The Birth of Borealis: Part II

or, “Literally Just the Journey of Leaving My House”

[Author’s Note #1: The events relayed herein immediately follow those described in The Birth of Borealis: Part I. The following story won’t make much sense if you don’t have a vague idea of the first post’s contents and/or ending.] 

[Author’s Note #2: This is an extremely graphic and intimate story! Like, the never-make-eye-contact-with-Holly-again kind of graphic and intimate!]

[Author’s Note #3: Like its preceding counterpart, this is a very long post! As in, so long that you might alternatively consider reading the bare-bones version in The Birth of Borealis: The Executive Summary.] 

Act III: February 15th — 10:02pm to 10:23pm (ish)

So there I was: a virtual swamp monster of rags, my almost-one-minute-old son clutched to my chest and my amniotic-fluid-soaked underwear discarded in a corner. After depleting the stock of rags in the bathroom, Anika turned to Assistant Midwife Taylor and demanded, “Don’t you have any more towels!?” 

My husband dashed into the hall — presumably to procure a bed sheet, since I was fairly certain that every towel we owned was already either on my body or in the washing machine. 

As Taylor departed, Anika turned back to me and shook her head. “Dang. You are such a bad***.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. 

“Anika, I just had my baby in — no wait, *on* — a toilet that I still share with my college housemates. Two days ago, I cleaned poop out of the bowl and it wasn’t my poop or Taylor’s. I am literally the furtherest thing from a bad*** right now.” 

Assistant Midwife Taylor reappeared with more towels, which, for all I knew, he had self-generated from thin air. Anika immediately wrapped the cloths around me and the baby, who still felt a bit cool and clammy against my skin. [Note: A rapid decline in temperature is extremely normal — though still potentially dangerous — for just-birthed babies.] I hoped that the towels — combined with my body heat — would warm up my Borealis quickly. His initially deafening cries were starting to peter out into sweet infantile murmurs, so I hoped that I wasn’t the only one enjoying our skin-to-skin time. 

Returning to our conversation, Anika bluntly stated, “You birthed and caught your own baby, completely alone. I have been a midwife for years, and I don’t know anyone else who’s done that.” And with that, she began to blot the baby’s head dry.

I opened my mouth to argue that any woman in my no-win situation would have done the same thing — I mean, it’s not like I intentionally had free birth on my agenda for the evening — but I realized that this line of contention was probably not productive at the moment. Plus, Anika had already moved on to the next topic of discussion. 

“Dang, I really need a stethoscope,” she lamented. “I can’t complete the Apgar assessment without one, and I really shouldn’t have you move until I do that.” 

[Note: I didn’t know what the Apgar score was at the time, so for all of you equally-ignorant readers out there: this metric roughly gauges a newborn’s health through the assessment of his skin color, heart rate, reflexes, muscle tone, and respiration. It is supposed to be assessed twice: one minute and five minutes after birth. We were still within what rounded to one minute of birth, but without a stethoscope, Anika’s heart rate assessment basically amounted to a very educated guess.]

The midwife glanced around the bathroom as though she had brought more than just herself and her cell phone. [Note: She hadn’t.] Taylor and I conveniently forgot that we actually own a stethoscope — one that was, at that very moment, actually within reach of where I was sitting.

Anika gave up on conjuring the device and instead relented, “Ok, I’ll just have to call my boyfriend to bring me one.” Then, looking down at her iPhone, she snapped out, “Dang it! My battery is at 5%!”

“Wait, what?” I asked incredulously. 

She looked up sheepishly. “Well, I had it plugged in, but this whole situation arose rather suddenly.” She paused, then continued, “Actually, I was worried that it was going to die as I ran here.”

“Um, oh. Yeah, I was actually talking about your boyfriend,” I mumbled through my post-birth brain fog. 

Understanding dawned on Anika’s face. “Oh! Don’t worry, he’s a nurse, too. And he only lives about five minutes away.” She cleared her throat and added, “Actually, it’s his house that I moved to today.”

“Oh,” I responded lamely. I figured this wasn’t the best time to bring up my conservative views on sex before marriage. And anyway, Anika was already speaking into her phone. 

“Hey, yeah, so she did have the baby,” she announced without preamble. “And I don’t have a stethoscope. Can you bring me one?”

<pause>

<in an aside to me> “What’s your address again?”

I relayed my address for the second time that night — but this time, the accompanying grunts were from Borealis, not from me.

“Great! I’ll see you soon.” 

She hung up, and I found myself fervently hoping that her boyfriend, at least, had parked in a garage (and thus avoided the ice storm). I was getting pretty tired of sitting in this bathroom.

But, my frustration was curtailed by a more pressing matter. 

“Babe! You have to call my mom!” 

Taylor: <grunts in confirmation> 

He pressed a few buttons on his phone (which, coincidentally, was actually a hand-me-down iPhone from my mother). This time, I could only hear his half of the conversation. 

“Hi Michelle, I‘m just calling to let you know that Holly had the baby.”

<pause>

“Yes, they’re both healthy — at least, from what we can tell.”

<pause> 

“Um…”

Putting his massive hand over the receiver, he asked, “Should I tell them to come here?”

I looked at Anika helplessly. 

“I think we’ll be here for probably the next twenty minutes,” she guessed. “How far away are they?”

“How far away is your hotel?” Taylor repeated into his phone.

<pause>

“And Aunt Francis is with you?” 

<pause>

“Ok, then I think you guys can come here if you leave right now,” he concluded. “Hopefully, by the time you get here, we’ll know what the plan is.” 

He hung up and went back to hovering. 

I was comforted knowing that my family was on their way, but we still had a lot to accomplish before they arrived. 

---

First things first.

“The placenta — I need to birth it,” I panted. It had been about two minutes since I had delivered my son and ten seconds since my husband had ended his call. 

“You feel like you have to birth the placenta?” Anika clarified. 

