She's Having Her Baby

by Lauren Sams

  I had been looking forward to the classes until I found out that they weren’t quite classes anymore, in the sense that you could hope to learn anything vaguely useful from them. All I knew about childbirth had been gleaned from Father of the Bride Part II, so I assumed I’d be sitting on a beanbag (perhaps next to Diane Keaton), learning to moan and exhale in exactly the correct manner. No – the classes were more like AA meetings now. You stated your name and how far gone you were, and then complained about it for the rest of the night. Still, given that complaining was fast becoming my favourite hobby, I didn’t mind setting aside two hours of my Sunday morning for it.

  I had left the registration up to Nina; the hospital ran all kinds of classes, each with its own birth ‘philosophy’, but Nina thought she’d gone with the safest of the lot: calm birth. What could be more natural or painless than a calm birth, she reasoned.

  ‘Natural’ it may have been, but painless, I was beginning to understand, it was not.

  The pregnant woman on the fitball was reaching the zenith of her performance, repeating ‘my body knows how’ so quickly that all the words were smashed together. It was her ‘birth mantra’, she’d explained. I tried to think quickly what my birth mantra could be. ‘What would Gwyneth do?’ was the closest I’d come. The woman’s eyes were closed tight and she had begun to sweat. Her face was red like my favourite nail polish. It was an incredibly intimate thing to witness; not least because it was, like I said, a performance. This being her second child, My Body Knows How wanted to let us in on a few ‘calm birthing’ techniques, one of which seemed to be bursting one’s facial capillaries.

  ‘And … that’s enough. Thanks so much, Oonagh,’ Jana, our calm-birth instructor chimed in. ‘Everyone, please thank Oonagh for taking us through that re-enactment of her first child’s birth. I think we have a sense now of what it’s like to have a child using the calm-birth method. Obviously, when it comes to pain relief, the choice is yours, but remember that your body is designed to do this. In fact, your body was designed with this specifically in mind. I think that deserves a round of applause,’ said Jana, looking at us expectantly. I looked at Nina. Were we about to give ourselves a clap for the Swedish furniture-style design of our bodies? I saw a few tentative hands begin to clap softly. Oh boy.

  Jana beamed. ‘Well done, everyone. Well, every woman. As I was saying, drugs are optional. You have the option of puncturing your spine to transmit an artificial form of pain relief into your bloodstream and dulling every sensation in your being, so that you won’t even be able to feel your baby as it travels to the world.’ Jana paused for effect. Then she smiled and continued, ‘Or you could complete your first act as a mother naturally and to the best of your potential.’ Another pause. ‘But either way is fine with us. Remember, this is not a competition!’ said Jana, lying to our faces. Was this woman for real? I knew that, when the time came (approximately thirty seconds after the first contraction) I’d be asking for the biggest dose of the most powerful drugs the hospital had. Why mess with modern medicine?

  It turned out there were plenty of reasons to mess with it.

  ‘I just know my body can do this,’ said one of our classmates. How?

  ‘Millions of women do this every year,’ another opined. With the help of drugs, of course.

  ‘Nobody had an epidural before the twentieth century, did they?’ And millions of women died in childbirth.

  ‘I want to know what it feels like as I become a mother.’ Please!

  And then, the real kicker: ‘I think it’s weak to take the drugs.’ Arrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhh.

  I nudged Nina. ‘I thought calm birth was the one where you took the drugs.’

  She shrugged. ‘Me too – I thought the “calm” bit meant you were relaxed because of the epidural.’

  It appeared that we were wrong. Crushingly so. As Jana took us through our ‘pain management options’, I felt a growing sense of dread. Mainly because they were absolute BS. How exactly would water relieve my pain? Or heat? I needed a heat pack when I had my period, and even then I added a couple of Nurofen to the mix for good measure. And don’t get me started on the ‘distraction method’. How could I break it to Jana that repeating my birth mantra like a Hare Krishna was not going to help me forget that I was pushing a human child out of a comparatively tiny, super-sensitive orifice in the centre of my body?

