When my editor first reached out to me with the idea of describing my drug-free childbirth, I was so close to turning her down. That’s because, honestly, it was painful beyond belief…but it’s also a decision I fully stand behind. And since women who opt out of meds are a minority, I didn’t want my story to scare away anyone who might be considering that route. I eventually changed my mind because I believe that one of the most powerful ways to prepare for labor is to hear other women’s stories and understand the full breadth of what might conceivably happen so that you can go into it with your eyes open.
Although I support every woman doing what’s best for her during labor, going au naturel was never much of a question for me. (After all, I use a neti pot instead of taking over-the-counter cold medicine and dab on lavender oil to relieve headaches rather than popping Advil.) I also wanted to be fully present for every moment of birth—the good and the bad.
So with that goal in mind, in my typical type-A approach, I began preparing soon after I found out I was pregnant. I did yoga daily, emphasizing labor-friendly poses like squats and cat-cow. My husband Sam and I went to childbirth classes, where we learned massage techniques and practiced pain coping strategies like meditation and vocalization. I made a mandala with a snapshot of my ultrasound to keep me centered during labor and religiously did kegels at every red light and commercial break.
After all that, I felt ready. I felt fearless. I felt up for the challenge. But oh my god, I had completely underestimated the tsunami in store for me.
I had a clenching sensation in my stomach, like someone wringing out a dishcloth. The contractions continued intermittently throughout the day, a sunny Sunday in August. Sam and I went hiking, watched the antique car parade in our little Vermont town, and snacked on paninis and milkshakes at the local malt shop.
I knew it would be smart to get some sleep, so I went to bed early. But as soon as I lay down, the contractions quickened and the pain intensified. I began to feel an inescapable sense of discomfort, the pain covering me like a heavy cloak that I couldn’t crawl out of.
Sam started timing the contractions and called our doula (basically, a birthing coach who focuses on the mother’s wellbeing). As soon as she arrived at our house, we headed to the birthing center. My doula warned me that the car ride would be hard and handed me a contraption made of two tennis balls taped together to put behind my lower back to relieve pressure, as well as a plastic comb, instructing me to press it into my palm as a way to redirect my mind away from the pain. She also had me tap rhythmically on the car dashboard, repeating “Oooh, oooh, aaaaaah” whenever a contraction came along.
After an endlessly long half hour (including getting stopped by the police for speeding—Sam was psyched to be able to triumphantly exclaim, “My wife is having a baby!”), we arrived.
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Shortly After We Were Ushered Into Our Room, I Ceased Being a Person
I transformed into a vessel of searing white-hot pain. This is kind of hard to explain, but I was beyond the point of feeling pain because it was so all-encompassing that I had become the pain.
When I think about the next 10 hours, a series of flashbacks reel through my mind like an unreal dream sequence: Lying on my side with a peanut-shaped exercise ball between my knees. Climbing into the whirlpool tub with Sam, who helped me into a squatting position for each contraction, then let me rest in his arms in between. Taking tiny sips of chilled ginger ale and cranberry juice so that I wouldn’t throw up. Standing excruciatingly still while the nurse measured the baby’s heartbeat, my hands on her warm, enviably relaxed shoulders. Sitting backwards on the toilet (a trick my midwife suggested to help speed things along), howling and pounding my hands against the cool tile wall as I went through transition (the most intense part of labor, when the baby descends into the pelvis).
I Had Lost So Much Blood That I Could Barely Sit Up for Days
I was on bed rest for weeks post-delivery, feeling as pale and spent as a shell. It was months before I was back to my normal level of activity, and truthfully, my fragmented body will probably never be completely the same. I was elated to be a mother and deeply in love with my little boy, Theo, but I also felt an undercurrent of disappointment. I’d worked so hard to get my mind and body ready, yet despite all my efforts, labor had been traumatic.
I wanted to find out whether my experience was typical for childbirth sans epidural and what, if anything, I should have done differently. So I called up Pam England, a childbirth mentor and instructor, “birth story listener,” former nurse-midwife, and author of the forthcoming book, An Ancient Map for Modern Birth. (She also wrote Birthing from Within, a guide for parents-to-be that became my bible in the months leading up to Theo’s birth.)
A few of the contributors she talked about hit home for me. For one, Theo was posterior (positioned face-up in the uterus instead of face-down), which meant that before emerging, he had to spin around. (Just picture someone doing gymnastics inside your stomach.) The back of his head was pressed into the base of my spine, creating intense lower back cramps in addition to the regular aches of labor.
The length of childbirth was another trigger: 36 hours, including four grueling hours of pushing. “A long labor can increase stress hormones and throw pain into a tailspin,” says England.
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Ironically, my confident mindset may also have done me in. While I certainly wasn’t expecting it to be like a relaxing day at the spa, I wasn’t worried. I have a naturally high pain threshold and was sure that I could handle whatever landed in my path because I had done all the right things to prepare. “It’s like school: There is this idea that if you study really hard and do the extra assignments, you’ll get an A and graduate with honors,” explains England. “For some people, that formula works; for others it doesn’t—they have a different kind of knowledge or creativity.” England adds that women who don’t carry high expectations about having an easy childbirth and who anticipate it to be incredibly painful may feel less agony simply because they aren’t shocked by it. (That’s also why moms tend to report having an easier go the second time around; even though birthing baby number two may be just as demanding, at least you know what you’re getting into.)
Fortunately, I’d had a lovely pregnancy. Aside from dwindling wardrobe options and substituting lemonade for red wine, having a bun in the oven barely affected my lifestyle. I hoped childbirth would follow the same smooth course, and my overall attitude was one of curious anticipation to find out what this wild process was all about. But England says that those of us who project that labor will be beautiful or calm or uncomfortable without being too painful may be caught off guard by the fierce reality and as a result, may have a more trying experience. “There is no such thing as a perfect birth that goes the way you wanted it to,” she says.
England explains that getting ready for labor is kind of like gearing up for a big hiking trip: “You pack a first aid kit and bear spray and come up with a plan for how to deal if it rains or snows," she says. "Then, you hope the weather will be gorgeous and everything will work out. Similarly, women need to prepare for the unexpected. Understand that there will almost always be a surprise and that whatever it is, you will find a way to negotiate it. That may require drugs or a cesarean or saying no when you are normally a polite person—and it always requires self love and humility.”
So, the Big Question
If I were to have another kid, would I skip the epidural again? It may sound crazy, but yes. (I might, however, consider sterile water injections in my lower back, a chemical-free way to alleviate pain.) In the end, my labor was so arduous that drugs would have worn off anyway, and there quickly came a point where the pain didn’t even matter anymore because I was on another planet.
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Molly Triffin is a freelance writer living in Vermont.
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