would mean a temporary end to the pain and I could sleep. The dreaded epidural. The thing that all women who choose home births try to avoid. It meant failure. I surrendered. I saw it as my salvation.
The anesthesiologist had to be summoned and since it was 2am he had to first be awakened and we waited for him to drive into the hospital. I prayed for his swift arrival for by now, I considered my labor to be an act of torture. There was nothing natural about it as I’d been told by my midwives and in every birthing book I had read. Maybe labor was natural, but mine, I was sure was abnormal, and a type of torment. The words of a psychic I’d visited in my 30s rang through my mind, “Get over whatever happened between you and your mother,” he’d said, “Or you’re going to have a difficult time in child birth.”
Damn it, I thought. I HAVE done the work with my mother. What more do I need to do? Clearly I hadn’t done enough. My own mother did not value motherhood and she made this clear to her 3 children. “I don’t want to live my life as somebody’s mother!” she used to say. I can understand that she was carving out a life for herself where she was valued for more than just being a mother. But she took it to such an extreme. We weren’t allowed to give her mother’s day cards, for examples as she hated being reminded that she was a mother. Her message to us was that the role of mother, was a sort of less than experience. Women who took the role seriously and threw themselves into their mothering abilities, were somehow selling out, belittling themselves, settling for less. This is how I learned to view it as a child and I remember inwardly smirking at my friends’ mothers who didn’t work, who were there waiting for us at the end of our school day, eager to hear about our day and ready with an after school snack. At the same time, I desperately wanted a mother. My mother worked and was never home when I came home from school. She didn’t tuck me into bed or remind me to take a raincoat as I left the house on rainy days, like other mothers did. As a teenager, I didn’t have to report on my whereabouts or when I’d be home. No one seemed to care. My mother also let us know that she couldn’t stand little kids and that teenagers were worse. Somehow she had us, and then stepped aside while we grew up. So, I had a lot of painful issues with my mother and I was very aware as a young woman that motherhood was not something to be valued, not a goal to shoot for, and that I was too screwed up to have kids anyway.
This changed for me by age 40. My 30s had taught me the value of being a woman and that motherhood was one very important archetype available to women. I understood that motherhood is often undervalued in our society but that it was actually, in some ways, the most profound and important work a woman could do. I had done decades of work around the issues surrounding me and my mother and felt that my mental and emotional state was finally at age 40, healthy and solid. I had fulfilled many of my personal dreams like international travel, attained a graduate degree, embarked on a demanding career. Nothing unresolved was pulling at me and I felt ready to be a mother and I thought I could actually now be a good mother. Of course at age 40, I was at the far end of my fertility window and was not involved in a relationship. I had to resign myself to the reality that motherhood might not happen for me. It was sad but I made my peace with it. However, within the year I met Adam and we were a good fit for each other. Right when I thought I was entering menopause, I found myself pregnant. I was ecstatic. And now, at age 42, I was in labor.
I’ve always had the impression that I would die an agonizing death. I don’t know why, exactly, but I’ve known that mine would not be a death where I just quietly drifted off to sleep and died. I’ve been conscious that mine would involve suffering and that it had something to do with karma. But I knew, after 4 days of labor, that I was somehow, in ways that I can’t ever explain, burning off that karma, and that maybe now, if I lived through this labor, my death wouldn’t be as terrible. As I labored and thought of those dead women, I kept thinking: four days ago, I was a healthy, vibrant woman. Just like those young healthy women who came to me in the cold room. This is a terrible, horrible way to die.
When I was about 5 months pregnant, my brother Jeff, who lived in Georgia, gave me a long distance reiki treatment. This is something we did from time to time. Reiki is an energy healing modality that works with balancing the chakras. He and I were usually tuned into each other very well during these long distance sessions. I could always feel him start his session and I knew exactly when he ended, as I felt him close and drift away. At the end of this particular session, I had a distinct vision of 5 angels sitting around my body. These angels were extraordinary. They were androgenous, and enormous; with large forearms and foreboding wings. Two were at either side of my shoulders, two were at each of my legs, and one sat at my feet. Isn’t that beautiful, I thought. I have these amazing powerful, protective angels with me. I held the image in my heart throughout my pregnancy.
The anesthesiologist finally arrived. Paperwork was signed and he explained that the epidural would last about 4 hours. When it wore off, he warned, and once labor had ‘really started’ as everyone liked to remind me – as if what I was doing was nothing like real labor – then my pain would be 8 times greater than it is now. And he spread his arms to emphasize it. I felt barely alive as it was. I knew if that were to happen, I wouldn’t live through it. I knew I was headed for a c-section so I just smiled and shook my head and told him I understood. He explained that with the epidural I wouldn’t feel anything, but I’d still be having contractions. I was concerned that my uterus would burst and I’d never even know it, but not being capable of articulating this, I still wanted it anyway. I was desperate to stop the torment. He inserted the epidural into the base of my spine and commented that he’d never seen anyone with a back as strong as mine. I was thinking what a waste a strong back was on a dead woman as I braced for the next contraction, preparing for the giant bird talon to clutch my inner organs and pull again. To my surprise it was very mild. The epidural’s effect was immediate. I smiled and made a few cohesive sentences. “Oh, that was like a Monday contraction I said.” The anesthesiologist seemed concerned. “Monday!?” he said. It was an honest comment, but I also thought, everyone here needs to be reminded how long I’ve been doing this. “Oh my gosh, I’m capable of having a conversation!” I said and smiled. The nurse, Adam, the doula, everyone smiled. Afterwhich, Adam went to sleep on a little cot in a corner of the birthing room. Will they know if my uterus bursts I wondered as I fell back onto the bed and into deep sleep.
