Home Birth

Their Way

My first pregnancy was unplanned, and being new in a small community, my first difficulty was finding the right type of doctor to examine me. I finally located the chief of obstetrics and gynecology at the town’s only hospital. After he told me I was pregnant, I asked him if he had ever heard of natural childbirth. I had heard of only one person who had gone through it, as people said with worried expressions, so I wasn’t quite sure what natural childbirth was—though the idea was appealing. But, by his attitude, I could tell that my doctor didn’t share my interest in the subject. That night I continued with a planned appointment to see the movie Rosemary’s Baby, and coming home I slipped and fell in an icy parking lot. Was this an auspicious beginning?

The next day the only birth book I found in the only local library was an old copy of Childbirth Without Fear by Grantly Dick-Read. Read’s approach seemed too spiritual for me, but the one lesson I learned was that in order for anything like his method to work, I had to have the support of my doctor.

I wrote the doctor I had seen a letter, telling him I could no longer be his patient and explaining why. And then the panic set in. Here I was, new in town, pregnant for the first time, and not under a doctor’s care. What if I suddenly started to bleed? What if I doubled over in pain like Scarlett O’Hara? How would I know anything?

I began frantic searches through telephone directories and called the medical societies and health departments in my county and the neighboring county. No one seemed to know or care about a doctor who supported natural childbirth. Each person I spoke to told me they could tell me the name of a doctor in my community and I could discuss it with him. But I had already seen the doctor I thought at the time was the best my community had to offer.

So I went back to the phone books. I was becoming desperate. I looked up words like Pregnancy, Maternity, and Babies. Then I tried fatter directories, from the closest big city. In the Manhattan book from New York City I found something under Maternity. The listing was the Maternity Center Association, and the woman on the phone was the first person I had spoken to who knew what I was talking about. She even gave me the name of a doctor located a little less than thirty miles from me.

The doctor turned out to be knowledgeable, understanding, kind, and so paternalistic he seemed to feel that not only should every woman become a mother but the more naturally she did things the better mother she became. Strangely, this met my needs. He was the first person to mention Lamaze and La Leche League to me, and to put me in touch with what each had to offer, childbirth preparation classes, and instruction in breast-feeding. Whole new worlds began to open up for me. I felt confidence, fear, longing, wonderment, curiosity, and importance all at once. A new way of existence was revealed for me.

At the small suburban hospital, where husbands still were not allowed in the delivery room, this good doctor was supportive during labor, unlike the nurse who, during a strong contraction, pulled a pillow out from under me, gazed at some blood on it, and commented, Childbirth is such a messy affair. In the delivery room, I pushed out a healthy eight-pound boy, without receiving an episiotomy (surgical cut to extend the vagina) or medication from the doctor. At my request, he even ordered a shocked nurse to hand me the baby to breast-feed on the delivery table.

I stayed in the hospital for three and a half days. I was not permitted to take a shower for thirty-six hours because I had given birth at 12:24 A.M., when the day was new, and the hospital rule was that a mother couldn’t shower on the day she had given birth. I couldn’t eat for seven hours because I had to wait until the next scheduled meal. I received the baby to feed at four-hour intervals, although he wanted to nurse sooner. I bottle-fed the baby a solution of 5 percent glucose in water, although this solution may be harmful to a newborn infant. But I didn’t know any better. I just knew enough to know that I had been very lucky. After all, it would be years before Archie Bunker’s daughter would use the Lamaze method to give birth on prime-time television.

When I became pregnant the second time it was two years later and I was in another community, closer to the big city. Lots of hospitals there were allowing husbands in the delivery room. My circle of child-bearing friends was seeking out doctors who did episiotomies for medical reasons only, not routinely. The kind of doctors who might let the baby nurse on the delivery table. Although I had already enjoyed these rights, I went to see a doctor whose name was mentioned more than once among my circle of friends, to find out what else he would offer. Yes, it was true an episiotomy might not be necessary, but, no, the mother could not nurse on the delivery table as soon as the baby was born—the mother could nurse only in the wheelchair in which she sat after she got off the delivery table. The doctor was very rigid about this. When my friend had a baby with him six months before mine was to be born, the afterbirth did not come out soon enough following the baby. The doctor was impatient. Perhaps, my friend suggested, if she could have the baby now, breast-feeding would stimulate the uterus to contract, thereby expelling the placenta. But, no, he replied that nursing was for the wheelchair. He began to pull on the placenta, causing my friend to experience more pain than she had during her labor. The doctor warned her she would be knocked out with medication if she didn’t calm down. He tugged some more. The placenta came out, in three parts.

