After years of losses, I couldn’t imagine carrying a pregnancy to term. Yet ten days after my baby’s due date, I felt my first contraction, and finally, reality set in. Forty-two hours later, Iris was born. I went on to deliver two more babies at home, each time blessed with the same midwife by my side.

Iris

It took us four years to get pregnant with our first child, and when I finally did during the early months of COVID, I refused to allow myself to get excited at all. We didn’t choose names or set up a baby room. I didn’t take a pregnancy test until I was seven weeks along, and I never shared the news on social media, didn’t even tell my parents or best friend until I’d reached five months. I was scared during the whole pregnancy, and now I wish I’d allowed myself to enjoy it some. When my birthing day arrived, I really didn’t believe I’d have a baby at the end of it. I was trying to protect myself from heartbreak; we’d already endured so much loss. This is the story of my birthing days.

Contractions started at around midnight for me. At first, they were a part of my dreams, but after the second or third, I woke up and realized what was happening. I was excited and a little scared, but it was also a relief. I was nine days past my due date, and in my state, you can’t have a home birth with a midwife if you’re more than two weeks past your due date.

The contractions carried on for the rest of that night, infrequent and mild enough that I could doze. They kept up all the next day: ten or twenty minutes apart, although when I went on a forty-minute walk with my partner, D, I only felt three, and they were very mild. I cleaned, tried to prepare the house in last-minute ways, baked cookies. The labor continued through the afternoon and into a second night, with contractions every ten minutes—not enough to send for our midwife, L, but enough to keep me from sleeping much. I tried to rest. I knew that one reason I may have to transfer to hospital would be because of exhaustion.

In the morning, L called and announced that she’d be coming over. I’d been laboring for more than twenty-four hours, and we needed to get things moving. She said we’d try some herbs, the breast pump, and homeopathy, and if that didn’t work, we’d do castor oil, which I knew had been an option but had really wanted to avoid. One friend described it as a pretty brutal way to give birth.

When she arrived, L performed a cervical check to measure my dilation: five centimeters. I was relieved. After more than twenty-four hours of labor, I’d at least progressed. D and I took a walk up and down the road, and the contractions started coming more quickly: once every five minutes, then less. When one would come, we’d stop and I’d hold onto him until it passed. The neighbor’s kids were out planting in their yard, and they watched us make our slow way past.

By the time we got home, the contractions were getting more intense, more frequent. I shifted onto all fours, and L told me to stay there for a while. Then she told me we’d probably start castor oil at one o’clock. I had no idea what time it was. My doula, E, would bring the ingredients for a castor oil smoothie. I got into bed and had contractions, and E arrived and pressed down hard on my back as I labored on all fours. She brought the smoothie eventually, which tasted terrible and which I sipped through a straw between contractions. She also brought a mixing bowl in case I threw up, and once I kind of gagged, but didn’t barf. She was really quick with the bowl, though, holding it under my face right away. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” she said, and we both laughed. Eventually, we made our way out of the bedroom because I thought walking might make things go even more quickly.

D and I had only made it up the driveway before things started amping up. I could feel the castor oil hitting my bowels. I kept contracting, cramping, and holding onto D. At home, I squatted on two blocks, a position I’d used all pregnancy to ease my back. By now, the contractions were coming fast, and I went upstairs to see if the shower might help the pain.

But the hot water no longer helped. I threw my wet towel onto the bathroom floor and got down on all fours. I didn’t want anyone there with me—all of a sudden I felt so vulnerable, like all I could do was breathe and survive. I started making noises I couldn’t control, shuddering shouts. I remembered what I’d learned in childbirth class: low groans and moans rather than high-pitched screams. L came in and checked the baby’s heartbeat, which was normal, and my blood pressure, which was skyrocketing. I remember asking her next in a shaking voice, as I sat on the toilet naked, whether I was in active labor, and she said I was. I told her I was sorry if I pooped, but I didn’t end up pooping, just sat shuddering there on the toilet. The toilet was pretty uncomfortable and hard, and I was really big, so I held onto the sink on one side and the shower lip on the other. That was the hardest part of the labor, I realize now, those hours in the bathroom with the contractions that weren’t letting up. 

