I suspect my first pregnancy story is the average, run-of-the-mill narrative familiar to most women in the United States. It is likely what society views as “normal” if there is such a thing. I was late, I took a pregnancy test, it was positive, I went to the doctor, I was tested again and the pregnancy was confirmed. I rushed out to find a copy of the book that has all of the answers – or one version of them, anyway – “What to Expect When You are Expecting” by Heidi Murkoff and Sharon Mazel. I read it cover to cover, keeping track of my baby’s growth week by week and what medical tests to expect during the next appointment. We were living in sunny Southern California at the time and part of a tremendously large health system. I never knew who was going to see during my appointments. I didn’t know who would eventually deliver my baby (which is funny to think about now because, of course, I would delivery my baby). What I did know is that I would have an epidural and whatever else was offered to keep the pain at bay. That I would have my baby in the hospital. And that I would bottle feed (I was a busy athlete, wanting to return to my SoCal lifestyle as a new mom).
As routine as my expectations were for my labor and delivery, my pregnancy was somewhat unorthodox. I was a rock climber, and continued lead climbing several times a week at the local gym where I also worked. I was a new triathlete and continued road biking and running. I dipped in the ocean on a daily basis to either swim out to the ¼ mile buoy in the cove or paddle out to the waves on my surfboard. I was a new yoga practitioner and immediately purchased a prenatal yoga DVD, as well. Of course, the intensity of my activities waned a bit, but it was important to me to remain active. I was unwilling to accept the idea that I was in an especially delicate state that required me to retreat from my normal, daily life. I was young, healthy and confident in my ability to understand my body and its needs. In retrospect, I was right…and perhaps just a smidgen wrong.
Continuing in the same unorthodox vein, when I was 32 weeks pregnant my husband and I decided to move to New Zealand and become permanent residents. We’d traveled extensively throughout New Zealand in prior years and were excited with the idea of birthing our first child there. I began contacting doctors (I’d seen many of them at this point) and collecting the necessary medical records for our residency applications. Time and time again doctors shook their heads and fingers at me, letting me know the risks of my decision, while the nurse’s side glance was full of disapproval. But they could not deny that I was healthy and my pregnancy had been flawlessly uneventful up to that point. I was begrudgingly given medical papers attesting to my good health and number of weeks pregnant for my travel (women 36 weeks pregnant and beyond are discouraged from air travel, especially international travel and often require medical approval).
We arrived in Christchurch at the end of August, where spring was quick on the heels of winter. Our friends greeted us warmly, housing and feeding us for our first week while we searched for our own place. Curiously they never questioned our decision, never expressed concern for my or the baby’s health, in fact they did not seem to bat an eyelash. Rather, when we’d found a quaint little apartment a block from the beach they set to helping us fill it with the necessities – dishes, furniture, television and the like. They also introduced me to Katie, a local midwife.
Katie was a strong, beautiful woman with a cheerful smile and sunbeam eyes. Within moments of meeting her, I felt as though I’d known her for years. Her knowledge and confidence eased my pregnant mind and I knew she’d be at my side in the hospital. This is the woman who would deliver our first born into the world on this beautiful South Island of New Zealand that we hoped to soon call home.
She came to our home for the initial visit and, much to my surprise, I learned that all of our weekly visits would take place right in my living room. Katie spent and hour or two with us during each unrushed visit, chatting about our lives, our preferences and our choices. It was tea with a friend who’d popped over for a visit rather than the sterile, routine pee test, legs spread, “everything looks good” 15 minutes with a stranger that I’d experienced in the health conglomerate that we call “care.” It must have been the second visit that Katie popped the question that blew my mind.
“So,” she said, “how would you like this to go?”
I was befuddled. I didn’t know there were options. I’d never seen or heard of any way other than: 1) water breaks; 2) woman rushes the to hospital; 3) woman endures intense pain; 4) in the throws of agonizing pain woman makes horrible remarks to all who speak to her; 5) baby is born (think of any popular film or television portrayal of labor and delivery here). As one friend recently put it, many cultures tell stories to pass on wisdom. Our stories come in the form of television shows. Katie left us with a stack of books to read and some DVD’s to watch for a crash course regarding the decisions that were ours - not hers – to make.
So I found myself 34 weeks pregnant with our first child in a country on the other side of the world with choices I never knew I had. My assumptions crumbled, my pregnant world broke wide open and an adventure was born.