I thought for a second. Taking a brief inventory of my bodily feels, I was pretty sure that the placenta wasn’t on its way quite yet, which I hoped meant that I would be prepared by the time it did arrive. 

In other news, I was fricking exhausted. I could tell that I was running on mere adrenaline and willpower at this point, and those were already fading fast. I managed to shake my head and answer, “No, like how do I birth the placenta?”

“Oh! Wait for the next contraction and then bear down.”

Which is what I did, only a few dozen seconds later. After a single push, the placenta slid out of my body and into the toilet from which my son had so narrowly escaped. Its exodus was accompanied by a loud plop!, a gentle splash, and a gush of blood. I suddenly felt faint — for more than one reason. 

“Ewwww,” I groaned. My two midwives eagerly knelt to analyze the murder scene below me. Amazingly, the pool of pee, poop, amniotic fluid, blood, and placenta seemed to have no effect on either of them. On the other hand, *I* wanted to take my baby and teleport to the moon. Thankfully, at least, cuddled-up Borealis blocked my direct view of the biological mess. 

“Uh-oh,” Anika muttered. Not usually what you want to hear from your midwife. 

“What!?” my husband and I demanded. Taylor stood up to give Anika more room. 

The midwife leaned closer to the amniotic muck and said, “Hmm.”

“‘Hmm’!? What does ‘hmm’ mean!?” I practically shouted. 

Anika rocked back on her heels. “Well, you seem to have some trailing membranes.”

I was certain that we had never covered this topic in birthing class. “So… what does that mean?”

Anika sighed. “It’s when part of the amniotic sac splits off during the birth of the placenta. Like for you, part of the sac is caught in the exit of your birth canal. Obviously, I can remove the part that I see, but that might not be all of the pieces. The problem is, if fragments of membrane remain in your uterus, they can lead to an infection, fever, heavy bleeding, etc. So, basically, we need to get the membrane out completely, as soon as possible… and you’ll probably need to have someone check your birth canal for any recalcitrant fragments.”

“Super,” I deadpanned. 

“I really need gloves for this,” Anika hedged.

This was the cue for Assistant Midwife Taylor, who had been uselessly hovering again. “We have latex gloves!” he interjected excitedly. “Wait — are you allergic to latex?”

“Thankfully not,” Anika laughed. “But we also need to get this placenta out of the toilet so that we can move this operation to the bed. I can’t really give Holly an exam while she’s sitting here. Do you have something that you can, like, scoop this out with?” 

Taylor flashed a deer-in-headlines grimace at Anika. It appeared that my husband didn’t want to engineer under pressure. So, I bailed him out.

“Babe, grab the ten-cup Pyrex.”

Still deer-in-headlights. 

“The one with the handle, that you always put the Thai tea in?”

“Oh! Yeah, I even know where that is!” Which was good, because I wasn’t sure that I did.

“And grab a Ziploc bag too!” Anika commanded as he rose to leave. 

Taylor: <grunts in assent> 

About ten seconds later, I heard Trent stammer, “Congrats, dad!”

[Note: It wasn’t until several days later that I heard what transpired thereafter.] 

Stone-cold as ever, Taylor nodded in acknowledgement, then retrieved the box of gloves, a gallon-size Ziploc, and the aforementioned Pyrex. Seeing this, Samara guessed, “Is that a placenta bowl?”

Taylor: <grunts in the affirmative>

Trent shudder and accurately predicted, “Well, we’re never going to look at that bowl the same way again.”

My husband reappeared in the bathroom and handed Anika the box of gloves. She snapped on a pair and deftly removed the membrane fragment that was still protruding from my body. I squirmed a bit at the uncomfortably intimate process. 

“Ok, we’ll just have to wait until later to see if that piece was the last of the amniotic sac,” Anika concluded. 

Assistant Midwife Taylor handed Anika the Pyrex. I scooted back on the seat as much as I could, and Anika deftly scooped the placenta out of the toilet and into the glass bowl. I thought I might faint. 

So, let’s pause from our story for a moment in order to discuss the placenta. (Trust me. My reaction here makes basically no sense without a cursory understanding of this organ.)

The placenta is truly fascinating. Comprised of both maternal and fetal tissue, this slab-like sack is connected to the baby via a fibrous vein-and-artery complex (i.e. the umbilical cord), and it functions as the fetal lungs, liver, and intestines (among other things). The placenta is the site of nutrient- and waste-exchange: the umbilical cord brings Baby’s blood to the placenta, where waste and carbon dioxide diffuse into Mommy’s blood, and nutrients and oxygen diffuse out of Mommy’s blood. The umbilical cord then brings the nutrient-rich blood back to Baby. 

Most interestingly, this is a temporary organ with a definite shelf life. The placenta starts to develop upon blastocyst implantation, which nominally occurs at “3 weeks pregnant”. If all goes well, this organ serves faithfully for the lifetime of a normal pregnancy. However, the functionality of even a healthy placenta starts to decline around 40 weeks, and nowadays, essentially no doctor will allow a pregnancy to go beyond 42 weeks (for numerous reasons, including placental degradation). This means that even the most long-lived placenta only lasts about 39 weeks (from “3 weeks pregnant” to “42 weeks pregnant”).

At the end of those 39 weeks (or, for me, ~35 weeks), there’s a weird point in time where the baby is out in the world, but his placenta isn’t. This is how water births are possible. While the placenta is still connected to Mommy, nutrients (including oxygen) continue flowing to Baby through the umbilical cord. 

[Note: This is *also* why waiting for Baby’s first breath is terrifying. The transition from breathing via the placenta to breathing via lungs is a harrowing and not risk-free process. Here is a really informative article about the changes that occur in a newborn at birth, assuming nothing goes wrong.]

