My own beautiful medicine: A music assisted childbirth journey

Natasha
Natasha
Sep 9, 2018 · 13 min read

It’s hard to know where to begin.

By many counts, nothing about my child’s life thus far has been particularly remarkable. They were conceived naturally, pregnancy was relatively uncomplicated, and to hear the average doctor say it, delivery was pretty straightforward too.

And yet, as with most things, there are layers of complexity. Layers that add a spark of magic, a story worth telling. I believe we all have such stories inside us.

Before I begin telling mine though, a few notes of housekeeping:

1. You may find me using various pronouns interchangeably here to describe my child, and occasionally just the nickname “Mo.” It’s whatever. Gender is a social construct. Mind yo bidness.

2. I present my story as *my* story, and recognize that it may or may not be something that resonates with everyone. A degree of medical interventions were involved in our journey. My partner and I were faced with choices we had to make in the moment for the safe and healthy delivery of our baby, and we made those choices with care and consideration for them with all the insight, instinct, and information we had at the time. Maybe you or someone you love did not have the type of delivery where you had to make the choices we did. Every labor is different. Every Body is different. This is a judgement free zone.

Ok. Onward.

In the beginning, there were two artist types, one a Music Therapist, the other a Percussionist (gigging musician and instructor), who just really wanted a baby. We held that want, nourished that want, and worked for that want, for four years. We tried everything short of IVF (a route we only didn’t take because we couldn’t afford it, but if we could have we likely would have). It was excruciating and demoralizing, a constant undercurrent to our otherwise very fulfilling lives. We took occasional breaks from fertility treatments to regroup during periods like when we first moved across the country from our home in North Dakota to New Orleans, and were on another planned break from treatment when all of a sudden we were pregnant: completely without intervention. I remember running into our bedroom with the pregnancy test, shoving it in front of my barely awake husband’s face and screaming “LOOK AT THIS SHIT!”

We couldn’t believe it. We’d conceived naturally. After four years of failed medical intervention. Thousands of dollars and tears. No idea what exactly did it in the end. It just happened for us.

Pregnancy, as I mentioned, was relatively unremarkable — a smooth ride, by most standards — but to me, after four years of trying, every moment was a wonder, and a terror. I hardly had any morning sickness (in fact I never did puke that whole first trimester), but then in the moments when I wasn’t feeling even a little bit queasy, I’d be anxious, thinking “Is it still there? Does the fact that I don’t feel anything mean they’re gone?” The anxiety was overwhelming at times. I actually longed for those moments of nausea and rejoiced when they did occasionally appear. By the second trimester, when people started talking about feeling kicks, I obsessed about scanning myself for movement. I bought one of those little home doppler kits to hear the heartbeat at home to reassure myself again, that baby was still there, even if I didn’t feel them.

My husband Bernie was remarkable throughout this entire process. He honored my neuroses, acknowledging their origins because he knew them just as well. He encouraged us to spend time in our neuroses together, but always simultaneously over something like cooking dinner, going for walks, or exploring our new neighborhood together when we moved cross country once more (during the third trimester!) to Indianapolis. During those times, we could talk about the things that were scaring or exciting us while we literally nourished our bodies. That may seem really straightforward to other people, but to us, it was something we had to be really conscious about, making the choice to not let our fears take us down individual rabbit holes. We were (and are) in this together.

It was around this time that I realized we were going to need some (a lot) of external support leading up to, during, and possibly beyond the labor and delivery process. I started researching doulas. I also looked into seeing if there were any fellow Music Therapists in our new community that I could talk to about Music Assisted Childbirth. As I put it to Bernie “I want music to be part of our child’s birth, but I don’t want to be ‘on the job’ while I’m doing the hardest thing I’ll probably ever put my body through.”

