My contractions started at 2:00 am, which I kept to myself. My husband, Conor, and our son, Arthur, were asleep in the other room. I’ll let them sleep, I thought. Tomorrow will be a busy day. 

Like with Arthur, this pregnancy we planned to have at home. My birth with him was smooth despite taking place at the beginning of the pandemic when so much was unknown. I was grateful then that I had chosen a home birth before the world shut down, and women (like my sister) were given forced epidurals in hospitals, “just in case” staff were unavailable when we needed them. At home, my body would not be controlled in the same way.  But this time around, I was grateful for the home birth for different reasons. My son could meet his new sibling in the home. I could have a birth pool to help with pain management. I could put reruns of The Office on to help me power through early labour. I wouldn’t have to fumble into a car the next day still bleeding and shaky from delivery. I could have my own food, not rationed mushy nutrition paste. I would have control of the situation in a space I felt safe in.

I woke Conor at 6:00 am and called the midwife by 7:00 am to give her the heads up. My mom came and picked up Arthur to keep him occupied for the day. We had snacks prepared, the room was clean, and supplies were on hand. We were ready.  

By noon I started active labour. This was around the time my primary midwife, Keren, arrived at our home and she and Conor quickly set-up the birthing pool. I had decided (despite Conor’s aunt, a retired midwife, describing it as “baby soup”) to have a water birth. Arthur was a “land birth”, but I had great pain management using a warm pool to wade through my contractions. This time I would just stay for the whole ride. 

In the birthing pool I only stayed on my hands and knees. It offered the best position to have my front hips submerged which were on fire throughout my contractions. I draped myself on the edge of the pool and held on to Conor’s arms as he sat beside the pool. I remember saying how much it hurt and how I couldn’t do it, yet knowing the only way out was through. It was not knowing how long the pain would last that was the worst. 

I have a vague memory of the second midwife, Ashley, arriving. I was well into active labour at this point and so focused on riding out the waves of pain that I didn’t even look up to see her. Not long after she arrived, Keren told me that when it felt like I needed to push, just do it. After riding a contraction there was a moment near the end that felt different. When the next contraction came, I pushed hard, wanting the birth to be over quick. In one push, the head came out, and after one more big push, our little Maud was born in the water.

Maud did this rare thing as she entered this side of existence. She emerged from me still in her amniotic sac, or en caul. It only happens in 1 out of 800,000 births. These are called mermaid births and the child born this way is said to be good in water. According to our midwives, almost every ancient culture has positive superstitions or lore around en caul births. So, it is safe to say that Maud is blessed!

After Maud was born, I transitioned easily to the couch where I was stitched up. There was only some minor tearing that required stitching. Around this time, Keren massaged my uterus so it would go back to its former size. After I was taken care of, I was able to sit up and nurse Maud for the first time. We called our families and basked in the beauty of our new child.

Everything that followed happened really fast. I asked if I could get some dry clothes on and remove the wet towels and sheets under me. Keren came and sat beside me asking if I was agitated in a playful tone. She would later tell me this was the first sign to her that something was up. I tried to stand and blood immediately started dripping down my legs. I sat back down, feeling lightheaded. Then I guess I passed out. The next thing I remember is that I was lying down, and I could hear Ashley on the phone with 911 calling for an ambulance. Keren was sticking an IV into my hand and hanging up a bag of saline on the curtain rod. Then she started frantically massaging my stomach again to get my uterus to contract back down. She would alternate between vigorous pressing and then scooping out massive blood clots from my vagina. She explained afterwards that I was bleeding, but blood clots formed a plug at my cervix. This made my uterus continue to expand and fill up with blood. 

Throughout all this, I was given a ton of medication; some through IV, one rectally, and another orally. The one I took orally made me shake and become incredibly cold. 

I was aware of Conor in the room holding Maud through all this. At one point, he was instructed by the midwives to keep an eye out for the ambulance and get them to come in through the back of the house. Conor told me later that he found it hard to not be in the room with me during this time. He hoped to pass the task of lookout onto a neighbour, but no one was around. 

