Background

Seven years ago, I was a birth partner to a friend who delivered her baby at home. This was no hippy whim but a conscious decision to birth in a gentle and intimate way. It was one of my most beautiful experiences and I knew it was how I wanted to bring my child into the world.

My mother had had a painful and traumatic time birthing her children. I was a posterior forceps delivery in a maternity hospital devoid of compassionate care. My brother was plucked from my mother's womb at 28 weeks weighing just 750 grams. He survived and lived an extraordinary but painful life until he was 13 years old, but much of it was spent frequenting hospitals for a genetic disorder. I grew to hate, fear and distrust doctors and hospitals, and was adamant I'd never deliver my child in one.

I turned 30 and thought I was ready for the challenges and joys of motherhood. My husband and I conceived within two months of trying and I knew the moment a glass of red wine didn’t make it to my stomach that we were pregnant.
A sense of smell that induced spontaneous vomiting and bouts of rage marked the start of an otherwise happy pregnancy.

My husband, Lutfee, and I marvelled at the miracle of growing a baby. At six months, we tracked down a wonderful midwife, Joy, who encouraged our decision to home birth. We kitted out the house with a birth bath. Anticipation grew as our due date came and went. The waiting became unbearable.

Dream homebirth?

A checkup confirmed that the baby wasn't engaged and, seven days past the expected date of delivery, panic slowly grew like an insidious mist. The midwife recommended reiki, acupuncture and, a last resort, a teaspoon of castor oil. We chose the latter and, looking back on it now, view it as an act of desperation.

Nevertheless, we toasted to a safe birth and my husband and I both downed a sundown cocktail of castor oil, ice-cream and ginger beer and went to bed with faint hope of an imminent labour.

At midnight, I woke with a terrible cramp that gripped my huge stomach like a vice. The contractions came thick and fast and long but I welcomed them. For eight hours we laboured through the night. It was wonderful and as we had envisioned, using oils and massage, different labour positions and pacing the house as dawn finally broke. Only then did we call the midwife and, as I spoke to her, my waters broke. They were stained green with meconium, which meant our baby could be in distress. The midwife rushed over to examine me and for all that labouring I was just 1cm dilated and baby still wasn't engaged.

My homebirth dream started to dissolve. Half an hour later I was at the hospital, hooked up to a foetal monitor. Our baby wasn't distressed but her heart rate wasn't fluctuating as it should have been.

Finally, the birth

The gynae agreed to give us time before she decided what course of action to take. I bounced on the birth ball and breathed to ambient tunes through another six hours of labour, praying we had progressed. But we hadn't and my caregivers were concerned for my child's wellbeing. They were very patient with me and agreed to give me four more hours but I'd have to have an epidural as the labour-intensifying drug, pitocin, would send my contractions rocketing.

My heart sank as I lay there feeling completely out of control. I was so conflicted, questions assailing my mind. Why was a natural birth so important to me? Why could I not surrender? Would we still be in this situation if I hadn’t taken the castor oil? Did telling my ideal birth story supercede having a healthy baby? Was I this selfish? It seems I had concocted an equation that made my worth as a woman and my child's wholeness equal a vaginal birth. A Caesarean would only mean failure.

After 19 hours of labour, I had dilated just 4cm. The surgical team was assembled and we were prepped for theatre. I cried dreadfully, out of disappointment and fear but I soon realised I was in the hands of angels. Seeing my terror they sang to me, talked me through every step of the operation and with deft hands delivered our beautiful baby girl, Jasmine.

At 3,2 kilos, she was robust and had a good pair of lungs. Seeing her dangling above my head after 15 minutes in theatre was a great shock. I couldn't reconcile the pregnancy and the baby, she seemed to have materialised from somewhere else. My husband held her for the first time and burst into tears whispering her name over and over as I lay dry-eyed and bewildered. Jasmine latched onto my breast like a pro just 40 minutes after the birth, and the next phase of my parenting dream kicked into gear.

I mourned the loss of a natural birth for a long time but have read some meaning in the cards fate dealt. I'm reassured there are good health professionals who treat patients with care. I learnt I'm not always in control of my life. And that when fantasies aren't realised, truth lies just behind the debris of the dream.

I take comfort in my wise midwife's words. She said, "Nina, birth is only one moment of becoming a parent." As I play with Jasmine, now a bright-eyed, seven-month-old, I know that's true. I don't agonise about how she was born. I'm just so in love and enjoying this trip too much to give it another thought.