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Let your monkey do it! - Conclusion |
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Continued from previous page. “I’d had contractions here and there for two weeks,” she says, “but they never happened one on top of another, or with this intensity. It was exciting, but mostly I felt relieved because we wouldn’t have to try any alternative measures.” I remember it was 2:30 a.m. We both went back to bed. “I am breathing.” I kept waiting for the monkey. Nicole’s legs shook with electric rushes of adrenaline through her body, mighty currents of hormones and endorphins kicking in to help her through the process. Her eyes were closed, but I clasped her hands and with every contraction squeezed through it with her as Sandhano helped her follow rhythmic breathing patterns—Pah! Pah! Pah! |
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We moved from the birthing pool down to our bedroom, which had been set up earlier in the day. There was a fresh set of sheets atop a plastic cover, and under the plastic another set of clean sheets. The idea was that after the birth, the top sheets could be pulled off and Nicole, the baby and I could rest in a clean, ready-made bed. The sheets were just one of many steps we’d taken to prepare the house for this moment. Months before, Sandhano had provided us with a list of supplies we had to have on hand, a birth kit, most of which was ordered from Moon Flower, a birthing supply source in Oregon. The kit included sterilized gloves, sanitary pads, measuring tape (to measure the baby), a bulb syringe, and cord tape, among other things. We also had to sterilize towels, washcloths, newborn caps and receiving blankets by placing them in brown paper grocery sacks taped shut and baked in a pre-heated oven at 275 degrees for one hour. Most of this work was done a week before our expected due date. On the bed, the contractions were still coming about five minutes apart, but they were becoming noticeably more intense. Nicole laid on her side, with me across from her. Sandhano occasionally checked the baby’s heartbeat and Nicole’s blood pressure, but for the most part it was just Nicole and I. Rather, I think it was mostly just Nicole—the glazed look she developed in the birthing tub had morphed even further into a deep, zoned stare. While she breathed and managed each contraction, I found myself watching her, befuddled and amazed. She was grunting. The sweat was so thick that her t-shirt (it had a picture of a smiling Buddha and read, “For good luck, rub my tummy”) was soaked through, and heavy. I glanced at the clock and saw it was almost 4 a.m.; she was going on her 26th hour. “I was in labor la-la-land,” says Nicole. “Everything was really touch-oriented and all about my body. I could feel myself grabbing your hand and your bicep, and I could feel Sandhano rubbing my back. That was it.” For me this controlled chaos was actually comforting. For most of the day, and the previous night, we’d done very little out of the ordinary. After her initial contractions began, we went to bed. In the morning I cooked a small breakfast and we went for a walk through the neighborhood. In the afternoon, I conducted an interview for work. We listened to music and swung in the backyard hammock. The only thing that hinted Nicole was in labor was her occasional pause—she’d stop, grab her lower back, maybe grimace, and I’d ask, “Ya having one?” and she’d nod. Then we went back to a routine that seemed like a lazy Saturday. So when things actually began happening—when Nicole was pushing and Sandhano was coaching and Charlotte was preparing and I was trying to remain conscious (I’d been assured smelling salts were nearby, just in case)—the birth of our child finally felt real. And natural. Knowing what to say to a woman in this stage of labor is like finding the right words to ask out a girl in junior high school—you know what you’re supposed to say, and you practice all the time, but when the moment comes you inevitably shove a Teva directly in your mouth. I was doing all right throughout the 26 hours—lots of “I love you” and “You’re amazing” and “You’re doing great”—but at the end I slipped. When I inadvertently asked, “How are you feeling?” Nicole gave me a look of death. But when I played coach and said, “Make sure you’re breathing,” she combined that look with a pissed-off hiss: “I am breathing.” I remember that moment because it was one of the few times Nicole spoke during the whole ordeal. And because the next thing she said was, “This really hurts!” That line—This really hurts—was the only time she ever hinted at the pain, at losing her edge. But instead