If this is what dying feels like — it's peaceful.

An unconventional birth story.

It’s time.

We arrived at the emergency entrance of the Northumberland Hospital. My contractions in full swing, practicing intentional breathing as I maneuvered out of the passenger seat, grabbing my purse and waddling toward the hospital entrance. My attention laser-focused, scanning the building quickly to locate the triage. Karl shouting behind me, “Do you need help getting inside?!” — “No”.

He parked the car in the meantime.

Tenacious, is one way to describe me. Stubborn, another side of the same coin. I was a woman on a mission, and if I didn’t get checked in at triage now, it felt like this baby was going to push through at any moment. Little did I know, it was just the beginning. The idea of help was a kind gesture, but it was more efficient to usher myself over, talking was a challenge at this point. If you know, you know. And I didn’t have the capacity to answer any questions, the most I could offer was a nod, between breaths. Getting inside on my own, if anything, helped me stay focused on my breathing. Labor was well underway, and I was locked in. Oscillating between a strong but painless pressure in my lower abdomen, with a moderate feeling of needing to pee. To a deep pain that would creep on, increasing in intensity. A dull aching pressure, extending from the abdomen to my lower back. Two minutes on, five minutes off.

When I got inside, I noticed all the triage booths were occupied — great.

Irritated, I scanned for the next available seat nearby. Barely able to sit still, fidgeting and breathing deeply. It felt surreal waiting to get checked in, knowing I wouldn’t leave the hospital the way I entered it. Just as my mind began to wander — a booth became available at triage. I made my way over, feeling nauseous and dizzy at this point. When I told the attendant I was in active labour. She immediately started moving very quickly, surprised, mentioning I could have just interrupted to get checked in right away. Noted. I have a tendency to minimize my needs — even in active labour. Something I overcame quickly a few weeks into motherhood.

I spent the weeks approaching my due date, visualizing and reflecting on how I wanted my birth experience to be. I mapped out my thoughts, prepared my birth plan and arrived with every intention of realizing my vision of how it all would go. I decided I wanted an unmedicated birth, ready to ride the waves as they came and went. Knowing it was going to be more intense as time went on. I wanted to be present, and feel the experience as it was happening. Despite the pain and discomfort. I wanted full control over my body. I had the opportunity to talk with the women in my life, who bravely shared their experiences. A variety of them — some unmedicated, some opted for the epidural, some a combination of different pain management options (such as laughing gas). My takeaway was, I could do this. They did it, they survived, I was fully capable of doing the same. I heard many times — expect the unexpected, because often times the labor and delivery doesn’t go exactly as planned. Naively and stubbornly I thought, everything will go as planned. I was firm on my intentions and envisioned how everything would unfold. Creating visual pictures of my goals and ideal scenes, was something I was already familiar with in business and relationships. As a tool to affirm my ability to achieve and attain what I set out to do. To bridge the gap between where I am, and where I want to be. I figured the labor and birthing process would be no different.

Finally in the birthing suite, my midwife arrived and started the process of monitoring my contractions. At this point the pain and pressure in my lower abdomen was extremely uncomfortable. As I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, focusing on my breathing as she scanned the reports. Immersing deeper into the waves of pain, shamelessly vocalizing the sounds my body wanted to make. To ease into the pain of each contraction as it came on — the deep, guttural, vibrating moans. This is when I began to tap into a place — a layer of consciousness that is a dial above where we currently exist. Floating just above it all. With each breath and vocal release, I realized the true labor process had officially begun. I began to wonder, how much of this I could actually take. How long would it take? I’ve only been here for about an hour, I’ve heard labor can take hours…I was in for a ride.

With each two minute onset of deep, dull pain, I had to mentally adjust and remind myself, I can do this. No wonder my mother-in-law let out a compassionate sigh, when I said I was bringing a journal to reflect on, and record the labor process. I managed to crack a smile, now I understood. This was a trip, a journey. And if you’ve ever had the chance to take psilocybin (magic mushrooms) in a guided, ceremonial setting, it was similar in a sense, I was anchored in. Immovable. The vision quest had begun. This wasn’t an experience you could just bookmark and journal about. You had to actively participate and navigate, body, mind and spirit, all senses on deck. Until you were through it.