During a typical vaginal birth, the placenta is delivered several minutes to several dozen minutes after the baby is born. But, the word “delivery” makes this event sound much gentler and prettier than it actually is. This “third stage of labor” is the painful, somewhat violent expulsion of an organ from its place in the uterine wall and out into the cold, cruel world. Now, obviously, this is a natural, intentional phenomenon, so the placenta tears off with remarkably clean cleavage — but it’s still, like, the sudden removal of an organ from the body. It hurts, and it’s really messy. It leaves a gaping wound inside of the uterus, and it’s not like you can put a bandaid over the damage. In fact, it is this wound that causes weeks of postpartum bleeding (which really felt like retribution for all the periods I missed during pregnancy). 

Anyway. Cognitively, I knew all of this. But it wasn’t until I saw my bloody placenta that the reality of this grisly process really hit me. 

I’m serious! Of all the scary/painful/intense things that I experienced during and after Bo’s birth, easily the worst was the lurid image of my placenta being “from [my] womb untimely ripped” (Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 8, Lines 16-17). This horror was a combination of gore and nakedness — two things that I hate. To think that the sack of blood and flesh now resting in our Pyrex had been a part of my body just minutes ago — and now, it was dead. Dead!

[Note: If you read this assessment and conclude that I was / still am overreacting, then I invite you to give birth and experience the accompanying torrent of hormones and emotions. I am confident that your pressure points would be as strange as mine.]

Anika had transferred my placenta into the Ziploc and was now sealing the bag shut — at least, as shut as it would go with the umbilical cord sticking out of it. As I watched her work, a violent shudder racked my body, and Anika looked up. 

“Hey, hey,” she soothed when she saw my tears. “It’s ok. You are going to be fine, and the baby is going to be fine, and everything is going to be. Just. Fine.” 

This speech, though a bit glib, nonetheless served to console me. I gave one last wavering sob, and Borealis echoed my cry. Taylor gave us both reassuring pats on our backs. 

Anika grimaced in sympathy, then tucked the bag o’ placenta next to Bo and muttered, “Um, I’m just going to put that there for now.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I definitely didn’t want to cut the umbilical cord yet. I am an avid supporter of delayed cord cutting, which allows for more of the baby’s blood to return from the placenta to the newborn. [Note: Delayed cord cutting has many proponents, including Erasmus Darwin (1801). I strongly urge you to further research the topic if you ever intend on giving birth.]

Anyway. I wasn’t certain whether or not the umbilical cord had stopped pulsing yet, but I definitely wanted to err on the conservative side. However, while I may not have wanted to dispose of the placenta at this point, I also wasn’t quite sure that I wanted to cuddle up to it, either. 

But before I could sort out all my feels, a strange man suddenly appeared in the bathroom doorway. Like Anika, he was young (mid- to late-twenties), good-looking, and below average height. Unlike Anika, he had a few days’ of stubble along his jawline. I could see how they would make an attractive couple under normal circumstances. 

But, at the time, the only adjective that described Anika’s boyfriend was “petrified”. He froze as soon as we made eye contact — me, sitting mostly-naked on the porcelain throne; him, still loosely holding the stethoscope he had brought. 

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Hi!”

He didn’t respond, and he also didn’t break eye contact as he handed the instrument to Anika. 

“Thank you!” she effused, and a rare smile lit up her face. “Also, I don’t think I’ll be back tonight…” she trailed off. 

Mr. Boyfriend finally broke off our staring contest and looked at Anika. “Um, no worries, I’ll see you when I see you. Good luck and be safe, ok?”

And then he left — just as suddenly as he had come. He was the first of many strangers that night to see me nude or semi-nude.

Instantly back to business, Anika used the stethoscope to measure the baby’s heartbeat and then tallied up an Apgar score. (Well, really more of a suggestion than a score at that point.) 

Moving the stethoscope down to her neck, Anika announced, “So now that we’ve established that the baby is in a stable condition, I need to do something that you won’t like.”

“Oh man, Anika, not the fundal massage,” I moaned. 

“Unfortunately, yes, the fundal massage,” she confirmed. 

I groaned in response and preemptively shifted my armful of baby, etc. to one side so that she could reach my stomach.

A fundal massage is not nearly as delightful as it sounds. While some variations exist, the “massage” method that Anika used is fairly common: she cupped one hand beneath the bottom of my flabby, post-birth belly (right above my pubic bone) and put the other at the top of my uterus (the fundus). Then, she squeezed her hands together like she was trying to shrink my uterus by strength of will alone. 

Here’s the thing — it worked. There’s a reason doctors and midwives employ this technique. Fundal massages are highly effective at compelling the uterus to contract and shrink, which dramatically reduces the risk of hemorrhaging. Unfortunately, they’re also highly effective at making new mothers cry. 

The contraction felt like a birth contraction — that is, similar to a really bad menstrual cramp. And like a menstrual cramp, this contraction was accompanied by a gush of blood that made me certain that I was going to pass out. 

“Oh my gosh Anika, I’m gonna die,” I panted. 

Somewhat incongruously, she assured me, “That went really well. Your uterus has shrunk and tightened up, which is good. You can’t feel it right now, with your hands full, but I’ll point it out to you later, since we’ll have to do this again a few more times tonight.”

“Uggggggh. More? Haven’t I been through enough already?”

Anika peered at me quizzically. “Um, yes, you have been through a lot. Which is why this should be no problem for you.”

I couldn’t argue with that in my semi-lucid state. 

Moving on, Anika huffed, “Ok, it’s finally time to get you to that bed. Can you walk?” 

I did a trial flex of my walking parts. “I think so?”

“And can you hold the baby, or do you need Taylor to take him?” My husband held out his arms. 

“NO!” I screeched. Then, realizing how that probably came across to my one-and-only, I took a deep breath and tried again. “No, I’ve got him. He’s already bundled up against my skin. I won’t drop him in the five-yard walk to the bed. But will you go grab me a fresh pad and panties?” 

Assistant Midwife Taylor quickly complied — retrieving some underwear, securing a pad, and helping me slip on the combination. Then, with the help of my two midwives, I rose to my feet and took my first steps since Borealis had entered the world. 

