My doctor simply assumed I’d be birthing in a private hospital, when I told her I had private health insurance. So a referral was written, an appointment was made, and soon I was sitting in the offices of a lovely obstetrician. She made me feel very special, showing me our 9 week old baby on the ultrasound machine, and explained that at 20 weeks, if I hadn’t miscarried, she’d require half of her fee.

I walked away from that appointment, in awe of the tiny creature inside of me, with no feelings other than utter excitement, and a hint of nausea (I was rather morning sick!)

My subsequent appointments involved a similar routine. Arrive, Pee, Weight, Blush, Wait, See the obstetrician, and see the baby – pay at the door.

Perhaps it was the elation of seeing the baby on the screen, perhaps it was my confidence in my knowledge that I was in good hands, but I felt safe, and well looked after at each visit.

The 20 week appointment arrived, and my husband and I decided now was a good time to broach the subject of birth plans, and vaccinations with our Obstetrician. I’d spent the past 10 weeks reading Janet Balakas “New Active Birth” and while I wasn’t certain I felt safe homebirthing, I knew I wanted a natural childbirth, with minimal intervention, and the abil

ity to move around during my labour.

My obstetrician was very receptive, and explained that her job was to ensure a healthy mum and a healthy baby, in that order. And if I was happy to cooperate with those terms, we’d get along like a house on fire. I came away from that appointment appeased, and confident that my ideal birth was a real possibility. Of course, I knew that birth was dangerous, and that I’d be looked after by my doctor, should things go wrong.

The weeks passed, and I began to feel what I assumed was normal for being so pregnant. I was eating take away foods as the cravings hit me, drinking cola, and lots of coffee, and generally ignoring the bathroom scales, as the weight piled on at an alarming rate. My hands were swollen, I felt constantly out of breath, and my groin, hips and back ached constantly.

At 38 weeks pregnant, my blood pressure was too high for my Obstetrian to feel comfortable with any longer, a quick ultrasound was done, my husband was called in, and hospital bags were packed. And so began the journey to my first birth.

I sat shivering in my Obstetricians rooms, on her paper covered table, with no one to hold my hand, as she told me it was time to meet our baby. She briefly explained the induction process, saying she’d start with a Stretch and Sweep, Gel would be administered later that night, and I’d birth in the morning on a Pitocin drip.
I sat and waited, my husband arrived, and we waited alone together, with no real idea what was going on. At about midnight, a midwife popped in and explained she would administer the gel, and do another stretch and sweep. This time, I lay on the bed, writhing away from her hands, sobbing in agony, as the gel was administered. It wasn’t a pleasant time for me, and I found myself apologising for being so weak. Then, we waited.I lay there are she performed the stretch and sweep, clenching my teeth as my clearly unready cervix was wrenched and twisted. My obstetrician apologised for the discomfort, and gave me directions to a hospital room.

We waited for two days, for the birthing room to be available… We were told in no uncertain terms; that we were “the least of their priorities” so we ate, played cards, and waited.
Then came the day of my son’s delivery. I trudged down the halls, very large, and very orange in my pyjamas, was told to strip, and change into a hospital gown in the room. Then the midwife said “Lets find out how brave you are” All of a sudden, I was simply a number, and another process on the clock.

A cannula was inserted into my arm, and the contractions began. With each contraction, my plans for a natural childbirth seemed more and more distant. I was unable to move, unsupported, and afraid. Machines made noises that irritated me, the floor was cold, and the bed was hard. My husband tried to support me, but was as new to the process as I was, and felt helpless with me in so much pain.

After enduring 3 hours of seemingly constant contractions, I begged for an epidural. It was administered nearly immediately, as though they were simply waiting for me to “cave in”. Then, again, I waited.

3 hours later, my son was imminent. The obstetrician arrived, and some nameless midwives stood peering up my vagina. I was told to push. So I pushed. I was told to hold, so I held. I was told to wait, so I waited. I was told to look away, so I did, and in that moment, I was given an episiotomy, and my son was born.

The best part about his birth, was my baby. Everything else, I’d gladly forget.

