Our First Homebirth

I want to tell J’s birth story to clarify any misconceptions as well as celebrate the way J arrived, even if some things didn’t go as planned. I’m not trying to say that the way we did things is the way other people should or that homebirths are the best option for everyone. I do believe, however, that low-risk women should have the freedom to choose to deliver their babies at home if they desire without fear of judgment or not receiving adequate care if they must be transported to the hospital during labor or after delivery.  To lighten the mood and literally laugh out loud, check out this clip of Jim Gaffigan talking about homebirth. 

Our oldest kiddo J was born on a November morning as our first homebirth. This would imply that EK’s birth was also a homebirth, and that is correct. Before unloading all the details of J’s birth, I want to quickly share the reasons we concluded homebirth was the right choice for our family and a few highlights from my pregnancy.

Before our friends Kate and Brantley delivered at a birth center, we didn’t really consider another option for delivering our future children. Honestly, when we heard of people doing homebirths, we didn’t think, “We want to do that.” Our thought process was more like, “Weirdos” (no offense friends who had homebirths before us). All of this changed after I found out I was pregnant on February 22, 2014 around 6:35 in the morning. Once we told our parents, best friends, and community group, the reality started setting in that we were going to have a baby, presumably in early November (J’s original due date ending up also being the day J was born; even from the womb, J knew I was a planner). During a conversation with our friends, Brantley mentioned a documentary on Netflix produced by Ricki Lake titled The Business of Being Born. After watching this, Stephen and I dove headfirst into exploring all of our options. Hours of research were done before we decided to take the plunge and commit to delivering our little one at home.

Part of our research included touring a birth center to see if we would want to deliver there. Damaris was the midwife giving the tour the Saturday we went. She was so patient, answered everyone’s questions, and even took the time to talk to us individually after the tour. I felt incredibly relaxed in her presence, and I immediately loved her. Though delivering at the center or at home would mean more out of pocket expense for us because of out of network costs with insurance, I knew I wanted Damaris to deliver my baby. After the tour, I started receiving prenatal care from Damaris, but we still hadn’t decided between a homebirth or a birth at the center. Somewhere around the 28 week mark, we let Damaris know we wanted to do a homebirth.

We heard our little one’s heartbeat for the first time on April 18^th and all of my prenatal appointments following this one went well. I was required to see another physician before 28 weeks gestation and in the last 6 weeks of my pregnancy, and the doctor confirmed that I was still low-risk and a good candidate for an out of hospital birth at both of these appointments. 

In the meantime, I read all the books about natural childbirth thanks to the lending library that is Kate. The ones I remember that really pumped me up and convinced me that my body knows what it is doing were Spiritual Midwifery by Ina May Gaskins and Robert Bradley’s book Husband-Coached Childbirth. We attended an amazing birth class at the center, and what impacted me the most was the instructor sharing an acronym for pain to think about during contractions. She encouraged us to remember that contractions serve a purpose, can be anticipated, are intermittent, and are normal.  

I may have inadvertently transferred my trust from the Lord to the knowledge I had gained as a result of the extensive reading and all the information we received through our birth class. Obviously it’s helpful to prepare as much as possible for what lies ahead but nothing truly prepared me for 15 hours of labor, transition, pushing, not being able to hear the heartbeat, an episiotomy, a third degree tear, staying at the hospital for three days, having an administrator threaten us with Social Services, Domestic Violence being sent to talk to me, and the very real struggles of adjusting to life with a newborn while recovering from the surgery. This is the abbreviated version of J’s birth story, so if it sounds interesting, keep reading. Grab a cup of coffee, though, because I’ve never been one to skimp on the deets.

Around 7:00 the night before J was born, we dressed up as nerds with Brantley, a 34 weeks pregnant Kate, and their oldest kiddo to get free chicken from Chick-fil-A on Cherry Road. I wasn’t sure what was happening as mild contractions started. When the guys went to get our beverages refreshed (you like that Chick-fil-A lingo), I told Kate that I felt like I was having cramps. I was a little nervous when Kate informed me that those were probably contractions. That’s right, my contractions started in the back left booth by the bathrooms if you were curious about where we were sitting. An additional nugget (haha) of information, when we told the guys, Brantley said something to the effect of, “Well that explains the uncomfortable look you had on your face.” Apparently I made some sort of face that communicated discomfort during the few contractions I had there in the back booth.