L told me she was starting to set up the birthing tub, and I felt a little excited—the birthing tub is used when you’re pushing or close, because otherwise it can slow labor down. I cheered up and went downstairs and could smell the plastic tub being assembled, although I didn’t actually see it set up or filled, or even where it was. L checked me in the downstairs bedroom and told me she thought she should break the waters. It was about 5 PM, and she thought that breaking the waters would move things along, and it’s what would happen if I went to the hospital. The risks: Baby wouldn’t like it, and heartbeat would drop. Or, I’d go 24 more hours and still not give birth, and have to go to the hospital because of the infection risk. I asked her if the baby could die, and she said there’s always a risk of that in any childbirth scenario, but that she wouldn’t be recommending this if she didn’t think it was the right thing to do. I asked her how many she’d done, and she said seven or eight. I remember being surprised that it wasn’t more, but I said, “Let’s do it.” I really trusted L. She seemed confident, and although it seemed early to me, I was willing to do what she recommended. 

Breaking the water sac didn’t hurt. I heard a pop, her finger breaking the sac, and then felt the warm water gush out. She checked the baby’s heartbeat right away: fine. The water had come out clear. I was eight centimeters dilated, she said, and we all cheered. I felt really relieved, and L seemed glad. We all got this burst of positive energy from the good outcome of the sac breaking, and eight centimeters seemed pretty good to me.

From there, the tone of my labor shifted. I was still hurting during contractions, but I wasn’t alone: I was warm in bed, with E pressing on my back with every contraction. Evening light was coming into the room, and it was soft, that glowy New Mexico light, and I felt better. I felt hopeful.

When the first urge to push came, it really took me by surprise. It was strong and unmistakable, and I could not control my body pushing on its own. I got excited; something was happening. Now every contraction was this pushing, and I lay on my left side and pushed, and in between E rubbed my back and told me I was doing great, the pushing was great, this was really awesome to be hearing and seeing. L called the assistant midwife, and in between, she and D had finished setting up the birthing tub, but all of a sudden, I had this feeling I would not be making it to the tub at all. This pushing was unreal, and I didn’t think I could walk anywhere. Our birth class instructor had said that it will feel like you are pooping your baby out, and that’s really what it felt like.

The pushes didn’t hurt much—they were strong, but they were bowel pushes, not abdominal cramps. That was a relief. I got on my hands and knees and really started pushing, and eventually the other midwife, T, arrived, and things were moving really quickly now. The mood felt celebratory. I could smell the open vial of lavender. D was by my side, and everyone was cheering me on with every push. Then they were telling me they could see the baby’s head. I knew this could mean I still needed to push for a while, but I could also hear everyone’s tone and feel their energy, and I just had this sense I was getting really close. I kept pushing, and it felt so intense and also so amazing. I could feel my baby’s body moving down me, into my bottom. I could feel the shape of its head, so low in my body, and then I could feel that ring of fire, it had to be the ring of fire, the baby pushing through. “How much longer?” I asked, and E said, “Not much.” I couldn’t imagine that the labor would ever end and the next thing, whatever it was, would begin. 

L came up beside me and reminded me that if I sort of held my breath when the urge to push came, that’s how the baby could move down. It wasn’t hard to do that: hold my breath pushing, and then take a sip of air and hold it again. And then someone said, “The baby’s head is coming out,” and I could feel that ring of fire again. Someone lowered the dimmer on the lights and all of a sudden, with only the evening glow outside for light, it got really quiet in there. The only sound was me pushing, and then I pushed one last time, and I felt this slippery body fall from me. I heard a little sound, the sound of a tiny baby behind me that I couldn’t yet see, and then L was passing me this baby, and I held it up and looked at this face, this face, eyes open wide, such a pretty face, and I brought my baby close.

I cried, but not much. I was too happy and dumbfounded to cry. And then I remembered that we still didn’t know the sex, and I asked D if he’d seen, and he shook his head, so I turned our baby around and saw the whitish cord and then, no penis. A girl! 

After that, it felt like a party. Everyone was in such good spirits. I could feel blood and fluid coming out of me, but the midwives just moved me around and put plastic sheets under me and let me hold my baby and look at her. T said, “It’s a sunset baby.” 7:11 p.m. A few minutes later, L asked for one more push, and the placenta came easily, and she slipped it into that same clear glass mixing bowl I’d been offered with the castor oil smoothie. The midwives inspected the placenta as I sat there with my new baby, my legs stained with blood, blood pooling between my legs, D at my side, our beautiful girl in my arms, my whole heart full.

