The Birth of Nora

Writing Nora’s birth story is difficult for me. There are a few predominant reasons for

this. First, it almost feels too sacred to pen-that by recording it, the experience will

somehow lose its sanctification. Second, I feel that by writing it down, I am admitting

that this chapter of my life-the chapter I have worked hardest to author-is indeed over.

Thirdly, I have no idea where to start-her birth story could start with the day I brought her

earth-side, or perhaps when I was 38 weeks pregnant and found the courage and

wherewithal to change providers, or the day I learned I was pregnant, or the day I

conceived her, or almost three years ago when plagued with morbid post-partum

depression I attended my first ICAN support group meeting, or June 6, 2007, over eight

years ago, when the first Malan-McDonald baby girl was born via emergency cesarean.

Any of these would be appropriate places to start the record of this birth journey.

In spite (or perhaps because of) the internal struggle(s), I feel I have held the space of her

birth story for long enough and if I am to remember it as I want to, it needs to be written.

With that, I will try to figure out what to say and how to express what I want to convey,

though I admit, I will ultimately fall short-that is okay, perhaps even perfect.

On February 14 th , Valentines Day (and my “due date”), I stayed home from church. The

family had just recovered from a vicious onslaught of the flu, I was the last to get the bug,

and I wasn’t quite up to leaving my bed. However, LolaBella, my oldest, had planned a

Valentines party, so while the family was at church, I prepared food for the party and

tried to rest. We had our Valentines bash; the neighbors came over (and stayed a couple

hours longer than I wanted them to).

After cleaning up, Aaron, my husband, and I headed out for our nightly walk. It was

about 10 PM. During the walk, I felt a marked change in my contractions (which I had

been feeling for weeks). This was exciting to me and made me feel like my endeavors to

wait until my baby and body were ready were paying off (though I denied I was in labor

for at least the next 22 hours, this is really when it all started). We finished our walk and

went to bed. Throughout the night my contractions woke me up several times, but I was

always able to go back to sleep.

On Monday, President’s Day, February 15 th , I slept in, and rolled out/my kids pushed me

out of bed between 9 and 10 AM and started our daily routine with breakfast, making

beds, getting dressed etc. The day progressed as most Malan-McDonald Mondays do.

I continued to feel consistent, fairly intense contractions throughout the day, but was able

to breathe through them with the breath awareness and pain coping techniques I had been

practicing in Hypnobabies and my Birthing from Within class. I was in contact with my

doula throughout the day as well as my acupuncturist, my sister and my husband.

I still denied labor, but did feel encouraged that something was different. I texted

Shannon, my sister, “something has changed within me.” When I relayed my progression

to her, my doula let me know that things “sounded promising.” I still thought labor would

likely progress for days, but it was nice to feel my body doing something it had never

been given the chance to do before.

By mid-day, I let Aaron, my husband, know that I wanted him to take the next morning

off work. I had an OB appointment, an acupuncturist appointment (to hopefully

encourage labor) and was planning on meeting my backup doula (because my doula was

headed to Haiti in 10 days). I just did not feel like I could drive myself, if my “pressure

waves” continued like this or got stronger over the next day or so. I kept going with

school for the big girls with plans to finish their violin, science, Spanish and Latin lessons

then finally pack bags for the hospital/for the girls to go to friends then grandma and

grandpa’s house. When Aaron came home from work, we were supposed to head up to

South Mountain to take maternity photos of my very pregnant (and not yet photographed

in this pregnancy) belly and the beautiful henna tattoo he had painted on it.

Around 2 PM, my two year old, Wren, came up to me, grabbed my hand and asked if we

could snuggle on the couch. Though the school day was not quite over, her cuteness and

my fatigue took precedence to our schedule. So, I sent the big girls outside to play and

Wren and I snuggled/napped on the couch. I put in a birth visualization cd. About an hour

later, I woke up to an intense series of contractions (I remember thinking, “this is not

pressure, this hurts.”)-there was no going back to sleep. A couple of minutes later,

another one came.

I kept track of them for an hour and texted my doula-contractions were coming every

four minutes and lasting about thirty seconds. She again said this was “promising” news.

She advised that I eat something and get some rest to prepare for what was to come. I ate

an apple and peanut butter. I decided that though I was NOT in labor, I was close enough

to ”pre-labor” that I needed to start preparing.