Four hours later, at 6:30 am on Friday morning my obstetrician woke me to check my cervix. It hadn’t budged. Still 2cm. I could have told her that. “We’d like to recommend a c-section,” she said. “Do you agree?” Sixteen hours after I had asked for one, they were finally convinced. Sure. Let it be their idea, I thought. “Yes,” I said, “I agree.” Since I already had the epidural administered, I could be in the operating room in an hour. Papers were signed, I was informed of the procedure and my rights. Finally, what I had been waiting for, praying for, was at my fingertips. And rather than feel relief, I went spiraling down a deep hole. I was plunging deeper and deeper into a dark well and I couldn’t get a grip. Would I die? Would I loose the baby? Is the baby safe? I was shrouded with doubt. This wasn’t the birth I had intended. A birth attended by strangers. A birth of bright lights and noise in a cold, sterile environment. A birth that I couldn’t witness. I had had a healthy, mindful pregnancy. How did we get here? I lied in bed connected to the epidural and an IV and a baby monitor. I pulled Adam close to me and cried into his neck. I told him I wanted our baby to be safe. I thought I would die and never see him again. I was falling deeper into a dark hole and I could see no light.
My bed was wheeled down the hall and into an elevator. I was brought to the surgery room where I was lifted from my bed and onto a surgery table. There were 3 or 4 male prep nurses there setting things up. The lights were bright and a radio played rock music. One of the nurses introduced himself and I asked him to please turn the radio off. He did. A male surgeon appeared at my side and introduced himself. My obstetrician was there too and out of no where came one of my midwives, even though I had been told that once I went to the hospital I was no longer under their care. And finally, out of some room, came Adam, dressed in surgical scrubs and wearing a surgical mask. The anesthesiologist was explaining things to me as they prepped my body. I would remain awake but I wouldn’t feel anything. I was quickly sinking. This was not the birth I wanted. This was not supposed to happen. What if I died here? This is not what’s best for my baby. They were setting up a little blue curtain in front of my face so I wouldn’t be able to visually witness the surgery.
And then, in the midst of conversations and all the hubbub of preparations, the 5 angels appeared exactly as I had seen them previously following the reiki treatment: two at my arms, two at my legs and one at my feet. I was astonished. They were amazing; strong, powerful, intimidating. Doesn’t anyone see them, I wondered? And I knew immediately, these weren’t my angels. These were my baby’s angels! They are here to help her and welcome her into this transition. They are HER angels and they’ve always been her angels and they will always be with her. She is going to be fine! Instantly I knew that my baby was safe and in good hands. Instantly I knew that her birth is her journey. It has nothing to do with me; I’m just the vessel. I was now at the point of ultimate surrender. This is her birth – this is the beginning of her journey on this planet in this body as a living, breathing being. The circumstances surrounding her birth are hers and hers alone and they are absolutely perfect for her life journey. She is coming into this world under the loving protection of 5 spiritual warriors. She is supposed to be born right here, right now, under these circumstances. Everything is perfect. At that point, someone drew the blue curtain, and I could no longer see the angels.
At once I was filled with complete bliss and happiness. I had completely climbed out of that dark hole and was dancing in the light of the dawn. Adam and our midwife talked to me quietly as the surgery proceeded. I kind of forgot that I was here to deliver a baby. At one point I heard Adam say, “There’s my baby!” and he ran over to be closer. Girl or boy I asked my midwife. It was a girl. Soon I heard a baby crying and I thought, “Where’s that baby coming from?” until I realized, my god, that’s MY baby who’s crying! The nurses were cleaning her off and giving her an Apgar test, a test that determines a baby’s health. She received a 9.6 out of 10. I didn’t have my glasses on, so my vision was blurry, but I saw Adam leaning over the table as the nurses worked on her, talking to her and I could tell she was moving her head and responding to his familiar voice and that his voice was soothing to her. He wiped the tears from his eyes. Finally he brought this sweet bundle of baby wrapped in a blanket over to me as the surgeon sewed me up. She was amazing and she listened as we both talked to her. She was moving her lips and listening to our voices and looking to nurse. I told her she had done a wonderful job, that we were so proud of her, and that we just had to wait a little longer and then we’d be able to nurse. She made little noises. She was perfect.
A few minutes later, in recovery, she was on my chest, we were skin to skin and she latched on beautifully. My vital signs had returned to normal in a matter of 15 minutes and I was cleared to be wheeled back to my birthing room. The nurse told me I had recovered in a quarter of the time it took most people.
Our daughter was born at dawn in Winter. My brother told me she made it into the sign of Aquarius by 20 minutes. It was all as it was meant to be.
Early on in my pregnancy, I had taken a workshop with three other pregnant couples with a well-reputed midwife in our community. I had enjoyed her practical, yet spiritual approach to the birthing process. This woman had recommended drinking a concoction of oat straw, red raspberry leaves, and nettles as a tea and to drink a quart a day to keep the uterus strong. I did it faithfully throughout my entire pregnancy, and I believe it may have saved my life. That herbal concoction may have prevented my uterus from tearing during labor. That spring after my daughter was born, I ran into her at our local farmer’s market. I was holding my infant daughter and she recognized me right away. “Oh, weren’t the one who had a 9-hour labor and it was all quick and easy?” she asked.
“No, that was someone else,” I replied and I briefly informed her of my birthing experience and how we ended up having a c-section.
She grew quiet, and looked away from me, into the distance, not so much deep in thought, but deep in a meditative contemplation. “Oh, that takes… to go there…” She was reaching to find the word. For a brief moment as I stood in silence with her, I was back in that dark hole, that frightening abyss when I was about to go in for the C-section. The whole traumatic journey of my labor came flooding back.
“You need to go that much further,” I said, completing her sentence.
Then she turned to me and gazed into my eyes with wisdom and understanding. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”