  I didn’t have a chance, because another woman had put her hand up. She had the most gorgeous shade of white-blonde hair and wore a pencil skirt with a loose silk blouse. She looked like that dragon woman from that show Fran had given me to watch, if that dragon woman had been an artisanal candle-maker. I was wearing the same striped maternity dress I’d been wearing for weeks, kidding myself that I looked like a chic Parisian if I added my Repetto flats. Now, however, my feet were too swollen for closed-in shoes, so I had to wear my Havaianas. Not quite the look I was going for.

  ‘Excuse me, Jana, I had a question about when to come to the hospital. Is it when the contractions start or when they’re a few minutes apart?’ asked White-Blonde.

  ‘Great question. We really like you to stay at home as long as it’s safe to do so – you’ll be more comfortable in your own surrounds. Call us as soon as you go into labour, so we know what’s going on, but we don’t like you to come in until your contractions are at least five minutes apart.’

  White-Blonde nodded and jotted this down on the Smythson notebook she’d whipped out of her handbag. Kate Spade, FYI. This chick was a walking, talking Preppy Handbook.

  ‘Uh-huh, OK. One more thing – I’ve heard that your birth partner should ideally be two to three years older than you. My husband is actually seven years older than me, so I wondered how that will affect the birth?’

  Jana raised her never-been-plucked eyebrows. With her brown peasant skirt and loose pink kaftan, she looked like she’d stepped out of a Body Shop catalogue from 1989. ‘I’ve never heard that before. Where did you get that information?’

  White-Blonde glanced down at her notes. ‘Ah, it’s from a study from the University of Southern California. Dated 2009.’

  ‘Oh … well, I’m sure that’s just based on very generic averages – not specific cases. Your husband – or partner,’ she added swiftly, looking pointedly at Nina and I, probably imagining we were lesbians, ‘is the best person to have with you as you witness this profound miracle. OK, moving on –’

  ‘Oh, just one more thing,’ White Blonde chimed in. ‘My yoga teacher told me that it’s best not to wash after the birth because your baby has a really strong sense of smell, and that’s how the baby gets to know you. She said that if you use soap or wear perfume, your baby won’t know who you are, so you won’t form a bond with them. How long should I wait before having a shower?’

  This was too much hippie BS even for Jana, who was wearing an anklet, for Christ’s sake; she could barely hide her disgust. ‘Well, after the birth women generally like to shower as soon as they’re able to. Remember, it’s like running a marathon. Naked. Through a river of blood. You’ll be sweaty and tired and most likely you’ll have some bodily fluids on you. You’ll probably want to have a shower, and that’s perfectly fine. I can assure you, it won’t affect your bond with your baby. That runs a lot deeper than smell, let me tell you.’

  White-Blonde looked unconvinced. ‘Well, I trust my yoga teacher.’

  ‘Alright, that’s up to you. Now, does anyone have –’

  ‘Sorry, just one more thing,’ said White-Blonde. Bloody hell.

  ‘Ah, is this a general question, or something we can speak about after class?’ asked Jana.

  ‘General. Just with breastfeeding –’

  ‘Ah, breastfeeding. Yes, we’re going to cover latching on and baby-led feeding in week three –’

  ‘Right. So I just have a question, because time is running out and I need to know – how do I toughen up my nipples for feeding? My mum told me I should be using steel wool on them. How many times a day?’

&nbs
p; Even Jana could not pretend to be diplomatic in the face of such nipple-torturing nonsense. She shook her head violently.

  ‘No, no, please do not use steel wool on your nipples. That’s an old wives’ tale. You could cut yourself and get an infection. Breastfeeding should not be painful, so you don’t need to toughen your nipples. You’ll be fine.’ She drew a deep breath and, I assumed, mentally added another finger to the glass of neat whisky she’d be pouring as soon as she finished with us. ‘Now, back to calm birth. Once you’re in your hospital room, we will offer you some pain relief. This could be as simple as a heat pack or as serious as an ibuprofen.’ Jana said ‘ibuprofen’ as if she really meant heroin. I was quickly learning that if you were serious about having a baby in Sydney’s inner west, you’d better do it with as little modern medicine had to offer as possible.

