A Birth Story

Boden Lee Keller

How can it be that until three days ago I had never seen these blue eyes or examined these pink fingers that drape my thumb so limply. Haven't I traced the wrinkles on these palms a million times already? How can it be that I had never felt the silk on this head or caressed the velvet that drapes this back ... or rubbed my fingers along the strand of pearls that runs from neck to sacrum? Haven't I always known this quivering chin? These plump cheeks? The deep blue sea that lies in these eyes?

Has it really been a mere three days? It seems I've known my newborn son forever.

Time cannot be trusted. I know this because I look at my older son and wonder how the past three years melted so quickly. In contrast, just before Boden's arrival, I wondered how the minutes between every contraction could tip toe so slowly across the deceitful face of my clock.

So I won't go by time, I'll go by my bones, and trust that from the moment I was born I was destined to hold this baby. And that's how the thought,

Of course it's you,

came so naturally when he was placed upon my stomach as there we lay tired, triumphant, and tethered.

Life's greatest mysteries come wrapped in an opposite.

For instance, I knew from the moment I learned I was pregnant that this child would be different: unique and special. And, yet, not above or below any other child in the world ... for all are unique and special, and come with their own set of gifts and virtues.

I also knew that giving birth, yet again, would be one of the most wonderful and unique moments in my life. And, yet, a passage through which we all entered this physical world.

For days, weeks rather, I anticipated going into labor. My body would work up to a pattern of intense contractions at 5 minutes apart for more than an hour and then would stop. I would realize over and over that it would not happen that day.

Sunday, June 29, was the last day I would have that realization. It came in the afternoon after a pattern of body-bending contractions stopped. I felt so ready and rested for the journey to come that I grew more excited as the pain increased. When the pain stopped I cried a sloppy air-gasping cry. I didn't feel another contraction for the rest of the afternoon or evening, and went to bed -- again -- not knowing when I would hold my newborn in my arms.

Thunder rolled in the distance. I fell asleep shortly after the rain started.

I awoke Monday, June 30, at 1:40 a.m. to a very intense pelvic-pounding contraction. I noticed that it was still raining. It was raining when Wesley was born, I thought. My water is going to break. It's breaking. Then I felt the warm water and went to the bathroom to see what happened. More came. I started to shake. I walked to the bed to wake Patrick.

"Patrick," I said through chattering teeth, "my water broke."

"What?" he asked as he got out of bed. "OK, let's call the midwife."

His action-oriented attitude comforted me. He knows it's real like I know it's real.

"Let's wait and see what happens," I said. "I want to at least have another contraction."

OK.

A moment later I was in a modified child's pose (yoga) rocking back and forth through a contraction. I got up to pack my toothbrush and other things. Five minutes later I dropped to the floor again. And then four minutes later ... and then again ... We called the midwife. She told us to come in when I felt like I wanted to be at the birth center. I hung up the phone and asked Patrick to call my sister.

"It's time," he told her. "This is it." She arrived 15 minutes later, by that time the contractions were three minutes apart. They were two minutes apart during the car ride to the birth center.

We arrived at the birth center and I dropped again in the lobby. My midwife came out and was surprised to see me since I forgot to call and tell her that we had decided to come. She went upstairs to get my chart. I had just enough time to get in my room (the only room left as the others had welcomed life just hours ago) before I dropped again.

The floors there were hard and cold. I wasn't comfortable. I climbed on the bed and tried the position there. My midwife returned and set up the birthing ball. I rocked back and forth through the two-minute contractions until I decided to move to the floor again. Patrick moved the birthing ball for me while the midwife set up some knee pads. She also handed Patrick a cup of massage lotion that eased my back labor.

I was well beyond not being able to talk through contractions so I spit out two-word requests/commands to Patrick letting him know where to apply pressure, where to massage, not to massage, not to touch me, etc. He responded to each one and I thanked God over and over for my husband.

I threw up.

"Would you like to move to the bath?" asked the midwife.

"Not yet," I replied. Two contractions later I asked for the bath. I had just enough time between contractions to change into my bathing suit and step into the tub.

Ahhhhhh the relief! I can't tell you how much better I felt as I could completely relax my body during contractions.

The midwife checked me and I was at 8 cm. She started to prepare for the birth.

"It's happening isn't it?" I asked in search of reassurance.

"Oh, it's happening. You are going to have that baby tonight."

Shortly thereafter I felt the urge to push.

"Slow it down," my midwife said. "There's no hurry. Just listen to your body and only push through contractions."

What? I thought. This was definitely different from the hospital birth, where the doctor counted to 10 as I pushed and then told me to take in another breath and bear down. I felt lost without the direction.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"Listen to your body," she said. "When a contraction starts take in two breaths and blow out, then bear down if your body tells you to."

OK, I thought.

I listened to my body. The contractions were coming like waves at that point, very short and organized, they lapped upon the shore ... and I listened. Sometimes I would bear down and sometimes I wouldn't, I'd lie there and let them lap over me, drawing me deeper and deeper away from my thoughts. Then my thoughts stopped and my body was leading ...

"Reach down and feel the head," someone said.

I reached down. What in the world is that?

"My baby." The words barely escaped my mouth as I was conserving most of my air for the next contraction.

I pushed. Nothing happened. I pushed again. Nothing happened.

"Let's get her to the bed," she said as she rubbed my leg. "Come on, honey."

I walked to the bed with a head partially emerged. I climbed up onto all fours. The baby switched positions and two pushes later he gushed out. Patrick eased me onto my back to receive the baby.

I held him close to my stomach, looked at him and thought, Of course it's you. I knew it would be you.

"That's it?" I asked everyone at 5:25 a.m. It seemed like a small price to pay for the life I held against my stomach.

I have come to the end of the story of Boden's birth, and yet it is just the beginning: Just the beginning of Boden's journey in this physical world, and my journey as his mother.

It is just the beginning of saying hello for the first time to a person I've known all my life.