My own falling out with this doctor was not about placentas, but money. He wanted $200 by the second visit and payment in full by the eighth month. I told him if I were expecting a couch I wouldn’t be required to pay in full two months before the delivery date. And weren’t we dealing with human beings, not furniture? I have been in practice since long before you were born, young lady, he began. Once more, I was without a doctor.

Several new names were suggested to me. My requirements for a doctor were now even higher. If I had had the perspective then, I could have seen I was heading in a certain direction where clashes had to occur. It took until my fifth month to find a doctor who agreed that it was not medically necessary for me to have an enema, a shave, or an episiotomy. Also, I could nurse on the delivery table—and go home two hours after birth if I and the baby were in good health.

I was ecstatic until, after labor began, I walked into the hospital and found that my doctor was not there yet. The resident who examined me ordered an enema and shave. No, I told him, my doctor and I had agreed this was not medically necessary. The resident said he was sorry, he could not possibly do as I wished. I said I was sorry, I could not possibly do as he wished. I asked him for the medical reasons. He could think of none for the shave. But the enema, he said, might have a therapeutic value in shaking up my labor since my bag of waters had broken a number of hours before and my contractions, once five minutes apart, had now come to a halt. So we compromised. He won on the enema and I won on the shave. I don’t know how he felt, but I was depressed. I had had certain expectations, I had been in the hospital less than twenty minutes and already I had had to make compromises. (It would take me years to realize that the very fact of my labor coming to a halt was probably related to my arrival at the hospital in the first place.)

The resident never tested the therapeutic value of the enema. As soon as I was out of the bathroom I heard him consulting by phone with my doctor, and they agreed to administer Pitocin (Pit), the commonly used brand name for synthetic oxytocin, a drug for stimulating uterine contractions. I was given the drug in tablet form. Every twenty minutes a nurse placed two more tablets on my gums and the Pit was absorbed through my cheeks into my bloodstream. By the time my real doctor arrived I was promising myself to refuse the next two tablets. The medication was causing strong contractions to come in such rapid succession that it was extremely difficult, even with well-practiced breathing exercises, to control their effect. I never did stop breathing and scream out, but the force of the contractions was nearly overwhelming. Comparing them to my first labor I could see how unnatural they were and how close I kept coming to losing control.

When my doctor arrived, he joked that I’d better hurry up because he had a seven o’clock dinner appointment that evening. (It was already late Saturday afternoon.) Soon I was wheeled speedily to the delivery room; the cumulative effect of the Pitocin had finally worked. Behind the delivery table an anesthetist hovered over my head repeating, Do you want a little gas? How about a little gas? If I hadn’t wanted any painkillers up until now I certainly wouldn’t want one when I could push out my baby and see him being born in a matter of minutes. But I didn’t have time to explain. I just waved her away each time I heard her questions.

Now the doctor was listening to the fetal heartbeat. He looked concerned. O2, he yelled at the anesthetist. She quickly clamped a mask over my face and, as if by reflex, I struggled to take it off. The doctor, seeing my lack of cooperation, had to lean over until his face was nearly on top of mine. It’s oxygen, he said. Breathe deep. It’s for the baby. So I complied. Almost immediately the baby was born. The doctor barely stayed long enough to shake my husband’s hand. He still had time to make his dinner date. The baby had been born at 6:23. And, for my part, I was happy I had not been like some other mothers, too groggy to breathe deep … for the baby.

I had been taught that after the baby was born the hard work was over. But in this case the ordeal was just beginning. It started as soon as I let it be known that I wished to go home when the baby and I were pronounced healthy, in a few hours if possible. A hush fell over the few remaining personnel in the delivery room. Why do you want to do that? a nurse asked me incredulously. I explained that I had an older child at home, that my husband was taking a week’s vacation from his job to do the work I normally did, that I had intentions of resting in bed with the new baby and not doing much else, that I felt hospitals were for sick people and that if I or the baby were not sick I knew I would be much more relaxed and get better rest in my own home. After hearing my answer, another nurse said I would have to be checked out by the resident who admitted me, since my doctor had left. My baby was taken away and my husband and I were returned to the labor room. Then the procession began. Men, women, doctors, nurses came in to see me. Some doctors had wide-eyed interns a step behind, shaking their heads yes or no, seconding whatever a doctor would advise me. They would all begin the same way. Are you the one who wants to go home? Why do you want to do that? Then I would explain my feelings. Whenever they objected I would reply, I would be happy to stay if you can give me a medical reason, or, If there’s a medical reason, I’ll stay. One nurse forgot her second question. Are you the one who wants to go home? she asked me. I sighed and shook my head yes. She just stared at me for several minutes and left.

Meanwhile I tried to have the resident who admitted me located, to check me out. I was told alternately that he was having supper or unable to be located. As the fourth hour of waiting began, my husband left me to start a personal search. The resident finally came in. I hear you want to go home, he said. Why do you want to do that? I explained and he examined. I don’t want you to go home, he said. I won’t sign you out.