I still was committed to the maternity photoshoot, so put on some make-up, looked for

some belly-less clothes to wear, turned on the curling iron-what goddess doesn’t have

flowing curly hair-and started to cook a dinner-my friend suggested that when I was in

the early stages of labor, I should cook a meal for after the baby comes, because “no food

would be made with more love.” The bag packing could wait; we still had time-probably

days…

While doing all the weird things mentioned above, I asked my girls to pack their bags,

because things were progressing for me and I was starting to feel a little stressed that I

would not get it all done. I texted my husband, “on the way home pick up bread, lunch

meat…etc. and get gas.” Two minutes later, I was on the kitchen floor on all fours, the

“pressure waves” were coming faster, lasting longer and were stronger than before.  I

could not deal with the contractions standing any longer.

I yelled at my girls who were running around the house like wild animals, “Your little

sister is coming. I don’t know if she will be here today, but she will be here this week.

PACK YOUR DAMN BAGS NOW!!!” I fell to the floor again in another “pressure

wave” and my daughters continued running through the house. After that contraction, I

texted my husband, “GET HOME.”

When Aaron got home, I was once again, on all fours on the kitchen floor, “breathing

through,” but probably fighting, a contraction-I had so many things yet to accomplish on

my “to do" list and this supposed “pre-labor” stuff was more intense/distracting than I

anticipated it would be. I rattled off the following nonsensical information to Aaron, “We

will leave for South Mountain to take pictures in fifteen minutes. I have started making

‘sweet and sour squash.’ Can you please start the rice so we have a meal to come home to

after baby is born?  My doula told me to count baby’s kicks. I am having a hard time

paying attention to baby movements due to the distracting contraction sensations. The

girls are out front. They need to pack their bags. We need to pack our bags.” I kept

standing up and dropping to the floor between relaying this information. I am pretty sure

he had no idea what I said.

Aaron started making a pizza (clearly we were not on the same page as the countertop

was covered in the squash I planned on making for dinner) and called my doula. I went

into the bathroom and tried to curl my hair while pulling toiletries out of the cabinet-to be

packed in the hospital bag. Since I kept dropping to the floor in pain, I gave up on the

hair curling idea, took off my underwear-I kept wetting myself anyway, grabbed my

pillow, succumbed to Yoga’s ‘child’s pose’ and burrowed my head into the pillow. I told

myself, “this is all just pre-labor; it will go away. Just take a little break, then you can

curl your hair, take the photos, make the dinner, take the Benadryl nap, pack your bag

My doula came over at around 6:30 or 7 PM. I was still on the floor waiting to feel it was

the right time for me to do all "the things". She checked and I was dilated to a two-better

than last Thursday when she could not sweep my membranes, but not very encouraging

to me. I vomited my dinner, of apples and peanut butter. I remember asking her why it

hurt so badly so early on? She told me that maybe it was not SO early on (by now, I

kinda wanted to kill Kerry Tuschoff, Hypnobabies founder, because what I was feeling

was pain, not pressure). My doula encouraged me to get into the bathtub; she got me

talking through my contractions and then she left me-she needed to take her friend (who

and…you still have time.”

also came along) to a midwives dinner.

Aaron brought my Hypnobabies ‘Come Out Baby’ into the bathroom and I listened to it

while in the tub (and for the rest of my birthing time). At first I really resisted what was

happening. I still had so much to do and I was confused as to how to accomplish it and

deal with the pain I was feeling. I just did not feel it was “time.”

While alone in the bathroom in a tub filled with only about 6 inches of water, I

remembered a dream I had had where a friend of mine had come to me in labor and told

me if I was going to have this baby, I was going to have to swear a lot more. I decided to

try “losing it in labor” as Alejandrina had suggested in birth prep classes and Kristin had

directed in my dream and just let a slew of nonsensical cursing mixed with Hypnobabies

mantras fly from my lips.

If angels are real, their ears burned off within seconds. I was about as crass as anyone has

ever been. I did not care, I physically felt my baby move down towards the roots of the

tree Aaron painted on my belly. The more I cursed, the farther down baby girl moved.

This was working. This was a turning point. Baby and I found our rhythm and that

rhythm required a lot of “naughty” words.

I got tired of the bathtub, there was not enough water to really feel comfortable and it was

getting cold. I got out of the tub and went into my room. I did not put on any clothes; I

needed to see my belly. I spent the next few hours on my bed, butt up in the air,

“breathing my baby" into the roots of the tree painted on my stomach. I really loved the

tattoo before my birthing time started, but it was such a beautiful guide as I was laboring.

