Birth: Our Journey Home

by

Andrew Hughes

Lauren stared through me with her powerful gaze, gripping the loose fabric of my
pajamas. Through eight years of marriage, I’d become accustomed to the zoned-out look coming
from my wife, but it was usually a product of boring finance talk or unwanted sports updates.
This was a different gaze entirely . . . one teeming with intensity, determination and a deep
anticipation.
Nestled in blankets at the foot of our bed, we worked together through the regular
contractions. A particularly aggressive surge produced an involuntary howl. Snapping from her
trance, with a look of panic on her face, Lauren shot her hand between her thighs.
“Andy, the baby’s here,” she blurted fearfully, lifting her quivering arm to reveal
blood-covered fingers.
“What do you mean, the baby’s here?” I asked, not wanting the answer I knew I was
about to get.
“I feel the head,” she continued, now visibly trembling. “I’m scared,” she whimpered,
tears filling her lower lids. I immediately remembered our HypnoBirthing classes making it very
clear that fear was the enemy here -- that a calm, relaxed body was certainly the best for birthing.
That being so, I did my best to be reassuring. Meanwhile, my own heart began pounding in my
ears. I was calm on the outside, because I knew Lauren needed that, but on the inside I was
freaking out.
As Lauren rested on the floor between the portable birthing pool and our bed, I bolted to
the hallway with smartphone in hand. Dialing Brenda, our midwife, I paced throughout the
second floor, listening to ring after ring. No answer. I dialed again. Nothing. As I dialed for a
third time, praying for an answer, I, too, choked back tears. My heart raced as I waited
helplessly. We’d spent months preparing for a home birth . . . but certainly never planned to be
doing it alone.
 It wasn’t until our first HypnoBirthing class, months prior, that I’d even considered home
birthing an option. During the intro session, couples went around the room sharing names and
planned birthing locations. The pair before us proclaimed, “We’re birthing at home.” My face
immediately contorted in puzzlement as I leaned toward Lauren.
“People do that?” I whispered, unashamedly ignorant of the options. Lauren’s eyebrows
raised as she nodded. The hospital wasn’t our only choice? Wow! It had never occurred to me.
This realization poured over me in the form of relief. I HATED the hospital . . . and for good
reason. Ten years prior, as a fearless 21-year-old, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. It turned
my world upside down. My naive, but natural, sense of invincibility was torn suddenly from my
clenched fists as I rolled into surgery, emerging with a severe anxiety disorder, intense fear of all
things medical and slightly less brain. (My wife will attest to the latter.)
Ten years later, during our first prenatal appointment, we waited in a small, hot, very
clinical room. I sat in the corner, doing my best not to panic just seeing the “sharps container” on
the wall next to me. As soon as the doctor came into the room, the anxiety rose. She began
talking about some of the procedures, including blood-testing. Just the mention was enough to
send me into a downward spiral. I removed my sweatshirt as all the color drained from my face.
The doc saw I was in bad shape and quickly brought me crackers and juice. How pathetic was I?
My pregnant wife is being poked and prodded, and I’m sitting in the corner trying desperately
not to pass out. I planned to be present for my newborn’s first breath, but this was certainly not
how I wanted to feel in that moment.
Lauren, knowing this about me and realizing how much she needed her husband’s
support, started warming to the idea of a home birth as well. Before we left our first
HypnoBirthing class, we gathered recommendations and midwife information from the
instructor. Although I embraced the idea of avoiding the medical scene, my inner “Nervous
Nelly” immediately imagined everything that could go wrong with a home birth.
Fortunately, HypnoBirthing, which I imagined to be a hippie-like, flowers-and-incense
philosophy, actually turned out to be packed with solid science. Throughout human history, and
in today’s developing nations, childbirth is not viewed as a medical issue, requiring hospitals
swarming with M.D.’s. In many industrialized nations, coached pushing, epidurals and Pitocin
have wrongfully taken the place of patience and trust in the specialized physiology and instinct
of a birthing mother.