After another deep, dull and aching two minutes. I emerged from the meditative tunnel and shifted my attention toward the midwife. Just one look at her and I felt the energy in the room change. She appeared deep in thought. Brows raised, massaging her temples. I finally asked her, “Is everything okay? How are the contractions”. She began to explain how the baby’s heart rate is irregular, she spent some time reviewing the patterns. And didn’t like what she was seeing. She positioned me in different ways to get a better reading, but the heart rate wasn’t improving. At this point I was 6 cm dilated. I had an intuitive urge to stand, or pace around. I wanted to move my body, wanted to channel the pain into movement, laying still was very uncomfortable…but also made me feel trapped emotionally. I asked if we could try moving around to help improve the heart rate. But my request was firmly declined, with a suggestion to call in the obstetrician — right away. I felt a sting in my heart, it was the first thorn of helplessness — the feeling of losing control, embedding itself within me. A familiar sense of wanting to defend my autonomy, yet feeling paralyzed in doing so. It was all happening so fast.

Karl joined us in the room at this point, and was caught up with the situation. They helped me change into a hospital gown. I forgot to request the comfortable one I packed.

Another deep, dull aching two minutes. The pain increasing, my skin damp from sweat — I felt a sinking feeling. A combination of fear, sadness and panic. My power being taken from me. Already grieving what could have been, knowing it likely won’t be how I envisioned it to be. I sorted through my thoughts quickly and landed on the priority in my heart and mind — whatever it takes to get baby here safely. I asked the midwife what the best options are, if there was anyway we could proceed vaginally, unmedicated as intended. She expressed the risks, and I wasn’t willing to take a chance. The OB arrived shortly after.

I felt the energy in the room — the tension, uneasiness and stress from the midwife, OB, and nurses. The next chain of events were a blur. Between two minute, increasingly painful leaps in time. I would come in and out of awareness between contractions. As they rushed around looking at the heart rate report, adjusting sensors on my body, examining and poking at my cervix. Applying pressure to my abdomen and belly. I felt like a lab experiment, being researched, observed and examined. So out of touch at this point, with the expectation of intimacy and sacredness of the experience. Slowly, the vision I crafted in my mind throughout pregnancy, faded. It felt like I was watching a time-lapse, everything moving quickly all around me. But I was frozen in time. Still dialled in, just above it all. I could tell the situation was urgent and decisions needed to be made quickly. That’s when I heard them toss around the one word I was hoping not to hear — c-section.

Another painful two minutes — I remember witnessing the scene unfold in the room, as if I was watching a television screen. Although I was active in breathing through the pain, through each contraction reverberating through my body, I felt completely invisible otherwise. Like my soul was a ghost in the room. I was simply a body on a hospital bed. A host. Perhaps I had disassociated partially. Perhaps it was a defence mechanism to cope with the pain, while emotionally keeping myself intact. Floating just above it all felt like the perfect place to be, in order to lubricate the rigid feeling of helplessness. To make it feel tolerable, acceptable, despite the circumstances. Whatever it took to get baby here safely.

The OB slipped behind the curtain by the door and emerged with a long plastic tool, an amnihook — a long slim instrument with a tiny hook at the end. Used for inducing labour by breaking the water. I felt my body constrict at the sight of it. I wanted to feel my body naturally release the amniotic fluid. I didn’t want it to happen like this. With her eyes locked on mine from behind her hospital mask, she asked for permission to insert the instrument, to break my amniotic membrane, with the intention to release the fluid in a last attempt to improve the baby’s heart rate and progress labor — I consented, yes.