Orion

It had taken years to conceive our first child, but only a couple of tries to get pregnant with our second. We were surprised and grateful. My second labor began in the middle of the night, and the first contraction woke me from a dream. I wasn’t due for another ten days, and my first had arrived ten days after her due date. I thought I still had three weeks to go, at least. But I got up and went to the bathroom and felt another cramp and saw some blood on the tissue, and I knew. Whether I was ready or not, this labor was starting.

Before I went back to bed, I cleaned the downstairs bathroom tub, something I’d been planning on doing but figured I’d get around to in time. I knew I’d need the tub downstairs since I wouldn’t be able to climb the stairs to our upstairs shower after the birth, so I scrubbed it clean at 2:15 a.m. while the rest of the house slept. It turns out this type of thing isn’t advisable. Instead, let someone else clean the shower while you’re in early labor, and try to get some rest.

I got quietly back into bed, careful not to wake anyone, timing the contractions on my phone—they seemed a lot closer than I remembered from my first labor. The cat came into the bed and curled up next to me, and that was such a comfort.

At around six a.m., my almost-two-year-old daughter woke up, and I went into her room and got her out of her crib and brought her back into our bed and held her close. She had no way of knowing it might be a while before we’d be able to do this again: lie together quietly while the morning arrived and the sun rose. When D woke up, I told him the labor had started, and he seemed kind of excited, and not very surprised. He didn’t seem concerned that the baby was going to come earlier than anticipated, just acted cheerful and told me we were ready. I said that I was scared, whimpering a little, but he said, “You’ve done this before. You know just what to do, and we’re ready.”

I went to start oatmeal, but D said, “Don’t you want something heartier? You want to be fortified.” So I made eggs, bacon, and toast, and I drank a glass of milk and a cup of tea. I’m glad I did; in retrospect, it was hard to eat for the rest of the day, with the contractions closer and closer together. After we ate, I called L, who said that she’d had a dream I had gone into labor, and I told her she’d probably had the dream when the contractions began. Later, at our house, she told the doula, E, that when I’d called, she’d thought at first that my call was part of her dream.

I timed the contractions again—twenty seconds each, six minutes apart. That felt pretty fast-paced to me, but L said it wasn’t time for her to come over yet. She wanted longer contractions, like forty-five sections at a minimum. She would check in with me in two hours. D did chores while I tidied up the house and thought of more chores for him to do and had contractions. I timed one at forty-five seconds, but the next two at just twenty seconds. L had said she wanted to see a clearer pattern, so I waited, but I knew this labor would go much more quickly than my first. I decided to ask E to come, and she texted back right away and said she’d pack up and leave. It had been two years since I’d seen her, but when she arrived, we didn’t have a lot of time for small talk. She exclaimed about my daughter, how big she’d gotten, but a contraction came on right away, and it felt more powerful than the others. I could still stand and didn’t need to cry out, but E suggested we go into the bedroom, where I’d delivered my daughter, and we could do hands and knees on the bed while she pressed on my back. I liked that she had a plan. We put a clear shower curtain liner down onto the sheet, then covered the liner with another old sheet, green plaid flannel, the same one I’d birthed my daughter on, and we laughed when we noticed that I was also wearing a green plaid flannel button-down, pretty much the only comfy shirt that fit these days. I matched my sheet. I lay down on my left side while E massaged my hips and back, and I had contractions that way for a while, not even getting up onto hands and knees yet.

After a while, E said that she’d text L and tell her to come, and I was relieved. Things must be moving along! Soon enough, L showed up with all her bags. I got up and out of bed and walked around a bit, and as soon as I did, the contractions started coming more quickly, maybe every three minutes or even less. E was cheerful and positive, and she offered suggestions to me that felt useful. This was not her first rodeo. She pointed out to L that the sheet I was on matched my shirt, and we laughed again about that. It felt so good to relax enough to laugh.

D was feeding our daughter her lunch, and the rest of us went into the kitchen to snack. Well, they snacked, and I doubled down. It was funny, feeling like I was on the brink while everyone else chatted and prepared lunch for themselves. To them, my increasing pain was a good sign. Every contraction brings the baby closer, and this labor was in full swing. That’s what we all wanted. Still, it was strange, kneeling there gasping for breath while my family and birth team looked on, encouraging and unconcerned and cheering, snacking, playing with our daughter.