of stopping or giving up, she flipped off her side and started to experiment with different birthing positions. She moved quickly and grunted hard when she pushed. “When I was pushing at the end and it really hurt,” she says, “I could imagine at that point why many women decide to take drugs. I wasn’t thinking about monkeys or animals. I just wanted to push the baby out. I was doing whatever I could.” The only problem was the baby’s heartbeat. It slowed in some of the positions Nicole tried, at one point dropping dangerously low. Charlotte hooked up an oxygen tank—the more oxygen Nicole received, the more for the baby. Sandhano became calmly assertive, directing Nicole into certain positions. Whether it was the monkey or something else, something had to happen soon for our baby to be born. |
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“I wasn’t feeling any pain at all” In our birthing class, I had scoffed at the idea of a birthing stool—basically a metal frame that simulates the sensation of sitting on a toilet—because it seemed so silly. It looked and sounded like the subject of some late-night infomercial where if you call now (!) you’ll also get your own “Let your monkey do it” bumper sticker, all for the low, low price of $19.95. Little did I know that the birthing stool would become the secret weapon of Nicole’s natural delivery. |
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With none of the positions working and the baby’s heartbeat still struggling, Sandhano directed Nicole to the stool at the foot of the bed. Almost immediately, our baby was dropping like a pinball down the shoot, literally gaining momentum as gravity took hold. I was on the bed, behind Nicole, propping her up with all my might so her weight didn’t press too hard against the metal frame. I stuck to repeating, “You’re doing great.” In what felt like seconds, but was truly just minutes, I heard Sandhano say, “I need hands!” The next thing I saw, like a magic act, Nicole was holding our perfect baby daughter in her arms. “As soon as I got onto the birthing stool, I knew I could do it. That position was the right position,” she says. “It all came together there with you behind me holding me up and Sandhano and Charlotte positioned. I had all the support I needed.” |
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Champagne never tasted so good at six in the morning. I popped the cork in our bedroom and poured glasses for everyone. Charlotte brought down sliced strawberries from our refrigerator, cheese and crackers and some “Labor-Aid” (Emergen-C, crushed calcium tablets, honey, lemon juice and water) to re-hydrate Nicole. Propped in our bed, Nicole was wide-awake, in perfect spirits and holding our daughter under new sheets. I was exhausted, mentally and physically drained and drinking Freixenet like a marathon runner drinks Dixie cups of water. |
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“I wasn’t tired,” Nicole says. “I wasn’t feeling any pain at all.” She did admit there were times of doubt. Nicole never revealed them, never voiced her concern, but at points, she says, she wasn’t sure she could finish the birth. The longevity of the labor and the painful final moments are two points that can intimidate some women. Sandhano jokes about midwives being labeled masochists for challenging women to overcome such intense pain. “But it’s different from that,” Sandhano says. “Birth is a mysterious process of opening up and letting go and finding out how much the human body and nature are capable of. I don’t see it as pain like cutting your finger. I see it as an emotional experience.” It all goes back to the monkey. “The whole time I was trying not to think about it and just to let go,” says Nicole. “I wanted my body to take over because if it knew how to make this baby inside of me, it knew how to birth it.” For weeks—even before our daughter was born—I have been telling friends about the monkey. Most react the same way: they laugh at the absurdity of the phrase—“Let your monkey do it”—and ask what on earth I’m talking about; then they begin to grasp the concept. I have some friends who still quote the line to me, only half-jokingly, in various contexts (“I can’t get this stupid thing done—I just gotta let my monkey do it”). For the right person, the idea of letting your monkey do it makes perfect sense—just like natural home birth. Postscript: Annabella Rose Bradley Browning was born at 4:29 am on Saturday, July 16, weighing 6 lbs. and measuring 19.5 inches long. Both she and her mom have been checked by Sandhano, as well as our pediatrician, and are in perfect health.
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