My Illegal Home Birth
Giving birth at home was weird, magical — and a felony.
by Madeline Holler
June 23, 2008
The instructor's most urgent tip: leave Dr. Wheeler. I was already thirty-three weeks pregnant.
The instructor, a labor and delivery nurse who was openly in favor of
drug-free labor, had attended births with Dr. Wheeler in the hospital
where I had planned to deliver my baby. She was not optimistic about my
chances of getting support through the pain or of avoiding the
episiotomy I dreaded. Switching caregivers so late in the pregnancy felt
reckless, but so did continuing care with a woman whose scalpel I had
been coaching Wayne to protect my perineum from.
So I called a recommended midwifery practice. A few days later, I
canceled the rest of my appointments with Dr. Wheeler, had Wayne wrest
my file from the angry assistant's hand and printed out a fresh copy of
my birth plan.
My first appointment was with Nanette, one of three
nurse-midwives in the practice. I gave Nanette the short version of my
story, why I was transferring to her practice so late.
"I want to be in control of the birth," I said, waiting for an assuring nod.
"Get one thing right now," Nanette said, "you can't control childbirth."
"Oh, yes, of course," I muttered, "what I meant was that I didn't want a
lot of interventions. Like an episiotomy."
"I'll make the determination." she said. "If there are indications, I
won't hesitate to do one."
"Yes, I know," I said. "I just meant I didn't want one."
My forty-first week of pregnancy came and went without a single contraction.
I was flat on my back when I pushed my daughter
Beatrice out.
At
the end of week forty-two, I checked into the hospital for an induction. Cervix
softener did the trick — I was in full-blown labor by the next morning
and managed to avoid "Vitamin P," Nanette's nickname for Pitocin.
A few hours later, nurses brightened the lights and scurried in and out,
prepping for the birth. I was flat on my back when I pushed my daughter
Beatrice out. Nanette put her on my chest, but she didn't cry, so the
nurses took her far away to be cleaned, photographed and tested for
health. Beatrice wailed. I missed her profoundly.
The second pregnancy, the one four years later in Missouri, had been
planned. And this time I had a childbirth philosophy. I knew I wanted as natural a labor as possible.
The provider directory for our insurance plan, which included midwifery
care, turned up no midwives within a hundred miles of our home. A guy at
the company's 800 number couldn't find a list of midwives either.
After three days of posting messages all over the Internet, I learned a
midwife-attended birth in Missouri would be possible, but with a few
caveats: I would have to be discreet, pay for all costs out of pocket
and prepare to give birth at home — an option I had never once before
considered. Still, I set up the meeting with Alice.
©2008 Madeline Holler and Babble
About the Author
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Madeline Holler is a writer and mother of two. She lives in Long Beach, California. |
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