I don’t take drugs. Ever. Just recently, a visitor asked for something for a headache. What I found, the only drug in my house, was an almost full bottle of Ibuprofen; it had expired nine years ago! To be fair, avoiding drugs is easy for me; I’m not prone to headaches or other pains. On the rare occasion I have them; I prefer to wait it out. When I get the flu, you will find me in bed with a hoard of all-natural cough drops and boxes of Kleenex, nothing else. Pills just aren’t my thing.
I never doubted that I would give birth without drugs; I certainly didn’t imagine that I would beg for them. Like many of my other birth plans, I was wrong. My body never opened like a flower. I didn’t calmly breathe my baby down. I forgot the music and candles. I screamed like a rhinoceros. I begged for drugs. I have no doubt that, had I been in a hospital, I would have been given them. Having a drug-free birth in a hospital is like dieting in a candy store, it can be done. But I wouldn’t recommend it.
Knowing the midwife didn’t have “real” drugs, I screamed “Advil” They brought ice chips. If I knew how, I would have explained to that ice chips are no substitute for drugs. Instead I pushed handfuls of it into my mouth, chewing and swallowing and shoveling all at once. It cascaded down my body, over the floor, into the tub, some of it made its way down my throat.
But the need for drugs passed quickly and the power I gained by giving birth without drugs will stay with me forever. I gave birth. I can do anything is etched in the fiber of my being. It lifts my chin when I would feel inadequacy; it propels me forward when the path ahead is turbulent; it holds my soul when I look in the mirror and do not like what I see.
This I know about myself: my own personal discipline lies in not bringing chocolate into my house to begin with, in never shopping when I’m hungry or going to a hospital to give birth.
I, with a deeper instinct, choose a midwife who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage, or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
~Anaïs Nin (just slightly edited)
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.
I never doubted that I would give birth without drugs; I certainly didn’t imagine that I would beg for them. Like many of my other birth plans, I was wrong. My body never opened like a flower. I didn’t calmly breathe my baby down. I forgot the music and candles. I screamed like a rhinoceros. I begged for drugs. I have no doubt that, had I been in a hospital, I would have been given them. Having a drug-free birth in a hospital is like dieting in a candy store, it can be done. But I wouldn’t recommend it.