I went back into my room, lay back down on my side, and let E massage my back again. With every contraction, my noises got louder, more feral, more foreign sounding in my ears, keening and shouting and then, later, these jagged inhales and exhales I remembered making the first time, when I was getting really close. I wondered how I could continue to endure. I knew that if I had had an epidural available to me, I would have asked for it. But there are no epidurals when you birth at home—you have hot water and a doula’s hands on your back, their kind words in your ear, and that is your pain relief.

I asked L and E if I would survive, and they said I would. E said, “Every step is getting you closer to having that baby in your arms. Find a mantra. Think of that baby in your arms.” Then she said, “Remember: it’s only your body, it’s just your body, and it’s not giving you anything you can’t handle. One contraction at a time, one moment at a time. You’re doing great.”

It was around then that I noticed the contractions getting lower. I wasn’t pushing, bearing down, but I was feeling a pressure in my bottom. I gave those contractions everything, allowing myself to bear down in a way I hadn’t been doing. The only way out is through. I lay down on the bed, on my side, and another contraction came, and I let myself bear down hard. And then I felt the water release, and I said to L, “The water broke,” and she said, “Let’s get your pants off,” but I said, “Wait,” because I was still pushing, in the middle of this hard contraction still bearing down, but she pulled the pants off anyway and said, “You can’t have a baby in your pants.” I laugh now, but I couldn’t then. But I felt this surge of hope, and I heard E go off to look for D and our daughter, who had gone outside to walk up and down the driveway.

L said I could get onto hands and knees or I could stay on my side, but if I stayed on my side, someone would need to hold my leg up. I got onto my hands and knees, palms firm onto the mattress, and I felt another push come. I remembered this feeling from last time, the way the baby suddenly filled the space between my legs, pushing through in this way that meant they were close, they’d come down, but they weren’t out yet—just settled in the place between the womb and the world. This pushing hurt a lot more than when I’d pushed with Iris, the feeling of the body between my legs heavier, more urgent, and I could feel myself stretching, tried not to imagine the skin tearing. The pain was sharp, immediate, surface-level intense. I prayed. I told myself out loud, “I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.” I heard E shuttle D into the room, and L asked him if he still wanted to try catching.

L said, “Just wait for the pushes to come. Don’t force anything. Just wait.” In between pushes, we were quiet, even my daughter. “I can do this,” I thought, over and over. I pushed again, and E said, “Hair! A head!” I felt my baby suspended there, halfway between homes. We waited for the next push to come, and when it didn’t, L said, “Why don’t you give a big push,” and I did. “Give another,” she said, and I did. She said, “Why don’t you get up on one knee, put one foot forward, like a lunge. I want the baby’s body to come out now with the head.”

Although it seemed, all of a sudden, like she wanted the baby out now, she did not sound panicked, and I did not feel afraid. I lurched my weight forward, one foot ahead, and pushed down again, and felt L’s hand there grasping the head, and then I felt the body fall from me, fishlike in a gush, felt myself being emptied. I heard a jag of a cry, and then I looked down to where L had placed the baby on the bed beneath me, ready for me to lift and hold, and I saw that he was a boy, and I picked him up and held him close. My body was still reeling, my heart pounding, still so close to that knife edge of pain and barely-hanging-on, my whole body trembling but soaked in relief, and here was my baby, safe and breathing in my arms.

Right after I gave birth to my boy, I bled a lot, and L recommended a shot of Pitocin. I could feel the blood leaving me in a couple big gushes, and I consented. The after-cramps were pretty strong, and they lasted long into the night, persisted through the first day and again the second night. But my tear was very minor, and the bleeding stopped right away. And I had my baby, eight pounds and sweet—a lot bigger than our daughter had been, even though he arrived almost three weeks earlier than she had.

We didn’t sleep much that first night with him, but we hadn’t slept at all on my daughter’s first night, either. We still woke up cheerful. I made my way to the shower, and D placed our new little son in his basket beside the tub. I looked really pale in the mirror, but I smiled at my reflection. There’s no feeling in the world like giving birth and living to tell the tale. When I finished showering, I parted the curtain to step out of the tub, and I saw that our new baby had fallen fast asleep. Breakfast was French toast.