At 8:30, I started timing the contractions while sitting on the birthing ball between the contractions that were coming every 10 minutes. They were lasting around 15 seconds at this point. It was supposed to get cold that night so Stephen checked to make sure the heat was working. It wasn’t. He called Bobby, our HVAC guy, and he came out at 9:30 on a Friday night to fix our heat. While he was here, I tried to lay down and get some rest before the contractions strengthened. After Bobby left, Stephen came to check on me, and we started timing the contractions again because they were lasting longer. It was 11:14 and they were lasting 30-40 seconds and were 3 minutes apart. By 12:35, they were still only lasting 30-40 seconds, and we were planning to call Damaris when they were lasting a minute and had been that way for an hour, so I tried to get some sleep again.

Around 2:40 in the morning, we resumed timing contractions. By 4:00, I was ready to have Kate by my side because labor was more difficult than I thought it would be. The contractions continued to be about 2-3 minutes apart and lasting 40-50 seconds with some sprinkled in lasting a minute or more. I lost my mucus plug at 6:12, and we stopped timing the contractions at 6:49. Damaris arrived around 7:00. With the strength the Lord provided and the support of Stephen, Kate, Damaris, and Lori, I powered through the exhaustion and fatigue that had been my reality for the past 14 hours as my water broke and I started pushing. The pushing felt like it lasted forever. I distinctly remember expressing my frustration by forcing out the words, “Why isn’t anything happening?” Damaris was a steady presence, reminding me to listen to my body and that my body knew what it was doing. Stephen and Kate rubbed my back, gave me water, and held my hands during my journey through uncharted territory.

Around 9:30, Damaris couldn’t detect the baby’s heartbeat. I tried changing positions, but we still couldn’t hear the heartbeat. Damaris cut an episiotomy and at 9:45 J was born. The room felt frozen as I waited for Stephen to tell me our baby was fine. Instead, Stephen had his head buried behind mine, trying to force back the tears that threatened to fall as he thought the worst. The silence stretched on until Kate let me know the baby was okay. I was relieved but exhausted.

Damaris called another midwife who determined the tear would require stitches instead of simply using surgical glue. Two doctors who work closely with the midwives were called, but one was out of town for the weekend and the other didn’t answer. The episiotomy resulted in a third degree tear, but since I wasn’t hemorrhaging, we decided to drive ourselves to a hospital in Charlotte for my stitches. With Kate accompanying us and our new baby in tow, we arrived to the hospital about 1:00. We were in the hospital from around 1:00 Saturday afternoon to 5:00 Monday evening.

Most of the hospital stay was stressful, to say the least, and it seemed to drag on. Like forever. When we checked into the ER, the nurse that assisted us was so encouraging. His name was Josh, and he told us about his wife’s birth experience and how they wished they had been able to deliver at home. As we talked, I shared how even though things didn’t go according to our plan, the Lord was still good. He agreed, prayed with us, and reminded us of God’s sovereignty even over this. Michael, an OB surgeon, was called in to assess the situation. He was great, too. He told us that it would be a simple stitch and I would likely be able to leave that evening. I was moved to a room in the maternity ward, and we just waited until it was time for my surgery. During this time, the nurses kept trying to persuade us to admit J as a patient, even though we were only there for my tear to be repaired. J had passed the newborn screening and received superb care from our midwife, so we declined admitting J. Around 10:00 that evening, 9 hours after arriving, I was prepped for the surgery. I was under anesthesia, so I obviously have a good two hour gap of no memory, but as Stephen rocked J and waited for me, he prayed and trusted our good Father to protect me. Michael filled Stephen in on all the haps while I was still under but surgery was complete. Turns out, when they started repairing the external tear, they discovered a couple of internal tears that needed to be repaired, so he said I would likely not be discharged until sometime Sunday.