  ‘One of the things we do recommend, to prevent too much tearing –’ said Jana, as if any amount of tearing was OK, ‘– is perineal massage.’

  Ooh, massage. That sounded good.

  ‘It’s a very easy way to stretch the perineum to make sure that it’s ready to receive your baby. All you have to do is sit with your legs wide open, and, using some lubricant,’ here, Jana stopped to pointedly glance at Nina and I, ‘gently but firmly insert both thumbs into your vagina and press down towards the rectum until you feel some tingling. Do that every day for a few minutes and you’ll definitely see the benefits. Using this method, only about 70 per cent of women need episiotomies.’

  Sticking my thumbs into my already swollen vag for a bit of a poke around for a lousy 30 per cent chance I won’t need stitches, which I won’t even feel, because I am definitely having the beautiful epidural? No effing way.

  ‘And,’ Jana continued, ‘the added bonus is that many women begin to really enjoy the massage. Some of them even get their partners involved.’ Jana raised an eyebrow and smirked in a strangely coy way right at Neen and I. Yep, she definitely thought we were lezzies.

  White-Blonde was nodding along. ‘I’ve already started my massage,’ she said, like the little calm-birth teacher’s pet she was. Of course you have.

  ‘Fantastic!’ said Jana, clapping her hands together for her star pupil. If this was what it took to be a good mother in 2015, I was royally screwed.

  Given my new life philosophy was ‘just say it’, I put my hand up.

  ‘Uh, can we talk about the epidural again, please?’

  Jana sighed, raising a brow. ‘What would you like to know?’

  How soon can I get one? Do I have to wait until I’m in labour? Because honestly, my back hurts like hell and my legs are carrying twenty extra kilos and I have so much fluid retention that I’m officially drought-resistant.

  ‘Well … honestly – when can I ask for one?’

  Now both eyebrows were raised. Jana sighed. ‘Typically, we like to ask mothers to wait until they’re at least eight centimetres dilated. But of course, if you have an epidural, we won’t be able to assist you in the Calm Birth Centre. You know that, yes?’

  I looked at Nina. She shrugged. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘At the Calm Birth Centre, we offer drug-free, natural births. Aren’t you in this class because you want a calm birth?’

  ‘I can’t get drugs?’

  ‘We encourage natural childbirth.’

  ‘So I can’t get drugs?’

  ‘Well, like I said, we do encourage natural childbirth.’ Jana was staring me down like a Real Housewife who was just about to throw wine in my face.

  ‘Uh-huh. But … let’s say I started the whole … you know, labour thing and then it got a bit too much … Would it be possible for me to get an epidural?’ I stared right back. Throw your mental chardonnay right in my face, Jana. Do your worst. I’m about to poo a human; I can deal with you.

  ‘Well, technically, yes, but –’

  ‘Great, that’s all I need to know. Thank you.’

  Jana’s mouth was set in a thin, wide line. She looked the way Meg did when her assistant accidentally ordered her a full-fat latte.

  ‘May I ask, Georgie, why you have enrolled in a calm-birth course when you intend to give birth artificially?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Do you intend to even try to have a natural birth experience?’

  ‘Uh, not really.’

  ‘And why is that?’ she asked, lips pursed. I was starting to wonder if Jana did a side trade in being a scary headmistress at a Victorian boarding school or something.

  ‘Well, as a reasonably intelligent person who understands roughly how these things work, I don’t really expect to be able to. I mean, let’s face it: it’s going to hurt like buggery, right? How can it not? You’ve got a human coming out of another human. I cry when I get headaches. I called my doctor once because I broke a cuticle. I have no doubt I’m going to be calling for drugs when I try to squeeze this baby’s bony shoulders out my jacksie.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jana, her features pinching in the middle. ‘That is one perspective, of course. We hope that what you get out of these classes is simply the knowledge that you have options. The chance to think about how you’d like your baby’s birth to happen. That’s all.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re trying to frighten people into giving birth without pain relief, and I think that’s irresponsible,’ said Nina, piping up next to me.

  I mentally fist-pumped.

