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Does it matter how you give birth?

03.02.10 | labor & delivery | 51 Comments

I just finished my second birth book and stomped downstairs to inform Dick that we’ll be needing to hire a doula, someone who can support me and advocate for my desires in childbirth. Dick says we don’t have the money for that (I know we don’t), so I say he can do it, but he’ll have to change his attitude, read at least three books, and commit to giving me the support I’m going to need.

The kind of support I need is the kind I sort of envisioned my mom giving me when I gave birth to Sally nine years ago. But instead of encouragement and inspiration she told me she was worried about me coping with labor because my pain threshold is lower than hers and that, by the way, she and my dad were flying back to Utah (from New York) the next day, so I better have the baby pretty soon. That’s completely unfair to my mom though, because I wasn’t prepared or informed about the dangers (and cascading interventions that often follow) of induction and epidurals or the alternative pain-management techniques I could practice or ask for and the benefits to mom and baby of allowing labor to be labor. And I was even more impatient than they were to get that baby here.

But now things are different, and the more I read, the more I’m sure that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Right now I feel really dangerous. I started with Baby Catcher, which is the perfect introduction to physiological/natural/midwifery-style childbirth. I had tried Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth, but found it to New-Age-hippie for me. Baby Catcher hit all the right notes — a credentialed maternity RN who became a CNM and only gradually became suspicious of routine medical policies. And it’s told in entertaining story form, so I couldn’t put it down, even as I cried at the happy (and occasionally tragic) outcomes. It’s a history of maternity care and midwifery in the United States from the 1960s to the 1990s and it includes being sued, which surprised me, and it profiles so many helpful descriptions of what labor can look like (instead of how it should progress).

Then I started reading Pushed, and though it has a lot of helpful statistics, like, “a woman is four times more likely to die having a cesarean section than a vaginal birth” (p. xix) and that episiotomies increase the likelihood of perineal tearing by nine times rather than reducing it (p. 30) (outcomes for baby are similarly adversely affected by interventions), I got bogged down in the dense, overwhelmingly bleak detail. Though I did learn that the problem is not that we have technology and interventions available, but that these things (inductions, forceps, c-sections, electronic fetal monitoring) began as helps for high-risk, medically-indicated situations and in spreading to low-risk, normally-progressing labors, do more harm.

So I switched to Henci Goer’s Thinking Woman’s Guide to a Better Birth and gulped it down at once. It’s a great, simple read with appendices stretching from here to infinity of study after study that show that managed/active care (rather than supportive care) is not superior, and in most cases, unhelpful or dangerous for both mother and baby. Someone on Twitter today said “the next person to equate no epidural with ‘getting a gold star’” would be in for it, and I can understand that reasoning. I don’t want to listen to anyone brag about being a “real” woman for staying strong or being above the pain, but the problem with an epidural is not that it represents “failure” (it doesn’t — I’ve had three, and my kids and I turned out just fine, an indisputable measure of “success” if any there is), but that done as a matter of course, without study and informed choice and as a last resort, it opens the door to way too many other medical interventions that I would like to avoid.

Reading these books, it seems a miracle I didn’t end up with a c-section the first time. And before anyone leaves a “My baby and I would’ve died if we hadn’t gotten an xyz,” please preface that by saying you didn’t start out getting induced three days before your due date because your doctor was going out of town. Sure a medical intervention might’ve saved your life and your baby’s life, but unless your labor until then was medical-intervention free (or super-limited, like, to intermittent fetal tone-listening or something) , it really doesn’t mean that much. (If you were high-risk the whole time or had one of those rare complications, then thank goodness for modern medicine, because that’s what it’s for, right?)

I also feel like saying I don’t want to talk about this to anyone (Ryan, I’m looking at you) who hasn’t read the same books I have, but that’s not fair either. If someone had said anything like this to me five years ago, I would’ve slashed their sustainable-bamboo tires.

And I admit, I’m scared of the pain. I’m scared I won’t be able to endure labor without begging for relief. (So a shiny gold star would be nice to look forward to). I’m scared that when I have this baby in a hospital, someone’s going to break my waters or hook me up to a machine without my consent. About the only thing I’m confident of is that I’ll have a better birth for me and the baby this time, even if I do end up with an epidural or a c-section or anything, because this time I’ll know why.

After even the little that I have read, it seems odd to even entertain the notion “but does it matter how you give birth? Isn’t the only important thing that you end up with a healthy baby?” (odd and also absurd because going as non-medically as possible is actually safer for low-risk and even moderate-risk mothers), but I want to address it because I have a thought on it.

When I was growing up, my parents always said it was important to marry the right person at the right time in the right place. The right person would be known to you through God, as would the right time, and the right place was always the temple. I remember watching Fiddler on the Roof and my dad pointing out that he thought only the oldest daughter managed to get all three rights together. And the three rights might make God happy, but more importantly they make for easier marriages and happier people (think how sad the third daughter was to have to leave everything familiar behind to marry a nonbeliever in a time of war (when her own people were persecuted by the same group her husband belonged to); sure love conquers all, etc, but it’s a lot harder, right?).

So in the birth analogy, it’s obvious that what is important is the mornings you wake up to make breakfasts cheerfully (even if you have to fake it), and the times you tenderly comfort your headstrong five-year old when she hurts herself doing something you told her seven times not to do. Surely the twelve or twenty-four hours you spend in birth are meaningless set against the lifetime of mothering you’ll give that child.

But that twelve or twenty-four hours is the time you become the mother of that child, just as the ten-minute ceremony in the temple is the time you become a wife or a husband. In the years of a marriage, forgiving quickly and forbearing to nag over the stinky compost that sits on the deck attracting mice instead of getting stirred into your lovely compost turner are what matters, not a ritual smattering of words by an officiator you’ll never see again.

But it does matter. You can go to the right place later as long as you have the right person; you can find the right person your second time, of course you can, but the point is that your goal is to eventually have it all.

I’m not saying that the right birth for me (let alone anyone else) is a completely natural birth at home whenever the baby wants to come. I’m pretty sure I’ll be at a hospital, with a midwife, and I’ll try to do it naturally, and if I change my mind because of back labor for seventy hours or I go past 42 weeks (my current cut-off) or something changes it for me like the baby in real distress, as long as I know why, it’ll be just right.

totally unrelated, but fun to read

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