What’s wrong with me? I asked.

Nothing. But it’s after ten. We’ll talk about it in the morning.

But I have to have a medical reason, I reminded him.

He looked at me for a long time. I’ll get you one, he said.

He returned a short time later and introduced me to a pediatrician. So you want to go home, the pediatrician began.

Is my baby all right? I asked. I’ll stay only if there’s a medical reason.

I’ll give you two, the pediatrician said. He was born more than twelve hours after your water broke. So we want to check for infection. And he was over nine pounds. So we want to check for diabetes.

I was taken aback. I asked how long it would take to know.

We’d like to observe him for twelve hours after birth, he said.

So I had been given my medical reasons. I felt tired and it was getting late. I agreed to stay overnight. The doctors left me alone, an intern nodding his head in approval as they made their way out.

Where were you? I was greeted by my roommates as I entered my assigned room. Your baby’s been crying the whole time.

It was then that I began to suspect I had been kept up in the labor room longer than necessary. I recalled from my first hospital birth that even the drugged woman next to me in the recovery room was monitored for only two hours before she was wheeled to her assigned room.

I asked the nurses if I could have my baby. They refused, saying that it was past feeding time. I said I just wanted to hold him, he had been crying for so long. After I promised not to feed him, they brought him to me to hold. When they left, I fed him. He nursed hungrily for a long time and fell asleep contentedly at my breast.

The nursery was attached to our mothers’ room and during the night there was always at least one baby crying. It was very hard to sleep because I always thought it was mine. The nurse refused to tell me whose baby was crying and refused to bring mine for the 2 A.M. feeding. She said he had been with me till midnight. She said I needed my rest. When it became apparent to her that I was not getting rest, she agreed to bring him, commenting, I don’t know what you could feed him. There’s nothing in there anyway. Again, my baby nursed hungrily until he feel asleep at my breast.

The baby was taken away and this time I was able to doze off, until I was awakened suddenly to have my temperature taken. The nurse examined my perineum and exclaimed that I was very swollen. The babies were brought for the 6 A.M. feeding and taken away. A doctor examining my swelling said that it had apparently been caused by the speedy birth of the baby’s head due to the Pitocin. Breakfast arrived and, with it, ice packs for the lips of my vagina. They were very difficult to attach and to keep in place. By the time they were finally secured, they melted and had to be replaced. I asked when I could receive word on my baby’s health, as twelve hours had passed since the birth, but I was told the doctors would not make their rounds till after nine. So, now it was to be more than twelve additional hours that I would stay.

At nine o’clock the babies were wheeled in to stay in the mothers’ rooms for the most part of the day because this hospital had daytime rooming-in. My baby was sleeping on his side. A white fluid kept dripping out of his mouth. The nurse told me it was mucus and insisted that it was not formula. I had never known mucus to be so white. The baby slept till one in the afternoon.

The other babies were awake and screaming with hunger. However, the mothers were not permitted to feed them as it was bath time. I was told I did not have to bathe my baby since I was newly delivered and had to get my rest. But the other mothers received instruction on how to smear their babies’ bodies with oil. Then, it seemed to me, the babies really needed a bath.

An obstetrician—not mine, who was not on duty Sunday—came to check the swelling. I thought you were going home, he said, not unkindly. I explained to him about checking for infection and diabetes. Do you have diabetes? he asked. No, I said. Well, I just checked. He smiled, winked, and left. So, it was me, not the baby, who was suspected of having diabetes when a large baby was born. But no blood test was being taken. I felt I had been lied to. Now I was becoming more and more angry. And what of the baby’s supposed infection? I began periodic trips to the nurses’ station down the hallway, or asked any hospital staff member who came into the room. At first I was told that the doctors hadn’t made their rounds yet. Later I was told they had already examined the babies and that I had missed them. Now no pediatrician could be found.

As the morning wore on, I realized my husband hadn’t phoned yet to make arrangements for picking up me and the baby. I began to feel abandoned by him; certainly I was not receiving support from anyone at the hospital, and I longed for a reassuring word. There was no phone in my room. I found a pay phone in the hallway and called my husband. He had just called the nurses’ station on my floor, but they had told him it would be impossible to get a message to me, that if he wanted to speak to me, he could come at 3 P.M. for visiting hours.

During the morning, more hospital staff members came in and out, asking questions, staring, and offering their advice on why I should stay in the hospital. The best reason most could offer was that in their experience the soonest anyone went home was after three days. No one could give a medical reason why I as an individual or my baby as an individual needed hospitalization.

I also began searching for an obstetrician to sign me out. According to the nurses I asked, obstetricians were also hard to find. Finally the resident from the night before was sent to me. I