After the next contraction, I felt my heart drop the moment she applied pressure to my thighs, asking me to part my legs as wide as I could, for her to insert the instrument. I expected this level of vulnerability, but didn’t expect to feel this uncomfortable with it. I’ve been to countless appointments concerning the health of intimate areas, OB, family doctor, practitioners, aestheticians. And those felt like another day at the nail salon, talking about something and nothing to pass the time, laughing even. But in this moment, I held back tears, my throat was tight — this felt like consenting to something I didn’t actually want — like a scared teenager afraid to tell the smothering drunk guy at a party, to stop. Maybe a part of me intuitively knew, there could have been another way around this. Breathing into yet another contraction. As the pain eased, it was replaced by an uncomfortable internal pressure and pinch, as she inserted the instrument and broke my water. Immediately I felt a release inside, followed by a warm trickle of liquid onto the hospital bed. Before I could wrap my head around what just happened, the midwife signalled to the OB with urgency — and they were helping me off the bed into the operating room. The baby’s heart rate didn’t improve. It got worse.

Breathing through the unbearable pain of another contraction, jolting with the onset. I held the gauze pad between my legs with one hand, as someone assisted me with the other, hobbling down the hallway barefoot into the bright shiny sterile operating room. I sat on the cold metal bed. Feeling the dampness of my amniotic soaked gauze under me. My bare back exposed, I felt so vulnerable, like a deer in the headlights. A shockwave of dull aching pain overtook me, hitting me with such intensity, I clenched my fists and toes. The muscles in my womb contracting so intensely, with the amniotic fluid gone, the pain and pressure of the contraction almost knocked my breath out. Breathing deeply, hissing as the air escaped my lungs. The midwife was standing in front of me, while others poured into the room. The anesthesiologist started wiping my back with a cold cloth, and began the procedure to insert the spinal anesthesia. He marked the areas on my lower back, where he would attempt to insert a needle between my spine and inject the medicine — just as another contraction began. My vision went blurry. The pain was so deep, so intense, my body and breath shaking as I attempted to remember how to inhale and exhale. Just as the anesthesiologist began inserting the needle into my spine.

When the contraction ended, my breathing was short and shallow. My body trembled from the aftershock and chill in the room. I remember the midwife telling me to take a deep breath. To ground myself, and understand what was about to happen. To take a moment before the procedure begins. I was about to meet my baby boy. She acknowledged, this wasn’t what I had planned for, or envisioned. This wasn’t what we spent months preparing for — and it’s ok to mourn that, but to also bring to my awareness that this was the best course of action to protect the baby, and myself. We were safe. She would be right here with me the whole time, along with Karl. I nodded, eyes filled with tears — another vision blurring, breath shaking, contraction arrived. Balled fists, curled toes. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. I was sweating from the pain, yet cold from the paper thin hospital gown only covering my front.

I noticed they had attempted to insert the needle into my spine multiple times, each time I confirmed I felt the “test” — which I wasn’t supposed to feel. If the final attempt didn’t work, we would have to do general anesthesia. Time was of the essence. If GA was necessary, Karl wouldn’t be in the operating room with me. Learning this, I honed in every ounce of intention. Every bit of will power. Pleading for my back to cooperate, for the needle to make its way exactly where it needed to go. To successfully deliver the anesthesia. Just as another mind-bending contraction arrived, I curled forward to arch my spine. White knuckled, squinting from the pain in an effort not to move. Finally, they were able to deliver the medicine. My toes started to tingle, legs felt heavy and warm. The pain of the contraction soothed over, as the warm tingles made their way up my body. I positioned my legs onto the bed, as the midwife helped me lay back. We did it. Game time.

My legs were heavy and numb. I couldn’t move my toes. I couldn’t tell where the numbing ended, and where the feeling began. From the waist down, I was completely numb. The bright lights of the operating room were blinding. I noticed Karl appeared at my left side, hand on my shoulder, fashioned in hospital blue, with a face mask and hair net. I could see his curled eyes, he was giving me a reassuring smile. While the midwife positioned herself on my right, along with the anesthesiologist. Nurses appeared from the sidelines, a trolly of tools and instruments dangling as they brought them to the bedside. A curtain was draped across my chest, a literal veil between the physical world and the portal which they were about to open. The OB arrived and gestured to the nurses to hand her a tool. The anesthesiologist said, “They’re going to do a quick test to make sure you don’t feel anything”.