---

It had been less than ten minutes since my accidental home birth, and my body was definitely feeling the trauma. Every step was shaking and uncertain, and my whole focus was directed toward keeping hold of my precious cargo. 

As I lurched drunkenly out of my birthing room and into the hall, Samara poked her head around the corner and asked, “Hey, do you want me to clean up the bathroom for you?” 

“Only if you want to use it in the near future,” I replied honestly. There was another bathroom in the basement, so Samara and the boys technically wouldn’t have to use the birthing bathroom before Taylor and I got the chance to clean it up — a task I wasn’t looking forward to. 

Samara’s face disappeared back into the kitchen, and as I reached my room, I was sure I heard her rustling around in the cleaning cabinet. A tired smile split my face. What is a maid-of-honor for, after all, if not to clean up after her bride’s accidental home birth? 

Anika opened the door for me, and I finally returned to the bed where I had done the lion’s share of my labor. I awkwardly shuffled around in a circle and rearranged my towel-baby-placenta armful. But, as I made to flop down on the bed, Assistant Midwife Taylor yelled, “No, wait!” 

I paused mid-flop. My husband produced another two towels from nowhere and laid them atop the comforter to protect it from, well, me. 

“Ok, go ahead,” he told me. 

I resumed my flop, finally repositioning myself across the mattress, with my pelvis at the bed’s edge. 

“Anika, you can plug in your phone right there,” I slurred, gesturing to my iPhone charger. 

Anika glanced at the outlet and assured me, “Thank you, I’ll be sure to do that.” [Note: She was not sure to do that.] “Really, my biggest concern is checking to see how bad you’ve torn.”

“Yippee,” I whispered. 

On the list of things that I don’t like happening to my body, “tearing” ranks up there pretty highly — especially if those tears are “down there”. Unfortunately, however, perineal tears are extremely common during the birthing process (especially for first-time moms). This type of injury occur when a baby’s head is too large for the hole through which it needs to egress. When this happens, the baby’s head creates a more-accommodating exit — by tearing the flesh surrounding the original hole. 

In a “perfect” birth situation, this situation doesn’t occur. A newborn’s skull is equipped with two fontanelles (soft spots) that allow the baby’s head to mold to the birth canal as he’s being born. But if/when the baby’s head can’t squish any further — RIP! — mom’s body is the one that picks up the slack. 

Perineal tears are divided into four classifications, based on the depth of tissue to which the rupture extends. On a scale where first degree is the least severe and fourth degree is the most severe, I was seriously hoping for a zeroth degree tear. 

To put it plainly, I just wanted to avoid the knowledge of whether or not I had torn — forever, if possible. 

Alas. I’ve heard that ignorance is bliss, but apparently Anika had not. 

“Alright, I need you to put your heels in my palms, as if they were stirrups,” she commanded. 

Considering my [previously addressed] discomfort with pelvic exams, I was reluctant to bare it for the world (or, as it were, just Midwife Anika and Assistant Midwife Taylor) — especially since I was confident that things down there probably looked pretty messed up. 

Like, what if she judges my vagina? I thought. [Note: This worry was obviously unfair — to both Anika and to my vagina. The former was a trained midwife who had attended many births before mine, and the latter surely wasn’t THE MOST messed-up, immediately-post-birth vagina, right?]

“Alright, Taylor, can you hold a light for me? It’s too dark in here otherwise.”

She handed Assistant Midwife Taylor her 5% battery iPhone — right tool for the right job, you know what I mean? As I held my son, the placenta, and sixteen towels, Anika held my feet, and my husband held her phone/flashlight. I think we all felt remarkably useful.

And then, it was time for me to spread my legs. 

Anika sucked in a breath. “So, you’ve definitely got a hematoma,” she started. 

“A bruise?” I clarified. I used to get hematomas all the time when I donated platelets via apheresis. They’re typically nothing to fret over.

“Um, not quite,” Anika answered evasively. “Vaginal hematomas are usually more localized than that. And yours is exceptionally localized.”

I was starting to hyperventilate. “Anika! Just tell me how bad it is!”

My husband cut in. “It just looks like a big, floppy blood blister, babe.” He turned back to Anika. “Also, your battery is about to die.”

She snapped back into midwife-mode. “I just need another quick look. Can you hold the light a little closer? Perfect.” 

Meanwhile, I was still trying to calm my breathing. I was worried the next thing I was going to hear was, “Oh, and you also have a tenth-degree tear.” Everything about that part of my body somehow felt both numb and on fire, so I was in no position to assess my own condition. I actively dreaded Anika’s coming pronouncement — but just then, I was distracted by something truly magical. 

Borealis was pressed against my chest, and over the past several minutes, he had been making small peeps and movements against me. Finally, I recognized them for what they were — the rooting reflex. 

One of a baby’s earliest and most instinctual actions, rooting occurs when an infant’s nose, mouth, or cheeks encounter a physical stimulus, whereupon the infant then tries to put said physical stimulus in his mouth. This is a reflex that, for babies, helps ensure successful breastfeeding. [Note: For adults, this reflex helps ensure a poor social life. I speak from experience here. I have never outgrown the rooting reflex, and accordingly, I snap at anything that comes unexpectedly near my face. So, like, don’t try to pick an eyelash off my cheek. I’ll probably bite you.]

“Oh my gosh, he’s trying to nurse!” I gasped. I shifted aside a towel so that my nipple was more accessible. Then, I tried to hand-express some colostrum (early milk) in the hope that the scent might help my son navigate by smell. His eyes were still screwed shut against the incandescent light. 

At that moment, however, Anika finished her visual examination and looked up. “Um, Holly, maybe let’s wait until we’ve got less going on before you try to feed him? The first latch can be pretty challenging, especially when the baby’s distracted.”