Every time I started to doze during the night, I was awakened for the routine blood pressure checks. I understand this is just part of what happens in the hospital, but I was exhausted and emotional. First thing Sunday morning when a new shift began, a female doctor came in to basically berate and degrade me for having a homebirth because I could have died. She went on to criticize me for wanting to be discharged and couldn’t understand why I would want to be resting peacefully at home, enjoying my new baby, since I had major reconstructive surgery. She made sure we knew her stance on homebirth. If you aren’t sure what her attitude towards homebirth is, I’ll quickly explain. She’s very against it because of situations like mine. You know, circumstances that result in a tear that can be easily repaired at a hospital. I understand the risks we took in order to achieve the birth experience we wanted. I also know that if the tear was putting my life at risk, the procedure would have been completed more quickly. Further, Michael assured us that I wasn’t in danger of hemorrhaging.  The doctor who reprimanded me Sunday morning thinks that if women aren’t going to deliver at the hospital, they should at least use a birth center. You know, the places that are set up to be just like a house with the same equipment the midwives bring to homebirths.

After the doctor left, I tried nursing J again. All morning, J had been acting lethargic and not interested in eating. I thought through the possible culprits for the listlessness and decided I would stop receiving morphine. If broccoli can pass through a mother’s milk to make her baby gassy, it’s not a far stretch to conclude that even if it doesn’t passes through easily, morphine can cross the blood-brain barrier, which could then lead to infant drowsiness and central nervous system depression. Even though a lactation consultant told me the morphine wouldn’t pass through my breastmilk, I did some research on my own and discovered that it is the preferred narcotic for breastfeeding mothers because its passage into breastmilk is less than the other medicines. “Less than” implies that it does in fact end up in the breastmilk of a nursing mother, and if not receiving additional morphine would result in J being more alert and eager to eat, I wanted to try it.

After this, a hospital administrator came in and things got interesting and difficult in every possible way. He seemed cordial at first, until I explained why I wasn’t receiving any medication and why we didn’t need to admit J. This launched him into a rant directed to Stephen. “This is her body.” The administrator repeated this phrase several times, each time full of more anger than the previous time. We were so confused as Stephen graciously and repeatedly said, “I know this is her body.” I realized that the administrator thought Stephen was making the decision for me to not receive medication, so I tried to clarify, but he didn’t want to hear it. He constantly interrupted us and started using more scare tactics since we didn’t succumb to his desires. First, he told us he would have to call Social Services. I let Stephen do the talking as he is more gifted at dispensing grace than I am, especially in my post-partum state. When we continued to stand firm, the administrator told us that J could not stay in our room any longer and they would be removing the “crib” he was in, which shocked and angered me. He tried to tell us that a breastfed newborn couldn’t stay in the room with me as a visitor even if Stephen was there, too. I attempted responding to this, but I was met with the response, “I already did call Social Services.” I’m not sure when he did this, as we didn’t see him make a call during his tirade. This is what set me off. I couldn’t believe he threatened us with Social Services when we had not done anything wrong. I was a brand new mom, doing my best to recover from surgery while nurturing my little bundle of joy. We made some decisions that are out of the norm, but we had not done anything illegal or even questionable. I not so graciously told the administrator that I knew that he was trying to make us feel as if the decisions we made were uniformed and that I didn’t appreciate the way he was handling our conversation. I also told him to leave our room so we could discuss how we wanted to move forward. The whole time I’m talking, he was interrupting and made sure to get in the last word. From all the way across the room from J, he decided to leave us with one final “observation” to get us to admit J. He pointed in J’s direction and declared “That baby looks jaundiced” and left the room. A new parent never wants to hear that, so of course we started freaking out. We knew J was fine. J's eyes didn’t have a yellow tint, J's skin was perfect, but still the words haunted us as we thought about how J still hadn’t nursed well in the past 6 hours. I called Kate and asked her to bring my pump and the formula from our house to try to get J to eat, and Stephen took J for a car ride to try to get some sun just in case jaundice was an issue. When Kate arrived, relief washed over me as she wrapped me in a hug and then helped me figure out how to use the pump.