Sylvan

I got pregnant again when I was forty. My daughter was three and my son was one, and it took one try, using ovulation strips, to conceive. It was the most difficult pregnancy, in part because I was forty, and even my loyal midwife in her pretty home office had to treat me as such. At every visit, I heard about the risks of being pregnant at my age. I was advised to do more testing and more ultrasounds than with the other pregnancies. All of that was more of a psychological drain than a physical one, but it was my third baby in three years, and my body did feel ragged. I fretted about the baby’s position and whether we’d have enough support. I tried to tune into my faith; prayer helped. Long walks helped. Reminding myself to feel grateful for all that I had, and for all that my body had done—that helped.

 With this baby, the labor began in the wee hours, just like the others. I let everyone else sleep while I cheered the contractions on, twenty minutes apart. I was four days past my due date, and we’d scheduled a home induction for the coming Sunday, my forty-one-week mark. Past the age of forty (of course), the risks associated with carrying past term increase, and L was advising the induction. I’d already managed to push it a week back by getting an ultrasound to confirm that I was okay to keep carrying. I really didn’t want to have to induce, even with relatively natural methods (herbs, a stripping of the membranes, the breast pump, and castor oil if necessary), and D didn’t either. I’d been trying everything to speed the labor along, even taking a drive in D’s truck on the bumpiest road we could find. The night before my labor began, I’d taken a long, warm bath.

We were out of bed early, and I told D we wouldn’t be needing to wait for the induction after all, and he said, as he had when my other two labors began: “That’s exciting!” And just like the other times, I told him I was scared, and cried a little, and he hugged me and said, “You’ve got this.”

As soon as I was up and moving, the contractions really picked up in frequency, all of a sudden arriving every five minutes and sometimes even every two. D made eggs, bacon, and tea while I called L, who told me she’d leave her house, twenty minutes away, once the contractions got a little bit longer, and she’d check in with me in about an hour if she hadn’t heard. I texted MB, my helper, bodyworker, and friend, who said she’d be over right away. (E had moved to California the year before—otherwise, we would have had her by our side.) Last, I texted D’s mom, who we all called “Nana” and who was staying nearby. She wrote back, “Yay! Leaving soon.” I ate breakfast and drank tea, but it was already hard to pay attention to anything other than the contractions. Between bites, I’d grip the table, close my eyes, and breathe. I went upstairs and took a hot shower, which did nothing to slow things down or ease the discomfort.

Next, I got dressed and combed my hair and put on some makeup, which might seem silly, I realize, but I felt that I wanted to look nice on this most special of days. Whatever else happened, what I wore was something within my control. L called back, and when I told her how things were progressing, she said she’d be on her way. MB showed up, then Nana right afterwards. They both made themselves useful immediately—Nana took the kids outside to play, and MB followed me into the bedroom to support my laboring. I lay down and she gave me massage, and the contractions slowed down a lot, and I was able to rest for a while. I didn’t want to stall things too much, but MB reminded me not to stress about rushing things—no one was in a hurry, and it was okay to go at my own pace. I rested a while more, just a few manageable contractions, and then D and I put on our coats and hats to walk up the driveway. That was me: restless, always itching to move, unable to release and relax, in labor and in life.

L was arriving just as we set out. It was a really nice spring day, the daffodils popping, and we saw a whole big cluster of them newly blossoming up by the mailbox. I’d planted them in the fall, on a rainy day when I was about five months pregnant with this baby. I made it up the driveway through really frequent, short contractions, during which I’d hold onto D or else bend down and lean on my knees. We walked past our two neighbors’, turned around, and came home. I tried to keep a sense of humor and stay happy and excited.

Back in our driveway, I had such a strong contraction that I went down onto hands and knees in the dirt. My little son was out playing with MB, and my daughter was with her Nana. Everyone was enjoying the warm weather. I went inside, greeted L again, went to the bathroom, saw some bloody show, and told L. In her charts, she noted that active labor had now begun.

I discovered that if I told myself things like, “Yes, you can do this, you want this,” it was easier to manage the pain than if I whimpered, cried, and counted down until it was over—all my first impulses. I grabbed the birthing comb I’d bought months before, inspired by a birth story I read during my pregnancy, and clutched it so the teeth dug into pressure points on my palm. In between contractions, I joked about how an ordinary comb wouldn’t do, I needed this special one with the words “It’s not pain, it’s strength” carved onto it. But the comb did help a little by distracting my mind with a different sensation than the contractions. I tried to stay cheerful and be happy, but during the contractions, I was really starting to shout and get uncomfortable. Longer and longer, more and more pain.