Unfortunately, she was right. Not even the delectable scent of colostrum was enough to help Borealis find my nipple. Still, I persisted. 

“He’s hungry!” I exclaimed. “He needs me!” 

Anika sighed. “Normally, babies don’t nurse until at least an hour after birth. He will be absolutely fine until then. Keep doing skin-to-skin, and we’ll have you nurse him when the time is right.”

I relented and cuddled my son back against my sternum. 

“So the good news first,” Anika continued. As she spoke, Taylor stealthily moved behind her to plug in the dying iPhone. “It doesn’t look like you tore.”

It took a moment for this information to sink in. “Wait, what? Are you sure?” I shrieked, causing Bo to grumble against my skin. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I murmured, patting his nearly-bald, super-misshapen head. 

Anika sighed. “Without a proper exam, I can’t tell for sure. But for right now, I don’t think so.” 

“Oh, thank goodness,” I breathed. 

“But,” Anika continued, “the hematoma and trailing membranes give me pause. You don’t seem to be in any danger of hemorrhaging out, although we’ll still need to manage your bleeding with fundal massages, and if necessary, Pitocin as well.”

I groaned. I was pretty sure the hormone cocktail raging inside me was plenty strong without adding synthetic oxytocin to the mix.

Anika correctly interpreted my dismay. “It’s unlikely you’ll need it,” she reassured me. “Your uterus shrank and firmed up really well with this last massage, and so long as it continues to respond positively, we can skip the Pitocin.”

I sighed with relief — but Anika wasn’t done. 

“Regardless, you really should be properly examined to determine whether the membranes or hematoma are going to be an issue.”

“So can we just go to the birth center?” I yawned. 

“That‘s my plan. But first, I have to call my boss and update her on the situation.” She instinctively patted her pocket, then demanded, “Where’s my phone?” 

Taylor pointed to where it rested in the bassinet (which had replaced my bedside table). Its battery was now at 6%. 

Anika dialed, then opened with, “Hey, so I have a bit of a strange situation here,” she began. As she gave her boss the truncated version of my birth story, I thought longingly of the beautiful Pottery Barn linens on the birth center’s beds. Maybe I‘ll still get some elegant [post] birth photos after all! I thought hopefully. 

But then, I remembered that the Pottery Barn linens disappear during an actual birth in favor of more durable/bleachable/replaceable bedsheets. I quickly revised my photo expectations from “luxe high-rise in Denver” to “that $50 per night motel we stayed in on the drive home from Dallas”.

Regardless of what linens I encountered, I was eager to return to the birth center. At the very least, I knew the people who would be taking care of me and the high level of care that I could expect. 

When she finished her executive summary, Anika concluded, “So of course, I’d like to get Holly into the center to monitor both her and the baby. Can we do that?”

<long pause> 

Anika puffed out a breath and smiled. “Great, thank you! Please let me know what you find out. And again, I’m sorry about not alerting you before assisting with a home birth.”

<pause> “Yes, definitely. We’ll chat then.” 

After she hung up, I slurred out, “So what’s the word?”

“She needs to make a call or two to confirm that we can go to the birth center. We should be able to head there in a few minutes.” 

Pasting on a false smile, I proclaimed, “Alrighty, let’s get to it!” I then feebly kipped my legs and tried — unsuccessfully — to sit up. 

“Help meeeee!” I croaked. The fake grin was long gone.

Assistant Midwife Taylor pulled me into a sitting position, which quickly became a slouching position as he let go of my shoulders. 

My rigor mortis grip on Borealis kept the side of his face pinned to my chest, even as I shifted position. He was still coated in vernix, although Anika had rubbed off a good deal of the waxy coating as she dried him. Overall, my son was looking pretty decent, for a fifteen-minute-old baby. 

In contrast, I was not looking so hot. For the first time in months, I had a clear view of my thighs — but, the view wasn’t pretty. [Graphic content warning!] 

The fundal massage had slowed — but definitely not stopped — my postpartum bleeding. My pad and underwear were saturated crimson, and my inner thighs were glazed with amniotic fluid and blood. I noticed a line of scarlet footprints leading back to the bathroom and cringed. I felt more like a swamp monster than ever. 

“Ok, um, can you get me a fresh pad and panties again?” I asked Assistant Midwife Taylor. He went to my drawer and fished out a pair. 

“No, not my good Calvin Klein ones!” I barked. “Or those Victoria’s Secret ones either!”

Taylor’s hands dropped uselessly to his sides. “Ok, what do you want me to do here?” he snapped. 

“Lowest drawer, far left. Those are my granny panties.” 

Taylor grabbed a pair of cotton hiphuggers and held them up for my inspection. “Do these work?” 

I lolled my head in an attempt to nod. “And grab my pajama pants while you’re down in that drawer!”

Taylor complied, then left to grab another pad.

Amazingly, Anika‘s phone still had enough battery life to receive a call. She answered with, “I’m hoping you have good news for me!” 

But, by the way her face immediately fell, I could tell that the news was, in fact, not good. Taylor returned with a pad, and we both listened to Anika conclude, “Yes, I do understand, but it’s still unfortunate. Ok, thank you. Yes, I’ll let you know.”

She stuck her rapidly dying iPhone back in her pocket, then turned to us. “So, I have some unfortunate news. You delivered in an uncontrolled environment: your house, sans midwife. So, for liability reasons, the birth center cannot accept you as a postpartum patient. I’m really, really sorry, and to be honest, I’m quite surprised.”

I looked over at Taylor, who appeared equally dismayed, panties still clutched in one hand. “So if you had been here for the birth, we would have been able to go to the center afterward?” I peeped. 

“No, it’s that you had the baby outside of our jurisdiction, I think. As in, the company had no influence over your labor and delivery process, so they don’t want to accept you now, in case you or the baby has a negative health result. I see it as them saying, ‘We weren’t caring for her earlier, so we don’t want to care for her now, in case something bad happens that was caused by something earlier that we don’t know about.’” 