Modern medicine and media have perpetuated a fear and mistrust, causing women to
unquestionably accept many unnecessary, and often harmful, interventions. HypnoBirthing
taught us about the fear/tension/pain cycle. It made sense. Fear raises levels of adrenaline and
cortisol, lowering oxytocin. This chemical exchange raises tension in muscles required for
birthing and develops a fight-or-flight response which can actually stop birth in its tracks,
prompting the aforementioned interventions.
Throughout our pre-birth education, we learned time-tested methods to prevent fear,
tension and pain. Deep breathing and relaxation techniques combined with knowledge and faith
in Lauren’s body helped prepare us for a natural childbirth, free of interventions. Lauren
munched on dates and drank red raspberry leaf tea to strengthen and tone the uterus as I regularly
used rebozo sifting to lower the tension in her core. Fear and tension were the adversaries, and
we were actively battling them with our routine.
The next step was to eliminate our biggest obstacle to relaxation and comfort . . . the
hospital. It was time to interview midwives and see if this was something we could commit to as
an alternative to a hospital birth. We scheduled a sit-down with a local midwife who came highly
recommended and was sufficiently experienced. Her office was a far cry from the stuffy, clinical
room at the OB GYN.
We sat on a comfy, worn couch conversing with a pleasant, relaxed and eloquent woman
in a floral dress. Surrounded by soft furniture, rich wood and natural light, this felt more like a
living room than an exam room . . . the angled examination table in the far corner the only item
identifying it as such. I wasn’t going to be sold, however, by interior design choices -- though, I
admit, they did make a world of difference. I needed more. I had to be assured that my wife and
child would be safe should we commit to a home birth.
I proceeded to bombard Brenda, our prospective midwife, with questions. I had a list.
After the interrogation . . . I mean, interview . . . I left very impressed and encouraged by
Brenda’s knowledge and confidence. Her philosophy coincided incredibly well with the beliefs
we’d recently developed regarding childbirth. After several hours of research, including
home-birth mortality and infection statistics, anecdotal accounts and emergency routes to the
nearest hospital, we finally committed to birthing at home.
Lauren was immediately astonished by the stark contrast in care. Arriving home from her
first prenatal appointment with our new midwife, Lauren couldn’t stop talking about it. She was
there for nearly two hours, Brenda spending a great deal of hands-on time to ensure the health of
Lauren and baby, answering the many questions of a first-time mother and even praying
together. This was very different than the 15-minute, in-and-out appointment we’d experienced
previously. Again, we initially had no idea that these pleasant alternatives existed.
Nine short weeks later, here I was, pacing the hallway and praying for Brenda to pick up
her phone, my laboring wife just around the corner. After what felt like an eternity of empty
rings, she answered. I urgently got her up to speed. “Lauren says she can feel the head,” I puffed,
nearly out of breath.
“Is she in the birthing pool?”
“No.”
“Get her in the pool. I’m on my way. I can keep you on the phone if you need.”
Quickly realizing I needed my hands and mind free more than I needed phone support, I
ended the call with Brenda, knowing she was only about 10 minutes away. I instructed Lauren to
get into the pool. She immediately stripped her remaining clothing, and I helped her over the
pool edge, lowering her into the 90-degree water.
 Lauren reclined on the liner as I supported her under the arms, allowing her to relax fully.
Throughout the contractions, I continued to affirm Lauren and speak positivity. A couple surges
later, the door squeaked open downstairs. I heard Brenda talking to Lauren’s parents and my
mom, who had also just arrived in anticipation of their new grandchild.
Brenda walked upstairs and, after a brief check on us, started moving throughout,
carrying materials and supplies. I remembered Brenda stating during our interview that she was,
in no way, an egotist. She was willing to be as hands-off during the birth as we wanted, even
making herself invisible whenever possible.
Brenda was true to her word, only stepping in briefly once or twice, feeling to make sure
the umbilical cord wasn’t emerging ahead of the baby. She even encouraged me at one point to
reach into the water and feel the baby’s head, which was now only a half inch from becoming
visible. Brenda coached us to make sure Lauren’s vocalizations remained low-toned. During the
surges, I would create a moaning pitch and Lauren would match it. Preventing squeals or
screams ensured that her chest and throat remained relaxed, warding off a chain reaction of
tension and pain.
