in and out
one account of a birth
We were in and out.
Pulling into the clinic parking lot at 11pm on a Friday night and discharged by just after noon the next day. It felt like most of our time there was spent waiting for an IV to finish drip-drip-dripping into my wrist on Saturday morning so we could go home. The birth itself was quick. Quicker than I could have imagined.
I’m sitting on our bed now. There’s a window to my left and to my right. West and east. Outside the west window is our oversized kiddie pool, just big enough for an adult to stretch out and float. It’s full of water again now. I would have submerged myself in the late afternoon heat yesterday, but I had a baby in my arms. And, I’m bleeding.
That Friday evening, now over two weeks ago, I was in the same pool, playing with my daughter and husband. It was the weekend and, more than that, work was out for the holidays. When I got out of the pool to dry off I caught a glimpse of my belly silhouetted against our house. The same silhouette I’d watched grow on our hallway wall, lit up by a nightlight, as the weeks wore on and I made more and more frequent trips to the bathroom.
I had been having contractions here and there since the early morning, but nothing too noteworthy. I had still attended our weekly staff meeting, still walked Lydia around the block in her stroller at midday to put her to sleep for her nap. I texted our doula a picture of my daughter and I in the pool. “Birth tub?” I said in jest. It wasn’t until nearly 9pm that I told our families that I was in labour, and that perhaps tonight would be the night we’d go to the hospital.
A little later Andrew was putting Lydia to sleep and I was back in the pool on my own. I sat in the cool water under the string lights and, further above, the dark canopy of the Toborochi tree. Now I breathed deeply to cope with the incoming pain of each contraction. While the next one crested I moaned and held on to the side of the pool as if clenching the deck rail of a boat at sea. The once-distant storm of labour was now rolling in.
When Andrew called the doctor and reported that I was, at that moment, in the bathroom throwing up, he advised we come in immediately. As we (read: Andrew) gathered our things and prepared to leave the house, I felt about as helpful as a seasick deckhand.
Our friend arrived to spend the night with Lydia and witnessed me in a state few others have. (She later shared that, in those days leading up to Christmas, I had given her new insight into the experience of Mary — the least I could do!)
Out the door and in the car. I told Andrew there was no need to rush as he accelerated past lively restaurants and nightclubs. Perhaps he knew better than me. The doctor was waiting on the front steps of the hospital when we arrived. It was quiet and dimly lit as they rolled me into a consultorio in a wheelchair I’d at first refused. Between strong contractions I eased myself onto the examination table. A turning of gloved fingers and a one-word assessment: “Completo.” It took a moment to register. Completo. Complete. 10 centimeters. Fully dilated. What?
“Let’s not have this baby in the elevator,” he said as we made our way to the labour and delivery room, now accompanied by our doula.
I was in and out. Barely returning to the room, to the people around me, before another contraction mounted. For a couple of them, I stood on my feet, clinging to Andrew while the downward force made me question if this baby might fall to the hospital floor.
I heard the doctor ask what position I wanted to be in to push. I gravitated towards the couch right in front of me, perhaps solely because of its proximity. With my knees on a pillow on the floor, I leaned into the seat of the couch, burying my face in my hands. I heard my own voice crescendo with each contraction and then quiet down, partly listening in, as if from the outside, partly yielding to it, welcoming it from within.
I thought, ever-so-briefly, about the other hospital guests who might be trying to sleep. But another narrative counteracted my self-consciousness: this is my voice, this is my birth song.
And so, he came to us — caught by the hands of his Papá — gurgling out sea water in exchange for air.
I sat in a pool of blood and received him into my arms. Him screeching, me wide-eyed and reeling.
This is life, bare and boiled down to its essence.
This is just one possible account of his birth. Perhaps he will tell another…
Francis Arthur Bauman. Hello. Welcome. Thank you.