  Jana’s eyes sharpened. ‘Perhaps you would be better suited to a different class,’ she suggested.

  ‘Perhaps we would,’ I said, and we both stood up. Kicked out of birth class – calm-birth class, at that. So rock’n’roll. I hoped Nina wasn’t about to call Jana a cunt, though. That would probably be stretching things a bit too far.

  As we walked out the door and down the hospital corridor, past the bay of empty cots waiting for babies to fill them, past the never-ending bottles of hand sanitiser, we let ourselves erupt with laughter.

  ‘Is Jana for real? Like, is she a real person? She sounded like a robot created by the hospital to save money on epidurals and brainwash us all about the evils of pain relief,’ said Nina.

  She started moving her limbs like a robot and speaking in a staccato, mechanic voice. ‘I – am – Jana. Do – not – have – an – epidural – or – your – baby – will – grow – up – knowing – you – didn’t – love – them – enough.’

  ‘I think she is a robot,’ I said. ‘Epidurals – are – for – the – very – weakest – in – our – society. Show – your – love – for – your – child – by – nearly – killing – yourself.’

  ‘My mum once complained that the woman in the room next door to her when she was having me was too loud,’ said Nina. I stopped acting like Jana the Robot. Nina almost never talked about her mum, and certainly not in this casual here’s-an-anecdote-you-don’t-know way.

  ‘What, like when the woman was in labour?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Nina said, with a snort. ‘Can you imagine? My mum was so quiet that she could hear the woman in the next room over. Don’t you think that’s weird? I think about that every time I stub my toe on the bathtub and practically have to take a day off work to recover.’

  I laughed. ‘I know. It’s going to hurt like hell, isn’t it? Worse than the leg wax?’

  Nina nodded. ‘Better you than me,’ she said. I had tried to deflect as much of Nina’s self-deprecation as possible, but it was getting harder and harder when I knew that, on the surface Nina might be poking fun at herself but deep down she was really making sure I remembered that she was heartbroken. Like I could forget.

  I had asked Nina to wax my legs the week before. I couldn’t handle going to a salon and enduring their unique brand of small talk. If I’d hated small talk pre-pregnancy, I positively loathed it now. Everyone with whom you come in contact when you’re pregnant has either been pregnant themselves or knows someone who has. Ergo, they are Experts. If I heard one more sentence that started with, ‘Did you know …’, I swore, I would throw
the contents of my amniotic sac in their face.

  So Nina had waxed my legs for me. Well, she ripped off exactly two strips of wax, along with a significant amount of hair, before I screamed and told her I couldn’t handle it anymore. I wonder what Jana would have done about that. She probably would have found me a waxing doula to help me through the pain.

  ‘Listen, are you OK with this? You don’t have to come with me, you know,’ I said.

  ‘What? Are you kidding? Of course I’m going to be there.’

  ‘Yeah, but … you don’t have to. If it feels too weird. I mean … does it feel weird?’

  Nina smirked. ‘Yeah,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘But soon it will be normal. It’s OK.’

  ‘Mmm. OK. How’s the … group?’

  Since she’d separated from Matt, Nina had been going to an infertility support group. All the members were women who had decided to end their fertility attempts, or at least put them on hold.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Are they nice?’

  Nina nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I don’t think I’d be friends with them outside the group, but, you know, they’re OK. It’s nice to know that I’m not giving up. Even though I really feel like I’m giving up.’

  ‘You’re not giving up. That’s not the right way to put it.’

  ‘What’s the right way to put it, then?’

  ‘You’re … exploring other options.’

  She nodded, blinking back tears. ‘I just never imagined my life like this.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, linking my arm through hers and settling my head on her shoulder. ‘I never imagined mine like this, either.’

  Nina grimaced. ‘Please don’t say things like that to me, George. It makes it harder. I’m barely hanging on as it is.’

  ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘I know. I know. And I know I have to block out the things that people say sometimes, it’s not helpful to –’

  ‘No, no. I’m not “people”. You shouldn’t have to block out what I say. You should be able to tell me when I upset you. Please tell me, and I’ll stop.’