My Illegal Home Birth
Giving birth at home was weird, magical — and a felony.
by Madeline Holler
June 23, 2008
Pregnancy books and websites, which aim to demystify childbirth and
reassure the first-time mom, encourage women to choose a doctor whose
philosophy of childbirth aligns with her own. This requires that (1) a
first-time mom already has birthing philosophy and (2) doctors are
available and interested in talking about theirs. My first pregnancy
caught me completely off guard. I hadn't seen a gynecologist in several
years, much less lined up an OB who could clarify the pros and cons of
an epidural. Instead, as I paged through the listings in my insurance
provider's handbook, I picked out the first female OB.
After an initial exam, I got dressed and met Dr. Wheeler (not her real
name) in her office. She outlined the appointment schedule for each
trimester and which tests to expect. When it was my turn, I pulled out
the list of sample questions I had cribbed from the growing stack of
pregnancy books next to my bed: she had only ever missed one client's
birth, did not give enemas early in labor, and had never used Cytotec
for induction of labor. (I had read that it could melt my uterus.)
Her cesarean rate? Unknown. Episiotomies? Only when indicated. I failed
to ask for indications. I deemed a c-section rate to be too clerical for
a busy doctor. Then she recommended I take a childbirth class.
"Don't get me wrong," she said. "Drugs kill pain. Breathing doesn't kill
pain."
I laughed with her; of course breathing doesn't kill pain.
At first, I loved the first monthly appointments with Dr. Wheeler. She rolled her
eyes at the indignity of paper gowns.
My birth plan stayed tucked in my purse from one appointment to the
next.
She performed pelvic exams
swiftly, spoke kindly of my soft uterus, praised even the most mundane.
"Your urine looks great!" she said. "Your uterus is growing exactly
according to schedule!" But as the fetus developed from an olive to a
lime to an orange, I developed a childbirth philosophy that encompassed
more than a disdain for enemas. Dr. Wheeler and I needed to talk.
The childbirth canon acknowledged such discussions could be stressful
and suggested that women offer up birth plans as a way of starting a
dialogue. Dutifully, I drafted one. Though I now saw Dr. Wheeler every
other week, I spent less time with her as she rushed
through appointments. I noticed her irritation when I asked about a
sonogram. I was already twenty-two weeks along and she hadn't yet mentioned one.
She silently wrote up the referral and slipped out of the room.
My birth plan stayed tucked in my purse from one appointment to the
next. I strategized how I could ask about hospital protocols and her
approach to, say, turning breech babies, while she stretched a tape
measure across my taut belly. But she spoke mostly to her assistant
during exams.
With one foot out the door, she asked whether I had any questions. Once
I said yes, but when she whipped her head around in a double-take I
stammered and mentioned constipation. Her assistant handed me pill
samples. Dr. Wheeler dropped my file in the door and left.
The childbirth classes would start soon. I could ask for tips there.
©2008 Madeline Holler and Babble
About the Author
|
|
Related Articles
|
|
Madeline Holler is a writer and mother of two. She lives in Long Beach, California. |
|
|
-
by Kathryn J. Alexander
Why do people talk about managing birth pain, not eliminating it?
-
by Sara Cardace
On her "good divorce," guitar-prodigy son and very revealing home-birth documentary.
-
by Kate Tuttle
My addiction to pregnancy reality shows.
|