My Home Birth

My second son, was born at home with a midwife resent. My pregnancy was so much more positive. I was a healthier, happier, fitter, and more focused me.
I met our wonderful Doula, and our plans for a homebirth began.
This pregnancy was a journey of healing for me, where I revisited the hospital birth of my first son, and picked every second of it to pieces, eventually coming to terms and peace with it.

Our midwife was brilliant, lovely, warm, and accepting of our birthing choices, she seemed as excited as I was that a baby was arriving, and made me feel like the only woman in the world to birth, as well as connected to every other birthing woman.
Each month, my antenatal visits were in my home. I saw the same midwife, and student midwife, and chatted about my concerns, or plans over a cup of tea. I never felt rushed, and I always felt listened to.

The whole pregnancy I felt surrounded by support. My lovely doula listened to my concerns, and helped me chat through them, she provided me with books and resources to ensure I felt empowered and knowledgeable, and recommended books to help me make healthy choices.
Despite the support, and encouragement, while I felt safe birthing at home, I was never able to visualise the birth of my child. I could never picture in my mind’s eye, him arriving into my arms.

The evening of his birth, I felt edgy, and nesty, I couldn’t get comfortable, and all of a sudden, the birth that I hadn’t been able to visualise was forefront in my mind. I knew our baby was arriving, and I relished the idea that I was about to birth, and I was going to do it in my dining room, with my husband and son present.

The contractions began, I put on my special birthing necklace made by lovely friends, and climbed into bed to see if I could sleep a bit. As the contractions got stronger, I danced around my bedroom, moaning a little, and chatting to the baby in between. Pretty soon, I was convinced I was in labour, so I woke my husband up, who instantly began fetching heat packs, and re-inflating our birthing pool.

Together we began to get a bit excited, and a bit nervous. The contractions hurt, but they were never bigger than me. My doula arrived, and sent us on a walk around the block, as we walked I clung to my husband through the contractions, and breathed. It was surprisingly cold for February, and i couldn’t stop shivering, so we came home. In the dark of my lounge room, I lent over the couch, as my doula encouraged me, rubbed my back, and I ate chicken sandwiches. I managed to laugh, and even sleep a little.
Then my labour ‘really’ began. I bounced on a fitball, and squatted through each contraction, trying to mentally welcome them. At some point I went to the toilet, this was the only point in my labour I was fearful, because for whatever reason, my contractions were unbearable whilst I was on the loo!

Then, bliss of all bliss, my doula suggested I get into the birth pool. The warm water was delicious on my back, and all of a sudden, my mind relaxed, and I remembered I WAS HAVING A BABY, and I was FEELING my own labour.

My wonderful midwives arrived, and snuck silently into the house, asking permission before they checked the baby’s heart rate, or checked me. Other than that, they sat and held my hands when I needed it, and helped me work through each contraction. my doula, my Midwife, and my amazing husband kept me grounded, kept me moaning nice and low to the baby, and held my hands through each contraction.

Labour progressed pretty quickly, and there were moments where I felt I couldn’t continue, but as the contraction passed I was relishing the fact I could feel MY BODY working. Apparently this was so noteworthy; my midwife included it in my hospital notes.
Then, it happened, that feeling, that “urge to poo” sensation – I got to experience it, every bit of it, as my body began to push my baby out. I could hear myself making new sounds, but wasn’t in control, something bigger than me was bringing my baby into this world, I wasn’t afraid, I was birthing.

And then there he was, arms, legs, open eyes, and a cord thicker than I’d ever seen – looking up at me in the water of the pool. I scooped him up, I had done it. I had BIRTHED my baby. It was him, and me, and the whole world didn’t matter for a moment. We’d done it!

My little baby and I sat in the pool, we breastfed, and snuggled, and got to know each other. His cord remained attached until it stopped pulsing, then his daddy cut it. I birthed the placenta in the pool, and ate a sandwich, and a delicious hot, sweet cup of tea.

Looking back, I don’t regret my first birth. I did the very best I could with the knowledge I had. My homebirth was so healing, and so empowering, that for months afterwards, I felt like queen of the world. It was wonderful for my husband too, and he has become the world’s greatest homebirth advocate. You can see his story here!