I was at a loss for words. The birth center had been where I received all of my prenatal care — hearing my son’s heartbeat for the first time; discussing my fears of becoming useless after I left engineering; grappling with and coming to accept my changing body; practicing being a parent with Taylor. It was where I had always pictured giving birth and spending time with my newborn and my family. Yet, here I was, being turned away from my long-held dream of how my son’s first few hours of life would be. Far from the gentle birth experience we had planned, the past quarter hour had been nasty, brutish, and short. 

But, even as I mourned the loss of my plans, I could still receive the lesson here. Clear as a bell, God was telling me, I am in control, and you are not. You are My child, and I will use whatever method necessary to teach you to love Me and fear Me. 

My son was healthy. I was healthy. I hadn’t gotten the birth pictures or the Pottery Barn bed that I wanted — but in terms of divine lessons, this was a mild one. I resolved to learn from this incident, lest my Father employ a more draconian technique next time. 

“Thank you, God,” I whispered. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Anika asked. 

I shook my head and returned to the present conversation. “Ok, so what do we do now?”

Anika shifted uncomfortably. “Well, now you have to go to the hospital instead. Or, you can refuse care altogether.” 

I looked down at my softly-mewling son. “I don’t think I could refuse care,” I began. “Maybe for me, but not for him. You haven’t been able to check his blood pressure or his weight or any other vitals besides his pulse. So, I guess we’ll have to go to the hospital.”

A relieved smile flitted across Anika’s face. “Great! I was hoping that’s what you would decide.”

“Woo,” I deadpanned. 

The midwife ignored me. “Now, as a medical professional, I need to advise you to call an ambulance to bring you and the baby to the hospital.”

I shot her the hairy eyeball. “Um, there’s no chance of that. We’re not fricking made of money, Anika. Can’t we just drive ourselves?” 

Anika nodded. “Yes, and I figured that’s what you would choose. But, I‘m compelled to suggest the ambulance first.” 

Taylor cut in. “We’ll drive ourselves there. Basically no different than driving to the birth center, anyway.” Which was true, since the two medical centers were across the street from each other. 

I readjusted my grip on Borealis and addressed Assistant Midwife Taylor. “For sure. Can you help me change panties?” 

My husband suddenly remembered the underwear gripped in his fist. As he helped me dress, Anika announced, “I have to call my boss again and update her.” She lifted the nearly-dead iPhone to her ear once more. 

“Dang,” my husband muttered. “What a crazy night.” 

“It’s not over yet,” I counseled. “Keep your game face on, babe.”

With assistance, I shimmied into my latest pair of underwear. Taylor deposited the crimson pair on the bed-protecting towels, which immediately bloomed red. As he threaded my feet into the leg holes of the pajama pants, we heard Anika say, “The client has decided to seek medical treatment at our affiliate hospital. She will provide her own transportation to the site, and I will follow behind in my own vehicle.”

Taylor and I exchanged stricken glances as Anika finished up, “Great! I will speak with you then.”

She hung up, and I stared with horror at my traitorous midwife. “You’re not coming with us? Like, you won’t ride in the car with me?”

She shot me an exasperated glare. “Don’t be silly. Of course I’m coming with you. But, since we’re expressly prohibited from riding in our clients’ vehicles, I couldn’t exactly tell my boss, could I?”

I shook my head dumbly and tried to calm down. After the shock of being denied from the birth center, Anika’s seeming abandonment had been overwhelming. It felt like everything in my life was spinning out of my grasp — everything except my baby (and his placenta). I hugged Borealis a little tighter. 

Taylor cut into my introspection. “Ok babe, before we have you stand up, I need to call your mom and let her know what’s going on.” I nodded as he pulled out his phone and dialed. 

“Hi, Michelle. We are getting ready to go to the hospital. Holly has some trailing membranes, and we need to have the baby examined.”

<pause> 

“No, they both still seem ok — but since the birth was in an uncontrolled environment….” 

<pause>

“Exactly. Better safe than sorry. Anyway, can you all just meet us at the hospital? I’ll send you the address.”

<pause>

“Oh, that close?” 

Taylor put his hand over the speaker and said, “They’re less than two minutes out. Should I have them turn around now, or come here first?”

Anika looked over at me. I was still sitting limply on a towel soaked with my own blood. I would not be moving with alacrity any time soon. 

“Um, yeah, they can come here first,” the midwife answered for me. 

As Taylor wrapped up the call, Anika prepared to bring me to standing once again. 

“Ok, so I need you to slide all the way to the edge of the bed so that your feet touch the ground. Here, let me pull up your pants the rest of the way. Oh, these are the tie kind. Give me a second.” 

She fumbled with my waistband while I barely maintained my balance against the bed. Seeing my wobble, Assistant Midwife Taylor put a stabilizing hand on my arm until Anika finished tying a perfect little bow. Then he told us, “I’m going to bring the labor bag to the door so we don’t forget it.”

“Good idea, babe,” I grunted. I had started to sway again. Anika caught me this time. 

Taylor left the room, and Anika asked, “Alright, are you ready to stand?” 

I tried to assess my condition. Everything felt like noodle flambé — i.e. floppy and tingly. With a confidence I didn’t feel, I assured my midwife, “Oh, for sure.” 

She considered me dubiously. “Um, let’s give it a go, then.”

My first attempt to stand was unsuccessful. I straightened up, only to collapse immediately back into a leaning/sitting/slouching position. The skin on my stomach, which had been so taut only minutes beforehand, was now uncomfortably loose. The newly-present belly flab bounced against my upper thighs and added an unexpected and unwanted dimension to the challenge of standing. 

“Try again,” Anika exhorted, placing one of her arms behind my back. Taylor reappeared in the doorway and gave me an encouraging look. You can do it, Wifey! 

This time, I managed to regain and keep my elusive balance. 

