But when Janae said it was time, it was time. I put the coffee on and prepared to prove myself the best birthing partner there ever was, or, at least, better than the one I was last time.
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The first 14 hours of Noe’s birth were perfect. Janae laboured gradually at home, as Claire MacDonald, our doula and a pioneer of Alberta’s natural births movement, coached us through double-hip squeezes and breathing techniques. When contractions were five minutes apart, I drove us to the Lucina Midwives & Birth Centre with our birthing plan neatly folded in my pocket.
We’d rented a comfortable room eight months in advance, back when I still had my prejudices about natural births, fearing it was a slippery slope to living the Goop life. Janae stopped me from openly mocking the centre’s supply of homeopathic remedies during an open house. I didn’t know that midwives are medically trained professionals, nor fully understand the role and value of a doula.
I was a true believer by the time the puck dropped on November 11, 2017. By then, I’d learned to separate the “alternative” from the “holistic,” in order to reap the benefits of safely experiencing a singular event in its fullness. The staff’s open and steady communication made it feel like we were training for the Olympics, especially as we put those squats into practice.
I held firm as Janae clasped her hands around my neck and, trance-like, bore her every atom down on a 10-centimetre target. (Hence, my back injury.)
Janae had been pushing four hours when, seemingly out of nowhere, the assistant midwife said there was a problem — a “fitting issue” that might require an emergency room transfer. We both felt struck by lightning, but, whereas Janae combusted into an irrepressible firestorm, I turned to ash heap.
Claire helped me to a corner sofa, while the midwives helped Janae to the bed, allowing her to push four more times before activating plan B. Watching from the sidelines, my body felt positively electrocuted. My face looked bleached. For some reason, my fingers had frozen into a freakish gesture. A midwife offered me a bottle of “calming drops.” I showed her my mangled talons — like, woman, don’t you know! — and opened my mouth to have it administered to me like a baby bird.