Until I experienced labor, I didn’t see the big deal about being confined to one’s bed. Bed is, after all, one of my favorite places to be. It’s comfortable and relaxing and perfect for weathering the most physically and emotionally difficult times. Quite rationally I concluded that it would also be a great place to give birth.
Turns out I was an idiot. Not about labor being painful, it was. I was an idiot to think that bed would be a good place to labor. How was I supposed to know that the horizontal weight of my body would increase the pain? That it would press sideways, constricting blood vessels and disempowering contractions? I might as well have attempted to eat without opening my mouth or see without cracking my eyelids. My body became its own worst enemy. Like a beached whale, I craved the freedom that a vertical position offered, one that utilized gravity to my advantage.
The hard way, I learned:
- The birth canal is not a hole. It’s a long and twisted tunnel.
- The baby literally has to bend, flex and turn forty-five degrees twice to maneuver through the birth canal.
- Lying prone closes the pelvis by up to 30% making it 30% more difficult to give birth.
Watch this wonderful animation to better understand how a baby maneuvers through the birth canal. Unfortunately, the mother’s pelvis appears fixed so you’ll just have to imagine the relief movement would afford it.
“Every [hospital] intervention is a lesson in who really owns your body and your baby’s body.” – Jock Doubleday
About Roanna Rosewood
For as long as I can remember, I wanted one thing: a baby. The eldest of five children, I got plenty of hands-on experience. I knew how to change diapers, rock little ones to sleep and feed babies. But nobody told me about birth. I assumed it to be no more than the unfortunate means-to-a-baby. It wasn’t until I was in full-on labor that I glimpsed the power of birth. Almost as quickly as I did, they rushed in to “save me,” to relieve the pain and cut my baby from my body.
When it was over, I had a beautiful baby boy but had lost a part of myself.
I began to crave birth.
I battled for my birth right for four years. I endured two Cesareans, fought three doctors, two midwives and endless inner demons before achieving a home birth.
It was the single most pleasurable moment of my life.
Let me say that again: giving birth was the single most pleasurable moment of my life. And I live a pretty pleasurable life. I’ve galloped on horseback through high mountain deserts, been sailing around the Caribbean and diving with dolphins and giant sea turtles. I’ve purchased perfume in exotic markets in Cairo and ridden a mechanical bull in a Colorado bar. I laugh, cry, knit and dance with the most-wonderful of girlfriends a woman could have. My closet is full of fabulous clothes and sexy boots. But none of these things has brought me as much exquisite pleasure as giving birth to my daughter.
I have accomplished “important” things. I am the mother of the three incredible children. I’ve worked and volunteered for non-profit organizations, mentored and taught children and women and traveled to Northern Uganda to assist survivors of war give birth. I own businesses, invest in real estate and have had the privilege and responsibility of employing hundreds of people. But none of these accomplishments has been as empowering or life-changing as giving birth to my daughter.
Twenty years ago, while watching blood drip down my own freshly-sliced wrists, I chose to put the razorblade down, embrace life and face my fears. To this end, I’ve parasailed off of Alaskan mountains, fire-walked on hot coals and watched my life flash before my eyes as my lungs filled with water. But none of these moments terrified me as much as giving birth to my daughter.
I’ve experimented with psychedelic drugs and met an angel in a tunnel of blue light. I’ve explored ancient Myan ruins and the depths of a pyramid. I’ve chanted with priests, davened with rabbis, danced with Sufis, sat with Buddhist monks, sweated with shamans, studied with psychics and accepted a gift from a kahuna. But none of these experiences brought me as close to The Divine as giving birth to my daughter.
I live a juicy, passionate and engaged life. But I am not content. My heart pulses a message much more important than my own small existence: Women are strong. It proclaims. Birth is our rite, our connection to The Divine. Living this, speaking it and writing it is my purpose: an endless war-chant coursing through my veins and pouring through my fingertips to you.
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