Wild

I don't want an epidural.

Some people understand. Others don't.

It isn't to be a hero and it isn't for my ego. I don't want an epidural because during my first labor, an epidural lead to an IV and the fall of heart rates, which lead to a vacuum extraction and a c-section team at the ready. I don't want an epidural because, during my first labor, it lead to a team of doctors boxing out my midwife, while I tried to direct my pushing in a body half numb. The only good thing the epidural did was its job, which was to make me feel less pain.

Four and a half years later, I pace the hospital lobby, while my body bellows in labor.

I breathe in through my nose.
I breathe out my mouth.

In triage, I take off my clothes and dress in a blue gown. Two nurses check me in. Then a bubbly midwife pulls back the curtain, introduces herself, and examines me deeply.

Oh! The press of her hand surprises me. 

You are nearly ready. Jane will be your midwife. 

I sit in a wheelchair and watch painted walls pass. We go up a floor in an elevator. Soon I am wheeled past a crowded nurses' station.

In the birthing room, the pain picks up.

I breathe in through my nose.
I breathe out my mouth.

She's cool as a cucumber. A young nurse with yellow hair and pink lipstick says.

I breathe in through my nose.
I breathe out my mouth.

For every contraction, I am present. For every pause between the pains, I am present.

I breathe in through my nose.
I breathe out my mouth.

Then the contractions begin to roll so close together that they feel like a rising tsunami inside of me. There is a gush as my waters break, flooding the bed. We are so close.

Jane's wavy auburn hair is like a hallow. She sits at the end of the bed beside my curling toes and says, Try to relax your face and shoulders. 

I try, breathing in and breathing out.

I can do it. I can do it. I chant.

Yes, you can. The young nurse says.

Soon the storm inside me begins to spin. I feel baby's head as it sinks inside me like a round sword. I try to be present, but I want it to be over. I want him out.

On my hands and knees, growling and wailing like an animal, I push and breathe and push and breathe. An older nurse arrives and tells me how to direct my pushing. I arch my back. The sounds I make are strange and harsh as they rise up and out of me.

I am in too much pain to feel embarrassment.

I breathe in quickly.
I breathe out quickly.
I feel a little dizzy.

With utter vulnerability, I participate in this ancient ceremony of child delivery. I growl and cry and howl my way through it. I had wanted, so badly, to be like a monk in this moment. Instead, I am more like a monkey, screaming through every hot push. I don't know that all this racket I am making actually helps, but I can't seem to stop myself. In this calm room where three women and my husband gently instruct and encourage me, I need them all (it seems) to know and see and hear how tremendously painful this is. I grasp the arms of the bed. Then, as the baby burrows, I grab at the pillows and roOOOAARRRR! I am wild, but caged by the bars of time.

And then...
oh wait, no...
almost, almost there, almost...
No, not yet.
Wait. Maybe...
YES!!!
He is OUT!
Thank THE UNIVERSE he is out!

Baby lands in Jane's arms. I turn and land on the bed, gasping, sweating, my whole body exhaling. Immediately his warm wet body is placed onto my warm wet body. Scott cuts the umbilical cord. Jane presses my middle and lifts up the purple placenta before placing it into a small plastic pail.

I'm so glad it is right now. I say, able again to be present.

Baby roots, his mouth bouncing across my breasts. Then he drinks from me, while Jane sews my wound.

Two hours after birth, we are wheeled past the crowded desk of nurses and doctors. Many smile and say Congratulations. How interesting it must be to witness the wildness of strangers.

I return their congratulations with quiet thank yous.

I didn't have an epidural. I don't know that it matters. Birth is monumental no matter how one meets it. Both of my children's births were painful and beautiful. Both births made me into a warrior, just as it makes every woman. Whether one has medicine or not, whether it is through the vagina or the belly, whether it takes four days or two hours, whether it is quiet or cacophonous - birth is a journey of creation and, perhaps, continuation. It is a splitting too, which is fitting. For over and over again, this love will tear us open, and leave us gasping, sweating, our whole body exhaling. Once they are out and breathing and squirming on top of our warm wet bodies, we are faced with one truth which is that this is real vulnerability. This fragile being, of whom we already love so much, is now out in the wild beside us, no longer hidden inside us. For the wild can be painful. Just as the wild can be beautiful. And yet, even during the harshest times, with our hearts out in the rain on the line, we mother warriors can aspire to be present. We'll fail, certainly, especially when we're hurting, but with every new breath, we have the opportunity to try again.

I breathe in through my nose.
I breathe out my mouth.