A BIRTH STORY

KETCH, 3 DAYS OLD - LIVINGSTON, MT

I won’t ever presume to speak about anything universally regarding motherhood – because if there’s anything I’ve learned in the four months I have been at it – it’s that the ride is different for everyone. Everyone has their own highs and lows, their own badges they must earn and battles they must wage - whether it be with the gods of birthing or the gods of breastfeeding or the gods of sleeping. And I think the moment you feel like a mother, the moment you experience that big huge love that you never knew existed – it varies. I wasn’t one of those women who got all weepy at the ultrasounds (even though I totally thought I would have), and even when I was 8 and a half months pregnant, I still felt like sort of an imposter wearing the “momma” shirt I was gifted at my shower. I’ve heard for some women it happens the second they see that little pink plus sign. And for some, it doesn’t happen until months down the road when their baby starts to giggle at them with intention, and still for others its hazy – a becoming that happens slowly over time.

But for me, that moment struck with such abrupt-icity, that I swear it knocked the wind out of my very existence.

Our little man scooted into this world on September 7th at 859pm. He was 8lbs 14oz, and 23 unusually long inches. He had ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes, two beautiful almond eyes and a fuzzy little head covered in thick, black hair. We named him Ketch Cassidy…yes, Cassidy as in Butch.

This is his story.

It was around 130 in the afternoon, and I was mid conference call when I became keenly aware that something was going on. My body had been crying wolf about once every two days the entire week prior, and so when the feelings initially started I brushed them off and continued working. We were also whopping twelve days ahead of our due date and I had been convinced from the beginning I would be one of those poor fourty-one-and-a-half-week souls downing cod liver oil and walking in endless circles around the block. But after about 30 minutes or so I shot Brad – who was working across the table from me, an ‘oh-my-god-I-think-this-is-this-actually-happening’ glance and awkwardly excused myself from the call. The contractions were timed and counted and determined regular –and it started to sink in. This was for real.

It’s a pretty ridiculous moment. The one where you realize you’re about to meet the human that has been growing inside of you for the past 9 months. The one where it also sinks in that it is the size of a watermelon and is actually about exit your body one way or another.

Pretty much from the beginning of my pregnancy I was drawn to the idea of a natural birth. And it wasn’t because I’m against medication or wanted to prove how tough I was - but I guess I found comfort in knowing that female body was specifically designed for this shit, and had been doing it for centuries. I liked the idea of letting it do it’s thing – and the whole experience unfolding the way nature intended.

I also – after working in the hospital system for the past five years – wanted nothing to do with it personally. At first I had fallen quite in love with the little birth center in town – with it’s comfy beds and quaint fireplaces and beautiful gardens and and plush quilts and giant tubs equipped with all the essential oils.  But being the overthinking weeny that I am – also envisioned all worst case scenarios, and so we opted for a hospital birth – midwives rather than OB’s, a doula - and a quote, unquote “plan” that included staying at home as long as possible.

All of books and classes and movies I had devoured on birth made it seem like your first one was a marathon campaign that lasted pretty much, like forever – so we tried to calm ourselves down and settle in. Brad ran to the store and bought snacks. We cut up a watermelon. Played a few games of hangman. And attempted to go on a walk – which was quickly cut short because I became afraid I’d scare all of the middle school children passing by on their way home with my periodic pausing and growling. But before long the contractions started to become really intense. I kept insisting I was fine. It was normal. We had a long way to go. They weren’t at the pattern they were supposed to be at yet. And Brad kept insisting I had a high pain tolerance and repeatedly asking me with a nervous tone if I was sure it wasn’t time.

We made it until around 5pm before I gave in and we made a plan with my doula to meet her at the park near the hospital. That way we’d knock out the 30 minute drive from Livingston – and we could weather it out under some pretty pine trees before heading in.  

But as soon as we collected our bags and headed for the truck I changed my mind. All of a sudden, things felt terrifyingly immediate.

Brad flew 90 miles an hour over the Bozeman pass and we were greeted by a very nice elderly woman who took about seven and a half hours to get the spelling of McKenzie Burgtorf. I was given a wheel chair, we were directed towards labor and delivery, and then promptly got lost in a maze of hospital halls.

Once we finally made it to the room, we discovered I was already 6 cm dilated and baby boy was well on his way. The nurses drew me a bath and I got about an hour of reprieve before the party really started, the contractions turned into knife fights, the growls into roars.

I found myself in a myriad of whacky positions – sitting, standing, straddling – anything to relieve the pain. Nurses fawned over me and brought me wet wash cloths, my midwife kneeled for what seemed like hours while I draped my groaning body over her shoulders. Brad, who has an intense hatred of all things ‘feet’ – promised me unlimited foot rubs for life and pushed my hair back and kissed my forehead and told me I was strong.

And then, once my water had broken and the 10 centimeters had been fully achieved, came a suffer fest of such wildly painful proportions that it makes me want to fist bump every mother on the planet for their efforts…the pushing.

Forty-five torturous minutes later, I was at the end of my rope. Spread eagle, permeated in sweat, swapping exasperated curse words with subservient whimpers – thinking my skull was about to split down the center from the sheer force of the effort I was expending with each push. And just when I began to think that couldn’t take another single second, came this white-hot pain and blinding light, a whoosh of release, and a smooshy, gunk covered creature was placed on my chest. My eyes locked with his, and that was it. It felt like earth had been knocked out of orbit. And the universe stood so still that dust particles hung, sparkling suspended in the air. While my heart shifted from the inside to the outside. And my soul began to tell time in a new way. I knew in that moment that there would be a before him and an after him, but there was no going back. I was as new as he was. My life would never be the same.

In a way, I feel like Ketch and I were both born that day. He a child, and me a mother. And - like most worthy things – it was fucking hard. But my God, I would go through it a thousand times over if I had to – to know what it’s like to be somebody’s mom.  

I think that no matter how it happens, right away or over time — eventually the big, huge feeling finds you. And you realize, in the most profound way possible, that it really is everything it’s cracked up to be – that parenthood is love in its purest form – and the whole meaning of life can look right at you – through a pair of almond shaped eyes.