MB pressed down on my back and that helped some, but I was starting to get scared. This felt so intense. I asked for D, and when he came in, MB left us alone. I told D how I was feeling—doubting my ability to manage the pain as it worsened—but he was calm. He held my hand and pressed down on my lower back when the contractions came. I dreaded each wave. MB and L eventually came back in to check on me, and D went upstairs to check on our son, who was napping.

As I lay on my side, feeling the waves come and come, I began to feel the baby descend. “I think they’re moving into my butt,” is what I believe I said out loud. I said I thought I should stand up to help them move down. “You can if you want,” MB said, “but they’ll move down on their own, just like that, too.” Either way, though, we decided I should take off my pants if baby really was on its way, so I stood up, pulled the pants down, and felt a really strong urge to push. I bore down, afraid but knowing how from the other times, and then I said, “They’re coming down,” and L said, “The head is out; they’re in the caul.” In the caul!

Things were happening so fast now. I climbed back up onto the bed, onto all fours the way I did before. I heard them calling out for D, and then he was there, and Nana and the kids were there, and I heard D tell me, “Wait for the next contraction.” There were a few moments while we all waited, and the room was quiet, and I prayed. I watched my hands gripping the bed, the same hands I’d watched when the other two babies came, strong hands that held me up, and finally I felt the contraction arrive, and I pushed, and out the slippery body fell, and I felt this sense of surprise and relief—it was over. It was already over. Born in the caul. D caught the baby, then passed it to L, who removed the water bag and passed the baby to me. I held the baby’s body close, covered in vernix, and I heard that first beautiful cry.

After a minute, my surroundings returned. MB was burning juniper so that the baby’s first smell would be that familiar desert scent. I looked behind me and saw my kids in the doorway standing with their Nana, watching us. The room was quiet and warm, not quite noon. They helped me lie back, get a little more comfortable, put baby skin to skin, introduce baby to brother and sister. We still didn’t know the sex, so I pulled baby away from me and we checked: a boy! To all our surprise—we’d all been imagining a sister for the kids. The assistant midwife arrived. D cleaned the blood from my legs with a warm washcloth, and after I’d birthed the placenta, L fed me a bite of it with honey. The honey concealed the taste but not the texture, slippery like eating liver. I’d read about the practice while I was pregnant, learned that many cultures revered and consumed it. Later on, I didn’t feel weak or dizzy the way I had with my first two babies, and my breastmilk came in strong and early. I like to think that bite of placenta played a role.

The baby had been breathing rapidly, probably because of the fast birth. Usually, their time in the birth canal presses fluid from the lungs, but this baby descended so quickly the midwives figured there was still some fluid in there, and he was working to clear it. While I lay there and admired my baby, the midwives tried a bunch of things to slow the breathing rate: first rubbing and stimulation, then prompting him to cry, then having him nurse, which he did easily and happily. They put a tube of oxygen close to his face, and finally they tried this mask they blew air into, checking to see that his chest rose. He hated that thing on his face.

Finally, they suggested we bring him into a hot, steamy shower to see if that could clear the lungs. L cut the cord, a moment that should have felt momentous and exciting but instead felt kind of stressful and fraught. All of the efforts to slow the breathing rate were making me anxious. The next thing I knew, L was telling me she had reached the limit of what she could offer at home, and she was recommending we go to the hospital. He would ride there in an ambulance since you don’t take a baby who is struggling in a carseat. I probably wouldn’t be able to ride with him; L would accompany the paramedics, since she was more skilled at resuscitating an infant than they were. At the hospital, they’d hook baby up to this machine called a CPAP, which would force air into his lungs and hopefully get the fluid absorbed. It could take between one and six hours on that machine, maybe more. It was transient tachypnea, L explained to MB—“Hopefully transient,” she added. “Hopefully?” I asked L, and she explained that the rapid breathing could also be the result of a heart problem. My own heart started really pounding when she said that, and again, in my mind, I started to pray. It felt like things had taken such a sharp and sudden turn.