Lauren’s water had broken around midnight on Sunday, August 24th, and now by 5 a.m.
we were already in the homestretch. After working through a dozen or so contractions, Brenda
fought to get Lauren’s attention, as by this time Lauren was pretty much in la-la land. Brenda
needed us to reposition Lauren in the water so she was on her knees facing the edge of the tub
and gripping the liner for support.
I still, to this day, have no idea how Brenda could tell without touching and having very
low visibility, but she knew we were only a couple contractions away.
“Andy, get ready to catch your baby,” Brenda said very calmly and matter-of-factly.
I honestly don’t remember having a verbal response. Instead, I gave Brenda my best
deer-in-the-headlights impression.
“Andy, catch your baby!” she repeated, pointing to the water behind Lauren. At that very
moment I watched a baby shoot into the water. My memory has retained this moment in slow
motion as the tiny, curled body floated several inches below the surface. My heart thumps, even
as I write this, to recount how I pulled our little one from the water. As soon as our newborn
emerged, the soft cries began. I immediately held our precious gift to my chest, so caught in the
moment that I hadn’t even looked to identify the sex.
“What do we have?” Brenda asked, prompting me to check the plumbing.
“It’s a boy!” I responded after a glance, the emotions now beginning to overwhelm.
I brought our new baby boy around and held him closely between Lauren’s face and mine
as we wept joyfully together. Ecstasy took over our bodies, and although we were both at the
brink of complete exhaustion, Lauren’s body working harder than ever in its history, we felt
nothing but delight and wonder. We sat there for several minutes, consumed by the moment, just
crying and kissing.
 It’s as if a shockwave of the birthing experience jarred our souls in such a way that tiny
cogs began turning deep within our hearts. A fifth chamber started beating. I felt a love I’d never
experienced before -- a love no man could understand or imagine until he’s cradled his firstborn
in his hands. He was beautiful. Lauren and I were instantly and entirely head over heels.
Once the umbilical cord stopped pulsing, meaning our little boy was no longer pulling
blood and nutrients from the placenta, Brenda asked if I wanted to cut the cord. At that point, I
was spent. I decided to use my remaining emotional energy loving on our new son and leave the
cord-cutting to Brenda.
The cord now clamped and severed, I snuggled into bed with our baby boy while Brenda
moved Lauren to take care of the postpartum necessities. Our parents waited eagerly on the main
floor, both grandmothers creeping up the bottom few stairs, like kids on Christmas morning, just
to hear his sweet little cries. It was nearly three hours before Lauren was ready to have the
grandparents up to meet our new addition. They were very patient, as I’m sure it must’ve felt
more like days.
Once satisfied with our private bonding time, we alerted the grandparents to make their
way up. They peeked slowly around the corner, seeing the three of us cuddled together in our
bed. “Come meet your new grandson,” Lauren invited, our faces beaming with pride as they
approached for their first glimpse of the little guy. Everyone was immediately enchanted with
our living, breathing miracle.
“What’s his name?” they asked.
“He doesn’t have one yet,” we responded. Little did we know that it wouldn’t be until his
third day of life that we’d finally decide on a name. Owen Lane would eventually be named in
honor of his grandfathers, bearing both their middle names.
We opened the curtains, welcoming the summer-morning sun, surprised to see several
neighbors gathered outside. Lauren and I had attended a block party across the street only an
hour before labor began. We left with well wishes from everyone, knowing the birth wasn’t far
off. Little did any of us know how near it was. I opened the window, calling out to interrupt their
party cleanup, and held our new son up to the screen.
Everyone immediately dropped what they were doing and made their way to our yard,
even calling for others from several houses away. It was a great moment, being able to enjoy this
unique and joyful occasion with so many. After having such a wonderful experience, I couldn’t
imagine having birthed any other way. Here we were, surrounded by family, celebrated by
neighbors and comfortable in our own bed. It was perfect. He was perfect.