I just kept looking at the tree and imagined myself as the “mother tree” breathing her

offspring into the roots.

My doula returned and was in my bedroom with me. I was too involved in what I was

doing to pay any attention to what she was doing. Aaron came into our room every once

in a while to check on me and offer encouragement/a back rub. There was some

commotion in trying to contact my OBGYN and getting the girls to a sitter and such.

When/if I was asked a question about any of these things, I just got annoyed. I was pretty

unaware of anything beyond my body at this point in time.

I was still not sure whether I was in labor or not. I kept thinking about all the things I

needed to do before I went into labor, let alone all the things I was going to do in labor-

the birth ball, the birthing tub, the twelve-hour wall sit, THE BENEDRYL NAP…At one

point in time, My doula asked me if I was glad that I was in labor-I think I might have

just mentioned/screamed that I wanted something for pain or that I just wanted to sleep

and she was trying to refocus me on my priorities. I cannot remember if I was positive

about being in labor or not. I was happy I was in labor, but I was not happy in the

moment-I was in pain.

My doula encouraged me to sit on the toilet. I was not sure why as I wanted to stay in

bed, but I decided that a change of position/space might be a good idea. I went into the

bathroom and spent most of the time in ‘child’s pose’ on the floor, rather than on the

toilet. No pee would come out, but blood did. My doula came in and asked if she could

check me as “that was a fair amount of bloody show.”

I made it back to the bedroom, lay on the bed and my doula checked me (I was dilated at

a 6. Per my request, she did not inform me of this.) I crawled in bed and she went into the

other room to tell my husband that it was time to go to the hospital. There was some

fighting with a printer, trying to find a pad absorbent enough to deal with what was

coming out of me, deciding to put my two-year- old’s diaper in my underwear instead of

the pad, trying to put pants on me and my demanding to wear a dress…the last thing I

remember was requesting my pillow. We got in the car and pulled out of the driveway.

I did not put my seatbelt on; I was laboring on all fours, screaming into my pillow. I did

not want to know what time it was, but I glanced at the clock when I got into the car. 9:37

PM. I committed to myself that I could keep on keeping on for 3 more hours. At 12:37

AM, I would reassess and commit to three more hours and then three hours after that I

would once again commit to three hours…I could do this.

During the five-mile car ride to the hospital, I continued to travel deeper into labor land

and Aaron talked on the phone with my doctor. I could not hear or pay attention to the

phone conversation, but I felt a greater determination and sense of urgency to have this

baby-soon (I later learned that the doctor was telling Aaron that since it is contraindicated

at that hospital to have a vaginal birth after three cesareans, the hospital staff was going

to try to make me have a repeat cesarean upon arrival.)

We got off the freeway and while waiting at the stoplight at the top of the “off-ramp” I

felt the most intense pressure ever and my water broke. It was amazing-such a beautiful,

wonderful sensation. This was the moment I was willing to let go of the Benadryl nap,

the birthing ball, the birthing tub, the twelve-hour wall sit and finally admit to myself that

this was really happening; I was in labor; I was pushing my baby into this world. We

were doing it! I was so, so happy.

After my water broke, my body started pushing my baby out. There was no stopping this.

It was a reflex. I was not pushing; my body had taken over. We got to the hospital, My

doula ran in to get me a wheelchair. I was not sure why I needed to go anywhere-my

baby and my body had things well in hand. Several nurses/hospital staff ran out. I heard

someone whisper, “She is the one.”

My doula and I went into triage. Aaron went to park the car. One nurse kept telling me

not to push. Upon hearing this, I thought two things: first, “You are a labor and delivery

nurse, right? How many babies have you seen born-today? You do know that telling a

woman not to push is completely stupid, right? I am not pushing, it is a reflex; my body

has taken over. If you were to coach me through safely not pushing, that might be

effective, but yelling. ‘Don’t push!’ is just idiotic.” Secondly I thought, “There is no way

I am going to stop pushing this baby into the world. This is our birth. You are lucky

enough to get to witness this sacred event. The second I stop pushing, you or someone

else will assault me with a knife. No one is cutting me today.”