Meanwhile, the baby looked fine except for his breathing, which was quick and shallow. He was pink and chunky and nursing and beautiful. They kept checking his respiration rate with a stethoscope, and every time they pressed it against his back, it seemed like he breathed even faster. I could feel my own heartbeat pounding against him too, and I knew I needed to calm myself down. But I was naked and bleeding, and I felt so vulnerable and afraid. L told me it would look really bad for her as a provider if we waited to go and then a true emergency situation arose, and we had to rush in. I agreed, but my body was really resisting the idea of handing my baby over and going in. He was nursing away, and he seemed very comfortable in my arms, in our warm room. I didn’t want to be irresponsible, but this also just didn’t feel right. I just kept praying, holding my baby.

Anyway, we’d try the shower before any next steps, and D came and took baby while L’s assistant helped me to the bathroom. I sat down on the toilet, and she turned on the shower to make the room steamy, and then she left, and D came in with the baby and closed the door. I got into the shower, felt the blood and everything else wash away, and I continued to pray. When I got out and wrapped myself in a towel, D said, “We’re not going anywhere. Our baby’s fine.” He rocked him back and forth, and indeed, it was obvious the baby’s breath had already slowed way down, and he was sleeping in D’s arms.

MB came into the bathroom and shut the door behind her, then told us that she’d talked to a midwife she worked with who had a different opinion to share. Transient tachypnea was a common and benign condition that almost always resolved on its own in one to three days. It wasn’t cause for alarm if the baby was nursing and otherwise fine. If the baby were looking blue, that would obviously be another story. I wasn’t sure who to believe or what to think, but I knew my baby looked beautiful, and so did D, holding him there in our unfinished bathroom thick with steam. I made my way back into the bedroom, where L and her assistant told me it was time to check my bleeding—not bad at all—and then, a little later, check for tears. I had just one small tear, no stitches necessary, and I know they were trying to make me feel better by telling me how good things looked, hardly any swelling, the tear already closing up on its own.

Though my mind was racing, my body actually felt great. This had been my easiest birth, perhaps the most intense but also the quickest by far, and during which I felt most in control, aware of each step as it came. Now, I realized, was my time for being tested: not during the labor at all but here within the aftermath, the challenge to stay calm, to have faith, to be a mother to my baby while the midwives checked his respiration rates again and again.

People came and went in the bedroom while MB rubbed my back and tried to calm me down. I could hear the midwives whispering in the hallway. Finally, L came back and explained that by counting and not using the stethoscope in the bathroom with D, she’d measured really low respiration rates within normal newborn range. She still advised going in, but it was our choice. We could wait and monitor at home. I immediately knew for certain we’d be staying home, and I felt a huge sense of relief. I continued to pray. I trusted my baby’s ability to breathe, clear his own lungs, and recover. I trusted my partner, and I trusted MB. Rushing to the hospital for this was not going to be our way.

L performed the newborn exam, and a sense of joy re-entered the room. Then she and her assistant started to pack up. I knew she was tired and probably kind of stressed herself. We hadn’t done what she’d advised, and this had been our most complicated birth together. But she’d stood by me for all three, my witness and guide, her presence calm and strong and kind. I will always be grateful for L, walking beside me through three pregnancies, three births.

After they were gone, MB burned more juniper, and I’ll always associate that scent with my little son’s birthing day. He was still breathing a little bit quickly, but he was nursing lustily. We set again to the task of admiring our baby while MB tidied up the room and then began preparing the placenta, separating parts of it for me to consume in smoothies in the days to come, and the rest for us to bury in the yard with a planting. We didn’t realize it at the time, but MB was working to give us something ancient, a symbol we’d hold with us forever. We talked, joked, and held our baby as the sun went down and the sky turned that New Mexico pinkish-gold.

It took about thirty-six hours for our baby’s respiration rate to completely normalize, and a little more for the fear of the day to leave me—mostly. The birth will always exist in my mind as tension knotted with joy, but my baby came, and we are both safe. We had our home birth on our terms. Birth is such a complicated thing: messy and unpredictable, fear and pain shot through with hope.      

I keep my birthing comb in a place of honor in the nicho in our room. I look at it every day, and I remember: I had my babies here, and I am strong. I have faith, and I am blessed. I clung to that comb, fearing for my life even as I tried to laugh, even as I wished for the end; I prayed and held on, and I made it out the other side.

Kate McCahill is a writer and editor from Santa Fe, New Mexico.