Maybe men’s penises are referred to as “heads” not because men are known to think with them but because a woman’s major sex organ is between her ears. If a woman isn’t in the mood, she won’t feel it between her legs.
Labor is no different than any other bodily function. If a woman feels fear or embarrassment, adrenalin is released. Adrenalin slows labor creating the “need” for interventions which, in turn, lead to increased adrenalin and further interventions. I don’t know about you, but being naked under florescent lights is enough to scare and embarrass me. I must have been full of adrenaline because both of my hospital labors were painfully s. . . l. . . o . . .w.
To make matters worse, I didn’t like my doctor. The feeling was mutual. She didn’t like me either. Think of the most repulsive person you can. Now imagine being naked and vulnerable in front of her. Does your body instinctively want to shrink and cover itself? Again, it’s no different with birth. I wanted to be nowhere near my doctor. Every time she came into the room, my contractions slowed from two minutes apart to six or seven, rendering it physically impossible for me to give birth.
My best friend from junior high school, Stella, now an accomplished herbalist and doula says that putting a woman on her back with her legs up in the air, shining bright lights on her and surrounding her with masked strangers while expecting her to relax enough to birth a baby is about as logical as expecting a man to ejaculate under the same circumstances.
“Luckily” for me, when adrenalin flooded my body bringing labor to a stand-still and will-alone wouldn’t compel birth, the doctor was able to cut my baby out by Cesarean. But I can’t help but wonder: if I had been in a comfortable environment with people I liked, would I have been able to give birth naturally?
It was only when we asked what caused a woman to suffer when she gives birth that we began to see it was her FEAR that made her fight and tighten up, lock herself into the vicious circle: the more pain, the more fear; the more fear, the more pain.
- Frederick Leboyer
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.
