At around 2 in the morning on the day before I was due with my first child, the pain of a contraction wrapped around my abdomen, jolting me awake. I had just started to doze off after a night of timing contractions, which had been strong and consistent but not exactly painful. Just after midnight, I had decided to try and get some rest, but now that my pain level was increasing, I began to get ready for the hospital. Anxious first-time parents that we were, my husband and I left for the hospital around 3 a.m.
In fact, not knowing what a midwife was, it seemed like the only choice.
I wasn’t confident in my body’s ability to give birth, and my head was filled with images of childbirth from movies and TV shows of laboring women helplessly lying on their backs, hyperventilating as the doctor tells them when to push. When I became pregnant, I had already been seeing an obstetrician for regular checkups, so it seemed like the obvious choice to continue seeing her for prenatal care. In fact, not knowing what a midwife was, it seemed like the only choice.
During my pregnancy, I began reading anything and everything I could about childbirth and learned about some of my options. And while the word “midwife” still sounded like something from the 18th century to me, I became interested in the idea of having an unmedicated birth in a traditional hospital setting. When I mentioned this to my doctor, she laughed. “It’s gonna hurt,” she said without offering any further advice, and that was the end of the conversation. Similarly, the childbirth class the hospital offered spent little time teaching us about natural pain-relief techniques and was more focused on the medical aspect of birth and childcare. It didn’t sound like the empowering birth experience I had heard of some women having, and this turned into a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy.
When we arrived at the maternity ward of the hospital, I was quickly hooked up to a heart rate monitor, and the resident on call noticed my heart rate after my cervical exam. “Is your heart rate always this elevated?” he asked. I didn’t know if it was or not, but I mentioned that I was more than a little nervous and maybe that was why. “OK, try to relax,” he said. “We’ll just do an EKG to make sure there’s nothing else going on.” And so began my labor, with me lying in a hospital bed, electrodes attached to my arms, legs, and chest. The results of the EKG turned out normal, but the heart monitor continued to beep alarmingly at me throughout the next several hours as I labored.
Throughout the early-morning hours, nurses and residents took turns sporadically stopping in to ask questions about my pain level and check how things were progressing. My obstetrician stopped in for the first time around 7 a.m. and broke my water before quickly slipping out of the room to see other patients. Aside from their visits, my husband and I were basically on our own, but I was assured I could page the nurse if I needed anything. Being attached to an IV and heart rate monitor—something I didn’t seem to have any say in—made it uncomfortable to move around as I labored, but I guessed there wasn’t anything I really needed the nurse for.
But without any real guidance, nothing about it felt “natural” or like I was in control.
Not having much support during my labor aside from my husband, I didn’t realize I was close to giving birth until about five minutes before my son was born. The pain of transition—the final phase of labor—led me to page the nurse to ask for an epidural, but it was too late. I began pushing as someone fetched the doctor, who just barely made it in time to deliver my son. In the end, my labor went smoothly and without complications, my son was healthy, and I was able to have an unmedicated hospital birth as I had planned. But without any real guidance, nothing about it felt “natural” or like I was in control.
After my first birth experience, I wasn’t eager to have another child right away. Memories of labor brought me to a dark place in my mind, and I still didn’t really trust myself or my body. But when my son was about two years old and the memory of childbirth faded, I decided to push aside my fear so my husband and I could have a second child.
I knew it would be worth it to go through everything again, but I also knew I wanted to have a different experience this time. I wanted to be supported during pregnancy and childbirth, so when I became pregnant I spent some time researching hospitals, birthing centers, and midwives nearby. Because we had relocated to a new city since my first pregnancy, it was a good opportunity for me to start fresh and explore some different options.
Initially, I met with another obstetrician, but in our first meeting, he gave me some information on a group of midwives his practice worked closely with in the hospital. This turned out to be the perfect option for me. I learned that the hospital actually had a birthing center within the maternity ward that the midwives typically used for unmedicated births. The group of midwives—all of whom had years of education and training—worked closely with the obstetricians if any unexpected complications were to come up during pregnancy or labor.
Seeing a midwife during my pregnancy wasn’t drastically different from having an obstetrician at first. I had all of the usual measurements, scans, and tests as I did during my first pregnancy. But as my due date drew near, I was able to see how the midwives approached childbirth differently. They trusted me and my body’s natural ability to give birth. They often left decisions up to me: They would ask if I wanted my cervix checked for dilation and effacement and whether I wanted to schedule a date for induction once I was past my due date, all the while offering their thoughts in a nonjudgmental way.
I found comfort in the thought of being connected to nature as it guided me through my labor. It reminded me that my body was made to do this.
When I went into labor with my daughter, I was four days past my expected due date. Remembering how long I had spent laboring at the hospital the first time around, I labored more at home this time, as my midwife had recommended. Walking in circles around my apartment, I could see the full moon illuminating the sky and recalled my midwife’s prediction that I’d go into labor that night: “The maternity ward is always packed during a full moon,” she had told me. An old wive’s tale, of course, but I found comfort in the thought of being connected to nature as it guided me through my labor. It reminded me that my body was made to do this.
At around 6 in the morning, I woke my son and husband up so we could head to the hospital. We had planned on having family come pick up my son after we arrived, but they wouldn’t make it—I was already at six centimeters and things were moving quickly. So I labored with them both in the room, along with an amazing midwife who didn’t leave my side. She was just finishing her shift, she told me, but wanted to stay and help me through the rest of my labor. She listened to me, trusted me, and respected my feelings. There were no IVs or heart rate monitors (that was my choice this time) and I had the freedom to move around the room and even soak in a deep tub for pain relief since I chose not to get an epidural.
My two experiences giving birth were like night and day. I felt cared for and supported as I brought my daughter into the world. I didn’t have to page a nurse into the room when it was time to push, because my midwife was with me every step of the way. I wasn’t told when to push or what position to give birth in—instead, I was encouraged to listen to my body and do what felt right to me. Having a midwife with me during my second labor helped me to have the empowering natural birth experience I had hoped for, and I often think back to that special experience and feel thankful for the support I received.