My Illegal Home Birth
Giving birth at home was weird, magical — and a felony.
by Madeline Holler
June 23, 2008
And then, there was God. In Missouri, devoted Christians were
commonplace and Alice was no exception. When my due date passed without any sign of
labor, she recommended, in addition to her close monitoring, prayer and
patience. The latter, I could handle — even then, I didn't mind being
pregnant — but the idea of assistance through prayer made me cringe. I
was comforted more by statistics, countless ten-month mom stories on the
Internet, the biology of the human body and my very kicky baby.
At forty-three weeks and a day, I finally felt the pinch of early
contractions. Eventually, I lowered myself into the birthing tub — an
inflatable kiddie pool covered with colorful cartoon fish and warnings
in seven languages. I sat in the warm water for hours through varying
levels of painful contractions.
Alice checked the baby's heartbeat each hour. She napped a bit while I
concentrated on contractions, noticing the increase in intensity with
each hour that passed. My husband sat nearby giving me hands-off,
wordless support. Periodically, he stood next to the pool and poured in a
pot or two of hot water.
Alice checked my cervix for a third time.
I leaned against the chair and waited for my
cervix to stretch one final centimeter.
I had reached nine centimeters. She helped me out of the pool to an oversized chair across the room.
A vinyl tablecloth covered the floor and waterproof hospital pads lined
the chair. On my knees, I leaned against the chair and waited for my
cervix to stretch one final centimeter.
The amniotic sac still had not broken, so I pushed a couple of times to
break the bag. Soon after, the baby's entire head hung between my legs.
Alice instructed Wayne to get in position while I pushed. The baby
slithered out. Alice pulled me back onto a short stool sitting behind me. Someone handed me the baby. Another daughter, a
satisfying ten pounds and fourteen ounces.
Everybody was alive and healthy. No one got arrested.
A few days after Frances was born, while my two daughters and I snuggled
on the couch, the garbage truck moved slowly down our street scooping up
oversized trash bins with its automatic arm. We watched the lids fly
open and the neighborhood's weekly debris fall into the open top of the
roaming truck. In front of our apartment, I watched as a green Hefty bag
covered with gray duct tape rolled out of our can through the air and
into the back of the truck.
Tucked safely inside the truck, my placenta, my
daughter's afterbirth, rolled away.
©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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