Looking wide-eyed at the anesthesiologist, my heart skipped. I felt whatever they were doing on the other side of that curtain. I squirmed and blurted out in a panic, “I feel that!” He looked surprised, jerking his head over the curtain and said, “Well, they’ve started the procedure. Would you like some laughing gas?” — my pulse was rising, my breath rapid, whatever was happening behind the curtain wasn’t just “pressure” or “tugging”. As I’ve been told it would feel, if that. It was painful — a burning sensation, similar to a tattoo. Intense pressure, tugging and pulling, too. The intensity of the tugging and pulling nearly knocked my breath out. As if literally being gut punched in the stomach. I realized the anesthesia was only partially effective at this point. There was nothing they could do. I was well aware procedures like this only take minutes. I needed to garner every ounce of mental focus and brave through it. I remember feeling like I would crush my teeth into dust, with how hard I was clenching my jaw, with every burning cut. I wish I had something to bite down onto. My torso began involuntarily jerking, my arms flailing. It was torture.

The gas mask arrived, and my arms were restrained. The gas wasn’t helping. The pain was unbearable. At the apex of helplessness and defeat, I knew there was nothing I could physically do. My fight or flight response was physically useless. I was stuck in a body I had no control over. Like plummeting to the ground off a cliff, without a harness — a speeding car without breaks. My breathing was panicked, sharp, and heavy. This was far past the point of an anxiety attack or mental breakdown. This was life or death, a crisis.

It was pointless, I had to surrender my attempt to fight. I was restrained and there was no escaping this situation physically. I abandoned my awareness, the mental hold on the feeling of each burning incision and gut punching pressure. I started focusing my thoughts inward. Floating even higher — above it all. I closed my eyes and began to lean into the darkness. I pleaded and begged.

PLEASE anyone, please help me — please. An attempt at a prayer.

Source. Creator. God. Mom. Dad. Angels — PLEASE. Give me something, anything. Please help me get through this pain. PLEASE HELP ME.

I envisioned myself rising even higher up, clawing at the darkness attempting to grip onto something. As I sensed yet another sharp cut and intense pressure coming from my abdomen. PLEASE HELP ME. I was desperately screaming in my mind. My thoughts begging urgently for respite. For relief.

Just as I thought my lungs would give out, from attempting to calm my shaking breathing. While my physical response contradicted my attempt at mental calmness, eagerly swallowing as much air as I could handle. I felt like a plug was pulled, I was falling backward, through the hospital bed — into darkness. The feeling in my body disappearing, as the heavy numbness from my legs began to rise into my abdomen, through my torso, arms, fingers, head. I was granite. Immovable. I couldn’t open my eyes.

I was floating in complete darkness, painless bliss. Peace at last.

I heard the faint echoes of the operating room in the distance. Somewhere to my left. As if I was floating through the water of an inky black tunnel. I shifted my attention to the right — a light.

Adjusting my focus, the light began to expand as I focused on it. Like moonlight over a dark ocean. The inky black water began to cradle me, a warm embrace. I was floating in a blissful warm river on autopilot. The river ebbed and flowed, gently pulling me toward the light. Figures began to appear in the light. I saw two figures, standing closely together. The light was so bright it was hard to make out their features, I tried to focus harder — that’s when their energy connected with mine, and I knew who it was with out a doubt — Mom. Dad.

I was in complete awe. Mom. Dad. Finally…I missed you so much, I thought. “You’re here, I’m having a baby!” I felt eager to let them know. Before I could complete my own thought, I knew — they knew. They were here on purpose. They were here this whole time. Fascinating, I thought. My attention then shifted back to where I was, in the warm darkness. As I readjusted my focus toward the light, again. New figures appeared, I noticed a few scattered on either sides of the light. And a main figure in front of my parents. It was almost like a video game, the pixels needed time to recalibrate, to load, in order for me to see everything as I approached closer. The moment a saw the new figure I knew — it was Jesus. All around him, angels.

A welcoming party.

I’m not a religious person. Although spirituality is a huge part of my life now, I grew up Catholic and Jesus played a big role in my upbringing. I always loved Jesus. And here he was. It’s as though the information downloaded into my awareness instantly. The message I received was — “You are safe. You are incredibly loved. We are here to help you. I am here to guide you, if you choose to be guided”. I felt pure love, peace and safety. Bliss. I also knew, if I drifted closer to the light. It would be incredibly difficult to go back, back to my body and the physical world. It felt like a magnetic force was pulling me in toward it, slowly.