Eventually five paramedics arrived filling our back room. One came and spoke with me to keep me conscious and present. Keren briefed them on the interventions so far, and everyone schemed how to get me out of the house. The birthing pool took up a good chunk of the room without an easy access to the door. They guided me onto a chair with wheels as I shivered and bled, wheeling me through the maze in the room, out onto the deck and onto a stretcher in our driveway. They threw my grandma’s quilt on me to keep me warm. In my initial delirium I didn’t want it because I was afraid of getting blood all over it, but once I settled into the back of the ambulance, I appreciated feeling like I was wrapped up in my grandma’s arms. She had died during the pandemic and had only got to meet Arthur during a window visit, so feeling her presence during this birth was extra meaningful.

We left town and got onto the highway towards the hospital which was 20 minutes away. As we left, a storm was settling in. Rain crashed on the windows, and thunder and lightning set an ominous stage for a drive to the hospital. Keren came in the ambulance with me, and she said Conor and Maud would follow us in the car. 

At the hospital, the rain continued to pour, and I learned later that there was a tornado warning. I was taken directly to the maternity ward and the OB came in promptly to assess. As Keren briefed him on the interventions, the amount of blood I had lost was also communicated: 1.8 litres. That’s a third of my blood supply. The OB examined me under spotlights while I lay spread eagle. It’s amazing how in childbirth, there is no time for shame or embarrassment of your body. Everything is on display. The OB determined that I was stabilizing and that the midwives had intervened in every way that he would have. 

As things settled and my shaking stopped, Conor and Maud arrived in the room. Conor admitted later that he had no idea what he was arriving to—me in the maternity ward, in surgery, or worse. He had the brief thought on the drive that he could be a single dad. I barely got to say goodbye to him when the paramedics took me away. I had a brief glance at him, holding Maud, as he said, “I love you.” That could have been our last goodbye.

I was admitted to the hospital and stayed one night. Conor and Maud were able to stay with me as well. The next day I was given two units of blood. I was released at 4:00 pm after the transfusions were done and my bloodwork came back OK. The storm was over. The healing was to begin. 

It’s one thing to tell the story. It’s another to sit with the feelings of it all. In the month following Maud’s birth, I felt myself closing up, and shutting down into survival mode, when what I really needed to do was sit with my feelings and give them the spotlight. I felt stuck in liminal space of being so in love and excited to have Maud, and also stunned and shocked at what my body and I just went through. I needed time to heal physically and mentally. 

My emotions were all over the place. I was quick to frustration and irritability, especially when I was bleeding heavily which I did for a good month after the birth. The fact that I could have died hit differently at different times. There are moments when I can say that and laugh, while others, I cry. Even now, six months postpartum, my body is still restoring itself and I need to let it. I want to let it, but it’s hard when I also want to be present and involved with my family and home. This too is a season, and I am trying to honour that. As Maud gets older and more alert, I sometimes wonder how she holds this experience. She too was there in such a big way. How will her body remember those moments? 

To process this experience, I spent significant time writing in a journal. I leaned on my sister and an old friend who also has a newborn. I have my baby and mama groups. I meditated, went to therapy, and tried to reconnect with my body through as much yoga and walking as I could handle. I’ve done all the right things.

I have also done everything to zone out and avoid my feelings. I’ve doomscrolled late into the night when I should be getting sleep. I have been quick to anger with both my kids and my husband. I have had way too much sugar and coffee in a day. The time spent feeling my feelings, so far has felt equal to the time I have spent avoiding them. I know this is me in survival mode. 

I oscillate between healing and survival modes to get me through this season. I’m getting to know my own body again, nearly a stranger to me after the changes from two births. My perspective on my role as a mom and my identity as a woman has shifted greatly. I read a quote shortly after Maud’s birth that hit home in a big way: “She is awake to her blood loss and therefore just beginning to live” (Clarissa Pinkola Estes in Women Who Run with Wolves). This experience was more than just the birth of a daughter, it was also the rebirth of a mother. I am not the same person I was prior to Maud’s arrival and I am learning to welcome and love the new woman I am. 

—Ashley Prince