While I was pumping, there was a knock at the door. Some lady named Mary helped herself into our room. I wasn’t really sure what to do when she introduced herself as “Mary with Domestic Violence.” She saw the look on my face and said, “Didn’t you request for someone from Domestic Violence to come talk to you?” With Kate by my side and bottles being filled (as much as they can be) with colostrum, I explained all that had transpired that morning. Kate vouched for Stephen as she told Mary that he is one of the most gentle and humble people she has ever met. Mary’s face conveyed disbelief and compassion. She apologized for everything with the administrator and recommended that I ask for someone from Social Services to come to our room so I could have my story on record with Domestic Violence and Social Services since both departments are a part of the hospital in order to be advocates for the patients. I felt much better emotionally after she left. I was able to relax, and Stephen and J returned. When they entered the room, Stephen looked panicked. He started talking through tears about how J was doing even worse and now he was limp. I’m not really sure how I remained calm, other than the grace of the Lord, but I told Stephen everything was going to be fine as I took J from him and put the bottle of colostrum to J's lips. J guzzled it down and acted eager for more. We got a bottle of formula ready and the kid drank it like a champ. Within minutes, J was more alert and no longer limp and lethargic. Rejoicing and praising God were the only appropriate responses for this outcome.

When things settled down, Kate took a look around the room and pointed out that my catheter bag and bucket were about to overflow. I started thinking about how no one had checked on me since the hospital administrator had been in our room. It had been at least three hours, which means I was not having the ice on my stitches changed every hour as I was told would happen. I also had not eaten since arriving the day before. Brantley and Stephen went to get some food while Kate and I snuggled J in the hospital room. Then, there was another knock at the door. I don’t remember her name, but someone from Social Services came by after Mary had put in the request for me. The lady with Social Services was amazing and really helped turn the rest of the time at the hospital around as she worked on our behalf. She listened as I repeated our morning episode and immediately apologized for the administrator’s behavior and for how he tried to use Social Services to threaten us. She echoed what Mary said earlier by explaining that the Social Services department is there to advocate for the patients and that she hates when the department is painted as the people that come to take your baby away from you to try to force compliance. She then clarified that all of this started because the staff was concerned with the fact that I had not shared the name of my midwife. In unison, Kate and I said, “They didn’t ask the name of the midwife.” I wasn’t trying to hide anything, but since I had only said “my midwife” when I talked about Damaris, the staff thought I had a botched homebirth and that Stephen was trying to keep me from racking up additional charges by telling me that I couldn’t receive more medication. She shook her head as she said, “I’m not sure why this staff doesn’t ask questions.” Then she asked, “What is your midwife’s name?” I told her, and she responded, “Well, that was easy.” She went on to tell me that she had already spoken with the staff and told them that people make different decisions and that even though we didn’t do what the staff was accustomed to, the hospital claims to provide excellent care to all patients and since we were there now, we should be receiving the same excellent care as all the other patients. Kate and I told her about how I still hadn’t eaten, showed her the catheter bag and bucket, and noted that I was in desperate need of some new ice on my stitches to bring some relief. She assured me that she would take care of everything, and overall everything really did improve. 

With the arrival of Monday came new nurses, and they were my favorite. When my catheter was taken out, I asked to try to pee because I was told that as soon as I could pee on my own, the discharge process would begin.  I immediately peed and rejoiced. The nurse humored me and celebrated with me. Around 5:00 Monday evening, drained in every possible way, I was discharged. Coming home in 5:00 traffic was slightly annoying, but I knew I was going home. I don’t think I have ever been happier about walking into my house.

There is more I could share, but I think the equivalent of six pages is enough. Through all of this, I was reminded that the Lord, my Sovereign God, is the One who is in control of all my circumstances, and He is good even in the midst of failed plans and unexpected outcomes. In our weakest moments, we were able to cradle our newborn boy and be reminded that our hope is in Christ alone, the One who saved us and who loves us.