A shockwave of panic broke the bliss I was feeling. As if an elastic snapped me out of a trance. I heard a faint crying in the distance, a baby crying. My baby.

I shifted my attention to the left, through the inky black abyss back toward the operating room. I heard a nurse echo in the distance, “Congratulations! You have a baby boy”. The voices echoing like murmurs underwater. Mournful joy vibrated through me, my heart tender, what a miracle… I have a baby boy! I shifted my attention back toward the light, nudging in the direction of my parents, and Jesus. As if to proudly inform them, too. I felt the energy of loving grief, as the desire to see my baby overcame me. I thought of Karl, who was likely holding our baby, Phoenix now. I felt so far away from them. My family. Grief intensified because I wanted to be with them. But I was so far away. I felt apart, not with them. It was in that moment that I realized, am I dying?

Panic. I didn’t want to die. I cannot die now. I looked at the light, now beckoning me — so near, so warm, so close. Just a nudge forward and I would be in the light, with them. Jesus said he would guide me, if I decided to go into the light. I could finally see my parents again. Embrace them. He was like an usher, here to guide me and reassure me. Now it made sense, flashbacks to bible study, why they called him a shepherd. The light felt like such a peaceful place, even looking in its direction, I felt the absence of fear. It was perfect, the most blissful place.

NO — I can’t. I have a baby. I want to see my baby. I want to see Karl. I have a family. On earth, back there — I needed to get back. They need me. Without looking at the light, with the fear of immersing myself into it and not returning to my body — I made my decision.

I knew I could carry the same reassurance and love I felt from my parents, and Jesus, even if I decided to go back to my body.

I heard the echos of a voice in the distance, “Open your eyes! It’s your baby boy!”.

Another mournful sting. But I couldn’t open my eyes.

I was gone, so far away.

I began to wrestle in the opposite direction, toward the operating room. To the left. Swimming through black inky water. Pushing through an invisible resistance. It felt like attempting to fight a strong currant. I kept the vision of Karl, of the baby I had yet to meet in my heart. In my mind. I let the desire and love for them guide me. I felt myself slowly gaining traction through the darkness, reconnecting with fragments of my physical body. Still in darkness, I couldn’t feel my body. But I felt as though I was back in my own head, laying on the operating tabIe, I felt my physical body crying. Tears rolling down the sides of my face.

I heard the voice prompt again, “Open your eyes! Meet your baby”.

“I can’t open my eyes”, I mumbled.

I could hear the nurse giggling, as if I was being silly. They didn’t know how far away I went.

Then I felt a pressure on my chest, and I knew, it was him. My baby.

As if awakening from the deepest sleep, my eyes began to open. The light stinging my vision as they adjusted. Everything blurry at first. There he was. My baby boy. Laying on my chest. He was so pink, and tiny. So innocent. So perfect.

I couldn’t move my arms yet. But I cried deeply, tears flooding my eyes and rolling down the sides of my face, I was relieved. He was here, Phoenix was here. Safe. I was back, too. I shifted my eyes to the left — Karl. Thank God. We’re all here. Together.

I knew birth was a portal between the spiritual realms and the physical world. But I wasn’t expecting this.

I closed my eyes. They took Phoenix away to clean him up. I was too delirious to question where they took him and why. I surrendered to the process, thankful to be back. I don’t remember what happened between the operating room and arriving in the birthing suite. I just gripped Karls hand and said sleepily, “We have a baby…you’re a father”.

He smiled and said, “I know, for a moment I thought I was a single father. Everyone was so busy with Phoenix, they didn’t notice”.

“I thought you died, your body was still and your hands went limp” his eyes glossy, he exhaled, “I’m just glad you’re both okay”.

“I think I almost died too — I saw Jesus, and a white light” I said.

We held each others gaze, as the nurses rolled Phoenix into the room in a bassinet, and positioned him next to me.

The initiation was completed.

I whispered to myself — I’m a mother.