“Good job,” Anika lauded me. I started to walk toward the doorway, but stopped as a tremendous din broke out in my house. Our night had just gotten even more exciting: my family had finally arrived. 

---

Earlier that night, only my mother had braved my chaotic cyclone of emotions. Now, she was joined by both my father and Taylor’s Aunt Franny, the latter of whom had just flown in from Minnesota. 

The trio of adults raced down the hallway to find me standing near my bed, wearing only pajama pants, several towels, and a newborn baby. They all piled into the room, and my mother exclaimed, “Why can’t you just have normal stories like everyone else!?” 

[Note: This was/is a very fair question, and one that I ask myself quite frequently. Upon reflection, I believe that the answer is this: God has a sense of humor, and delights in sending the most bizarre stories to His children who *also* have a sense of humor. Although, I will admit, I did not find this tale humorous at the time.]

Ignoring my silence, my mother attempted to sweep me into a hug. However, upon discovering how undesirable and logistically challenging it is to hug a bodily-fluid-coated, towel-clad, baby-clutching, crazy-eyed young woman, she settled for patting my shoulder instead. Then, she leaned in to see her grandson for the first time. 

“Oh, Borealis!” she cooed. “Oh, my sweet boy!” 

After several kisses, she looked up at me. “How are you?”

I grunted in response. I was on my feet and holding a live baby, so I thought that, all things considered, I was doing pretty dang well. 

My mother continued. “I saw that Samara is cleaning up the bathroom already — which is so sweet. I’ll have to ask if she needs any assistance. But, first and foremost, do you need help getting him in his carseat?” 

I barked out a laugh. “Ma, his umbilical cord is still attached, and he’s completely naked. We’re not putting him in the carseat — which is, by the way, freezing cold right now, since it’s out in the car.” 

My mother affirmed, “Yeah, your windshield is frozen over, too. Also, we can’t stay long, since Susan stayed in the car.” 

I wasn’t surprised or hurt that my sister hadn’t come inside for a brief visit. She hates to be woken up, and she especially hates leaving the house (or hotel, as it were) after bedtime. I actually felt a twinge of sympathy for her. But, her comfort wasn’t my top concern at the moment. 

“Um, yeah, I’m hoping to leave here within, like, the next thirty seconds, so she won’t, you know, freeze to death or anything.” 

My father, who had been uncharacteristically reticent up to this point, stepped forward to greet his grandson. He gave him a loud kiss on the forehead, then volunteered, “I’ll go scrape your windshield!”

“Oh, perfect. Thanks Stanley, that’s really helpful!” Taylor acknowledged. 

As my father left our huddle, Aunt Franny was able to take a step closer. She quickly snapped a picture, then leaned in to examine my son. “Wow, he looks so much like Stanley!” she marveled. 

We all reassessed the baby. To my dismay, I discovered that Aunt Franny was right! Borealis didn’t look much like me, and he looked absolutely nothing like Taylor. Instead, he was the spitting image of my dad. 

Even Anika, who had seen my father for a grand total of fifteen seconds, agreed. “Wow, that’s uncanny,” she concurred. 

The weird thing was, Borealis didn’t look like my dad as a baby; he looked like my dad as an adult — just, in miniature. This realization was not the night’s first surprise, but it might have been its most strange. I had just birthed my father’s tiny doppelgänger. 

“Ok, whatever, maybe he’ll look more like Taylor as he gets older,” I suggested. “Let’s just get to the hospital.”

I confidently stepped [read: stumbled] toward the door. Aunt Franny took a step back, but my mother held her ground. 

“Hol, you’re white as a sheet. Please let me take him.” 

And that was when I snapped. 

Dear reader, I would like you to analyze our story up until this point. I think you might agree that, overall, I acted in a fairly calm and rational fashion, given the situation. [And if you don’t agree — well, then this next part won’t surprise you at all.] But sanity can only stretch so far, and mine had reached its limit. 

“NO!” I shouted. “NO! NO ONE IS TAKING MY SON FROM ME!”

My mom tried again. “Holly, I’m afraid you’re going to pass out, and then he’ll fall too.” 

“I AM HIS MOTHER! HE BELONGS WITH ME!”

Aunt Franny seemed a bit frightened at this point, but my mom was unfazed. “Don’t you think he’ll be safer with someone else?” 

That was it for me. “OUT! EVERYONE OUT!”

Aunt Franny quickly exited the room, and my mother, after a pause, followed her. 

“Just, be careful,” she admonished as she left. 

“I will see you AT THE HOSPITAL!” I concluded. I heard a brief exchange between my mother and Samara in which the former offered her cleaning services, and the latter politely declined and asserted that she had the situation well in hand. For all of our sakes, I hoped that she was right. 

Taylor noticed my residual, simmering rage immediately. “Hey now. Relax. She didn’t mean anything by it, and she just wants you guys to be safe. She knows that you wouldn’t intentionally let anything happen to him, but… well, she is right, you do look pretty pale.”

I redirected the wrath toward my husband. “He is MY baby! He is safest with ME!” 

[Note: Whether or not this sentiment was true, I assure you that I believed it wholeheartedly at the time.]

I strode [read: staggered] over to the door, which Taylor hastily pushed open for me. And there, standing across the hall, in the doorway of what would one day become my son’s nursery, was my favorite groomsman and honorary younger brother: Leroy. And his articulate greeting?

“Hi!”

I rolled my eyes, even as I barked, “Leroy! Maybe not the best time!”

My housemate shrank back a little, but still managed to peep, “Congratulations!”

“You can meet the baby when we get back from the hospital — just like everyone else!” 

(Poor kid. I was not gracious that night.)

Leroy disappeared back into his room, and I continued my march [read: shuffle] past the bathroom and down the hallway. Taylor and Anika followed in my wake. 

“Taylor!” I snapped. “Go get my shoes ready!” 

My beleaguered husband slipped past me and rounded the corner. As Anika and I reached the end of the hall, Taylor emerged from the mud room, holding my favorite pair of Sperry Topsiders. 

