Happy HomebirthWhen – surprise! – I found myself pregnant with my eldest son, I was one of the first in my circle to have a baby. I knew nothing about the whole process of childbirth, save the few tidbits I’d picked up from the story of my own, c-sectioned birth, and the sterile and hectic scenes of prime time television. So I knew that it hurt a lot. I knew that it was supposed to be kind of high-stress. And I knew that it happened in a hospital, the woman surrounded by pastel-smocked nurses, the husband ineffectual and in the way.
And because I wasn’t prepared for all of the decisions I was going to have to make, I followed my GP’s advice and made an appointment to see the obstetrician she recommended. Then I called Jen, the one woman I knew who’d had a baby in the last decade or so. Turns out she’d had a midwife, and she was pretty hyped about the care she’d received. So I started calling midwifery practices across the city. (Note: the spaces available vary from practice to practice. In Toronto, you’ve often got to call by eight weeks gestation in order to get an appointment. In other parts of the province, it’s usually much easier to get in to see someone.)
When my partner and I met with our midwife for the first time, she asked us a ton of questions: the date of my LMP (last menstrual period), how I was feeling, my medical history, how we felt about genetic screening. And whether or not we had considered having a homebirth. At that question, we didn’t pause to consult with each other. We didn’t even have to look at each other. “Nope,” I responded immediately. “Absolutely not. “
Truth was, the possibility had never occurred to us. Neither of us had ever had access to a birth narrative which didn’t involve a hospital setting, lots of monitors and drugs, and an army of highly-trained medical specialists just waiting to step in and take over from Mom. “You can absolutely have a hospital birth,” our midwife responded, “ Ontario Midwives have hospital privileges, just like obstetricians. No problem.” And we left it at that.
Then somewhere towards the end of my second trimester, we started to talk about it again. Maybe it was because we had had a chance to do more reading about the whole birth process, or maybe it was because we felt more assured about how healthy and normal our progress was. Heck, maybe it was because our due date was looming and the inevitability of checking ourselves – myself – into a hospital for the biggest procedure in memory was becoming a reality. And maybe I was just being paranoid, but wasn’t there a higher chance of medical intervention in what was shaping up to be an otherwise-normal labour, if I were in the hospital? So we started to ask some questions.
What was involved in a homebirth? Could anyone have one? Was it messy? Unsafe? Could I get drugs if I needed them? Could we still go to the hospital if I changed my mind or if something went wrong? And when did we have to decide?
First, we learned that birthing at home is an option that allows for the mother’s needs and wishes to be fulfilled as much as possible: she can labour any way she wants, she can make as much noise as she wants, can listen to music if she wants, and can wear whatever she wants (both of my sons were born out from under an ugly, purple babydoll dress). And afterwards, she can do whatever she needs to do – like, say, eating whatever she wants, right out of her very own fridge.
Now, not everyone can have one: if a pregnancy is deemed high risk – like, if a baby is in a breech position and hasn’t turned, or if mum or baby has a medical problem that has needed to be monitored and controlled – then a homebirth probably isn’t an option. But for me, much like for the majority of other pregnant women, giving birth in the comfort of my own home was a perfectly viable – and in our opinion, preferable -- option. In fact, while the homebirth rate in Canada is still relatively low, there are places – like the Netherlands, where 33% of babies are born at home[i] -- where the practice is widely accepted.
But what about the safety issue? What if something went horribly wrong? Wouldn’t we be terrible parents, placing our own needs for comfort and security over our new baby’s access to potentially life-saving medical intervention? And wasn’t I taking a risk with my own well-being, also? Well, our midwife explained, first thing’s first: mine was a low-risk pregnancy, and the chances of there being complications during my labour were slim. My body, after all, had handled the first two trimesters practically without incident. So why should the birth be any different? And secondly, we were going to pre-register at the hospital, just in case. If anything should happen during my labour, the hospital would already be expecting us. The midwives would call to let them know I was on my way, and there would be an obstetrician waiting for me when I arrived. It would take the OB just as long to get to me if he was paged from within the hospital, as it would take me to get to the hospital myself.
Okay, I was starting to think, so maybe a homebirth isn’t such a bad idea after all. But what about the pain??? I was already planning a drug-free, ‘natural’ experience for my hospital birth, but what if I couldn’t handle it? “Can I have drugs?” I remember asking. “Nope.” she answered. “No epidural at a home birth. But you take a gravol to stop the nausea, and you’d be surprised how well your body’s built to cope with the pain, especially if you’ve got support and some good breathing. Hospitals make lots of women tense and nervous, which can make the pain much worse. Being at home can actually help . . .”
Wow. Okay. So...maybe. And when did we have to decide? Well, we could change our minds – either way – right up until the moment I was in labour. All we had to do was assemble a homebirth kit – filled with stuff like Advil, underpads, and a hot water bottle – by the time I was considered full-term (three weeks before my due date). And we packed a hospital bag, just in case.
And then we made the same decision that anywhere up to 50% of Toronto’s midwifery clients make[ii]: we stuck our midwives’ pager numbers to the fridge, pre-registered ourselves at our local hospital, put a plastic sheet on the bed, and sat down to wait for the contractions to begin.
I went into labour on a sunny October afternoon, eight days after my official due date. And, until I hit the active stage of my labour, I didn’t even know it was happening: my contractions were superficial enough to feel like late-pregnancy discomfort, and my water never broke. In fact, I was still power-walking, my belly oscillating wildly, six or seven hours before my son was born. And then, out of nowhere, it felt like someone hit me in the lower back with a sledgehammer, and I landed on my hands and knees on the living room floor. I managed to crawl to the bedroom while my partner paged our midwives. They arrived within twenty minutes of getting the call – the same amount of time it would have taken us to get to the hospital – and no one made me even climb up onto the bed, let alone try to get into a car. My partner got our camping blanket for me to lie on – I never actually made it to the bed -- and held my hand throughout the process, watching my son’s head crown via a mirror propped up near my feet.
The moment my son was born, he was lifted onto my chest and I held him, still coated in vernix, while my partner cut the cord and while I birthed my son’s placenta. And less than a half hour after that, he was already starting to nurse, skin-on-skin, against my chest. They weighed and measured him right next to me, and not once did he leave our bedroom.
Was it messy? (My midwife told me that this is one of the first questions potential homebirth clients ask). Not really. We ended up with one bag of garbage, and another full of laundry (which my awesome Mom volunteered to do). We also got to hang onto our placenta, and our midwife took the time to show us, in detail, what a neat little organ it is.
And I’m not going to lie: the pain was awful, and there was a while where I wanted an epidural. But by the time I really thought I needed it, my labour was almost over and my moment for wanting the epidural was short-lived. And in retrospect, I am really, really glad I didn’t have the option: the birth of my son was the most profound and transformative moment I have ever experienced, and I know that I experienced that moment as fully as I could. My son’s birth was his, my, and my partner’s own. It was in our space, on our terms; free from intervention, stress, or strangers.
Since then, I’ve had another son, and he was also born at home. And that homebirth experience was just as positive and stress-free as the first. But you don’t have to take it from me. There’s a ton of really helpful info about homebirth out there, and a lot of really inspiring homebirth narratives. Here’s a few of the sites that helped us make our decision:
Sources
[ii] Personal interview with Alanna Kibbe, registered Midwife
-- Jane Mullis |
