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This is the story of a first child born out of Louisiana at a Birth Center

Birth Center Delivery of Casey John, 3-13-99

It was Saturday morning, still dark. I was lying in bed, glancing up to heaven in agony, pounding the wall. “Call again,” I told my husband. He grabbed the phone and left a page for the midwife. I had been up most of the night, pacing, excited, focused, and nervous. The baby would be born today.

This is the day I had been waiting for. The anticipation of those last days was almost more than I could bear. Then, during the week, I realized that the coming Saturday would also be the 13th of the month, and both were symbols of the Blessed Virgin Mary. During my Visitation (a ceremony where several women gathered for a night of prayerful intercession for my labor and birth), a woman got word that Mother Mary promised to help me through this time of anguish and joy. I knew then that my baby would be born Saturday, the 13th.

Friday night, Greg and I shopped for cribs unsuccessfully. I remember feeling great pressure on my pelvic floor as I waddled through the store, as if the baby’s head were emerging already! We decided to try a new Italian place for dinner. I had my favorite – fettuccini alfredo – a meatless dish for a Lenten Friday. I had to hold the plate on my belly because I couldn’t lean over the table. Braxton-Hicks contractions were strong that night.
I remember crawling into bed thinking that I didn’t feel well, like I had menstrual cramps. At 12:30am, I awoke, thinking, it’s Saturday. Sure enough, I was in labor.

The phone rang. How close were my contractions? Five minutes apart and 90 seconds in length. We were given the okay to drive to the birth center. After making some calls asking for prayer, we were on our way. Everything was peaceful. The sun was just beginning to rise and the streets were empty. I had prayed that the baby would be born in the morning sunlight. I didn’t even much notice the bouncing of the worn-out Chevy Trailblazer as we curved around the Pennsylvania hills.
We arrived. I was checked and found to be at 5 cm dilatation. Lisa, the midwife on call that day, asked if I wanted the tub filled up. I had always loved lounging in the bath tub, so I agreed. As much as I tried to relax, my shoulders regularly tensed up to my ears. I tried lying on my back, lying my belly, sitting forward, sitting back. Nothing was easing the pain. My husband stayed by my side and held my hand through all the contractions. I focused on the precious music box I had brought, which my grandmother had given me, displaying a picture of the Street Madonna – a young Mary holding her sleeping baby Jesus close to her heart. The double-peak constrictions of the transition stage were wearing me down. I did not know if the pain would increase, and if it would, I did not think I could manage it much longer. Finally, I felt an urge to push and I was advised to move to the next room. As soon as I got up, I felt better and, to my surprise, the labor pains were much easier to handle standing up.

I was directed to the birthing bar. Never having dressed after being in the tub, I was feeling very natural and secure with myself. I was tired and dreamy. Between contractions, I would lean back on my husband and slip into a trance until the next pain demanded my concentration. I made a lot of progress on the bar and would have been content to stay there throughout the birth, but Lisa told me to lie in the bed to try to push.

I was not happy lying down, but I figured I’d do what I was told. Lisa told me to give a big push with the next contraction. The tightening came and I squeezed. Lisa looked at me surprised and said, “Oh, well, if you just want to breathe through this one, that’s okay.” I had taken Lamaze classes through the hospital where I was originally receiving prenatal care and I thought I was pushing, but I did not understand at that time that I would have to channel every ounce of energy into contracting my abdomen. Another midwife joined us and the two of them pushed my knees to my ears during the next contraction. This time, I held tight to Greg’s hand and let out that primitive guttural cry of a woman bringing forth new life.
I pushed with all my might, but the baby was just inching out. The phone rang! My mom couldn’t wait to know how we were doing. Greg held the phone while I finished pushing through a contraction and then I spoke, “Hi, Mom. Bring back memories? Everything is fine. I gotta go.” Another wave of tightening rushed through me.
The midwives had told me about three times now that the baby would be born with the next push. By this point, I was ordering the baby out. I was tired of the loud tic tic tic of the clock and I remember thinking that I wanted to be done with this before noon. During one big push, I felt myself tearing. I began screaming from pain and fear. I thought I had torn into my urethra – I imagined having trouble peeing for the rest of my life -- but I found out later, it was just a small tear of the minor labia. Lisa said, “You are okay” in an annoying way that made me feel I was over-reacting. With the next push, the head emerged and I was happy with relief for a split second before I felt the immense pressure of the shoulders. One more push and my baby was born. He arrived at 11:25.

It was a boy. I knew in my heart that it would be. I remembered that day we awoke on June 24th – the feast of St. John the Baptist’s birth (the fourth day since we married) -- Greg said, “I think we conceived Casey John last night” and I smiled because I felt it too.

Casey was tossed into my arms and covered with a warm towel. I held him and gazed into his eyes, fully enveloped in the euphoria of new motherhood. His head was near my heart, his hands and feet slightly purple, his left eye closed. He looked at me and I at him and he did not cry. He just whimpered a little, while I said, “Greg, touch him.” I wanted Greg to experience the realness of this small beautiful child. Greg was sitting on the bed with me, on my right. He was in awe and full of love and admiration for both of us.
I felt very weak, but also wonderfully happy and incredibly proud -- of myself for persevering, of my husband for his support, and of my baby for being a beautiful creation of God. Thank you, Mother Mary for assisting me.

-Myriah Boudreaux

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