“Not the WHITE shoes!” I bellowed, gesturing jerkily to the rivulets of blood still trickling down my legs and onto the floor.

“Oh!” Taylor ducked behind the door, reappearing a few seconds later with my second-favorite pair of Sperrys. These, thankfully, were a brown leather — although, admittedly, they were still the second-worst choice in my closet for “rugged footwear”. (Seriously. I have *two* pairs of gardening shoes. Not sure how those didn’t make the cut.) 

I considered demanding another pair, but I was so tired. Every step was a marathon. I briefly wondered if my mother was right — if I was going to fall and take my baby with me. Anika seemed to sense my hesitation. She grabbed my elbow and gently pushed/supported me toward the front door. 

When I reached the mud room, I relented and allowed Taylor to help me into the Sperrys, hoping against hope that they wouldn’t be forever stained thereafter. But, the cleanliness of my shoes wasn’t worth what remained of my flagging strength. 

As our trio (plus Borealis) prepared to brave the ice storm outside, my father came barreling back toward the storm door. 

“Ok, we need to pull out before you can leave, since we’ve parked you in. But where are we going?” 

Taylor relayed the hospital’s identity and general location, and then my dad was gone, as quickly as he had appeared. My family’s car pulled out from the driveway seconds later. Meanwhile, Anika and Taylor shepherded me down the steps, along the icy sidewalk, and to the Kia Spectra that I had driven since I turned sixteen. 

[Note: Alas. The Kia’s transmission didn’t last long past the conclusion of this tale. The car referenced in stories like The Story That Started It All and If You Give a Kid a [Quinoa-Spinach-Apple] Meatball… is a Mitsubishi Outlander, instead.]

This Kia had seen some momentous occasions: my first solo drive to high school, my [second] first kiss, my numerous migrations between Oklahoma and Colorado, several periods of employment, my first car ride with Taylor, my graduation from Mines, and a few major road trips along the way. But I‘m confident that the most momentous — and most bizarre — event in this little car’s life occurred that night. 

As we reached the blue sedan, I peered into the backseat. Our bulky carseat dominated the far side of the row, crowding into the middle seat and limiting the front passenger legroom. It was not currently a car suitable for more than two adult occupants. 

I drifted toward the back left side. “Ok, so I guess I’ll sit in the back, yeah? I’m sorry the front seat is so cramped, Anika.” The midwife cast me a curious glance that I couldn’t interpret at the moment. Little did I know the level of her commitment to my care. 

Taylor opened the door for me, then removed one of my towel coverings and spread it over the row. He and Anika helped lower me and Bo into the seat, which was mostly — but not entirely — protected by the towel covering. (I ended up steam-cleaning the fabric a few weeks later.)

“You need to be buckled,” Chauffeur Taylor stated bluntly. 

I shrugged my shoulders to show that my arms were completely full. “I can’t,” I replied honestly. 

“Don’t worry, I got it,” Anika assured him. Taylor and I watched in mild surprise as she climbed into the front passenger side, wriggled into the back row, and contorted herself into the half-spot between me the carseat. 

“Wow, that was impressive,” Taylor lauded. 

Anika ignored the compliment, and instead asked, “Will you hand me the seatbelt?” 

Taylor extended the buckle from my shoulder and passed it to Anika.

“I don’t want it over the baby,” I cut in. 

“Ok, then I’ll need you to let go of him for a second so that I can get this situated.”

Reluctantly, I peeled Borealis from his place on my chest, which caused him to burst into near-instantaneous tears. I let Taylor hold our son while Anika pulled the seatbelt across my mostly-bare torso. Impressively, she managed to get the buckle clasped on the first try. 

“Click it or ticket,” I murmured dazedly. 

Taylor handed the baby back to me, then plopped down in the driver’s seat as I resettled the babe against my skin. Bo’s color was getting better — more flesh-like, less prune-like — but I was still terrified that he would get hypothermia in the sub-freezing temperatures. 

“Turn on the car!” I demanded. 

Chauffeur Taylor shot me a glare from the driver’s seat. “I am, babe,” he said as the engine rolled over. “You know that the Kia always takes a few tries in the cold.” 

The engine turned over again and then caught. The air vents immediately started spewing Arctic air into the car. 

“Cold!” I shouted. “Turn off the air until the engine warms up!” 

Chauffeur Taylor complied, then turned to the backseat and asked seriously, “Is everyone ready to go?” 

I turned to my midwife. “Wait, are you going to ride back here?” I asked incredulously. 

“Yes, that was my intention,” she responded. 

“But it’s so cramped!” I exclaimed. 

“Oh — do you need me to ride in the front? Are you too crowded?”

“Oh, gosh, no, that’s not what I meant at all! I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable!” I explained. 

Anika’s withering glance was priceless. Seriously. I wish I had caught it on film. She calmly elaborated, “Holly. I am a midwife. This is my job. Until I release you into someone else’s competent care, I will do everything in my power to protect you and your baby, regardless of my own comfort. Right now, that means riding in the back so that I can monitor you and the baby and administer another fundal massage.” 

I grimaced at the thought of another “massage”, but I was immensely comforted to have such a capable and committed professional firmly in my court. 

“I really appreciate it,” I sincerely thanked her. She nodded in response. Then, I announced, “Alright babe, let’s get this shizzety-show on the rizzety-road.” 

“Ok, here we go,” Taylor sighed as he slowly, slowly pulled out of the driveway and onto our icy street. 

In a way, our night was just beginning.

---

Did you ever think that approximately twenty minutes of time could take so long to relate in a blog post? I sure didn’t. Props to you if you made it this far. I would like to tell you that you’re almost done — but that would, unfortunately, be false. After all, we have the entire hospital visit to discuss… and that’s only after we round out the night of February 15th. Continue reading in the next installment: The Birth of Borealis, Part III.