So, anyway the nurse is telling me not to push and everyone else is telling me to move

from the wheelchair to the gurney. This was all so confusing to me. I just wanted to be

left alone to push my baby out. I moved to the gurney. They took off my underwear. The

charge nurse checked me. I heard someone say I was dilated to a “plus two.” I did not

know what that meant, but based on what I was feeling, I assumed it meant that I was

having a baby-now.

The nurse kept telling me not to push. I kept allowing and inviting my body to keep doing

what it was doing. I was wheeled into the next room, a labor and delivery room because

they did not want me having a baby in triage. I was told to get onto the other bed-

“Seriously people, why the musical chairs? Can’t a girl just have a baby????!” I rolled

onto my left side; baby girl was crowning; I was not getting onto the other bed.

Aaron came in the room and was at my side. Nanoseconds later I opened my legs and

pushed a baby girl out of my vagina at 9:50 PM, 13 minutes after we left home. My doula

reminded us to catch our baby. Aaron and I reached down, caught our perfect, slimy,

bloody babe and put her on my chest. No one was taking her away from me. She did not

need to be evaluated. She needed her mamma and I needed her. This was our show.

The charge doctor came in and saw my baby and me and wanted to know what was going

on-he was planning on a cesarean…sorry, not sorry. He got some blood on him, got

angry and left to change his shirt (because labor and delivery doctors should never get

blood on them?)

The nurses tried to cut baby girl’s umbilical cord. Aaron did not let them do this because

we wanted to delay cord clamp. They kept telling us that it was too short, so I just

lowered baby girl from my chest to my tummy-problem solved; stop intervening.

I pushed the placenta out. The doctor came in to deliver my placenta and, exasperated,

asked, “What is going on in here?” He was still confused as to why I was not being

prepped for abdominal surgery. The charge nurse informed him they would talk about it

later. The charge doctor left in a huff. As he was leaving, I thanked him. I did not see him

again.

My doctor came in and made a joke about inviting her to the birth and congratulated us. I

tore, 2 nd degree (that is what happens when a baby decides to fly out of you instead of

slowly emerging), so she started sewing me up. I thanked her through tears and was so

happy I started singing opera. My sister, baby Shannon, arrived. I cried. I was so, SO

happy to share this experience with her.

There were nurses asking us stuff about vaccines and “checking us in”-we skipped that

part of the process because we arrived so late in my birthing. Shannon and Aaron were

calling people and my doula was posting things on facebook to announce the good news.

I was not paying much attention to any of this. I was falling in love with my perfect baby.

I talked to my dad, but he was asleep and had no idea what was going on. I just wanted to

get off the phone and look at my baby.

We did not feel much support from most of the hospital staff-they were either cranky

about our breaking the rules and my pushing a baby out of my vagina rather than

allowing for myself and my baby to be assaulted or they were focused on getting the job

done. As things settled and approximately an hour had passed, there was one nurse, Ruth,

who had been with us since I arrived, who whispered, “I am glad you got your VBAC.

My first baby was a cesarean. I have had three VBACs since. No one understands what

this means like a VBAC mom.” It was nice to feel compassion and support from someone

at the hospital-a place that I still saw as a “scary, though necessary evil.” My doula

showed us the placenta, baby girl’s "Tree of Life," then took it with her to encapsulate.

We headed to our recovery room. Soon after, Shannon left us (she had just worked a 12

hour shift and had another one the next day.) She took the dress I birthed my babe in with

her in the hopes that she could soak the blood etc. out of it.

Aaron fell asleep. I thought about sleeping or reading or watching television but I could

not. I did not want to. I was too in love. I spent the night kissing, cuddling, nursing and

just falling in love with my new baby girl.

We did it; Nora and I achieved something that almost everyone thought (and told us) was

"impossible"  -a VBA3C-but we did it and we did it safely and on our own terms. Over the

course of birthing, neither of us was exposed to any drugs; I only agreed to one

intervention-going to the hospital-I even birthed her in my own clothes.

I have never been so happy, nor have I ever felt so empowered.

I birthed a new, perfect baby and this birthing experience gave birth to a new me. I am a

different person. I have been reborn; rising triumphant from the ashes of three cesarean

births; like a Phoenix I fly. Every aspect of my life is forever changed.

Birth is sacred. It is time to reclaim birth. The way we birth matters. The way we are

treated while both pregnant and birthing matters. It matters for babies; it matters for

mommas.

It mattered for Nora.

It mattered for me.