It didn’t take long for us to find the unicorn, a doula who was also an MT-BC (Board Certified Music Therapist)! Jen and I met over coffee at the beginning of my third trimester, then she came to our house for a little “get to know you” session with Bernie & I that involved asking us questions about our birth preferences, interspersed with questions about our musical backgrounds and tastes. The ultimate goal was to put together playlists and practices for us that were planned around specific stages of labor, as well as particular comfort needs (for instance I had playlists & aromatherapy scents that made me think of home and family, as well as playlists and techniques that were more specifically geared towards moving or “breathing baby down” the birth canal). These were all carefully curated in advance of delivery, and in additional sessions with Jen we practiced various breathing techniques, positions and partner holds/counterpressure/massage for labor and delivery. In between those sessions, we took Lamaze classes to supplement what we were learning from Jen.

So when the day came, we knew we had a plan, and a backup plan, and a backup to the backup, and a general sense of comfort and willingness to be flexible that I think we can safely say we owe almost entirely to the carefully guided preparation we underwent before a single contraction even began.

My water broke while climbing the stairs to a fancy restaurant at which Bernie and I had reservations for our ninth wedding anniversary. It wasn’t a Hollywood gush by any means, more like a slight popping sensation and then a trickle down my leg. I wasn’t completely sure what it was at first. Bernie felt me freeze at the top of the stairs and asked if I was ok. “I think…I may have just peed myself,” I remember saying, “I was really proud of myself for avoiding that part of pregnancy but I guess it just happened. You go get the table, I’ll go to the bathroom.”

But by the time I got to the bathroom, it was clear this wasn’t pee, and we weren’t going to have dinner at Provision that night. I texted Bernie from the bathroom “don’t freak out, but I think my water just broke. I’m in the unisex bathroom.” Bernie was there in an instant and we were calling our doctor’s emergency line, with lounge music blaring overhead as the operator said things like “what’s that, I’m having a really hard time hearing you.”

From there, the transition to the hospital is a bit of a blur. I wasn’t contracting yet, but I remember the sense of urgent calm in the voice of the doctor on call as they told us that their primary concern was infection once those membranes broke and that we needed to get to them as soon as we could, even if we weren’t contracting. I remember saying “ok” a lot.

Bernie let the concierge know what was up. The poor guy nervously followed us all the way to the elevator, sputtering “good luck, I mean, I hope you’re ok, be careful, all the best…”

We called both our mothers from the car. They took care of notifying the rest of the family. Jen met us at the hospital, then Bernie ran home to get the go-bag and feed our cat. I looked fabulous, here in my makeup and earrings from dinner adorning my hospital gown in those first few hours of labor.

The author in a hospital gown, reclining in bed with a nervous smile, wearing purple lipstick.

Shoutout to Two Faced Longwear Lip Color. That shit lasted a full 13 hours worth of contractions, which were stimulated by a cervix ripener, since my initial contractions (once they finally started) didn’t get me very far. I think we went from 1 centimeter dilated to 1.5 in like, 6 hours. Not off to the greatest start in my mind, but then — as the doctors and Jen reminded me — this was our first baby. They usually like to take their time.

In these moments with Jen, we played a lot of upbeat tunes: I had Janelle Monae going when she first arrived, then she took over the DJ slot, playing Bob Marley and other Black/Caribbean artists who made me feel equally comforted and motivated. We did a lot of dancing. Before you know it, I’d hit 4 centimeters. As things intensified, we changed the music and our positioning up roughly every half hour. Artists like Brandi Carlisle and Paul Simon transitioned to Enya (that’s right, I said Enya, come at me), and gentler instrumental guitar or harp as contractions came faster and closer together. I spent more time on the floor then. I remember feeling comforted by the linoleum under my hands and knees, the feeling of Bernie’s hands providing counter pressure on my hips, the scent of Paulo Santo under my nose, and Jen’s voice over the music reminding me how strong I was, how my body was doing exactly what it needed to be doing.

We hit 8 centimeters, aka “Transition.” The stage leading up to crowning. I felt a near constant urge to push, even though it was too soon to do so. This is where we stalled.

I remember hearing the doctor tell me I was starting to run a temperature, remind me of concerns about infection. Then she said the word “Pitocin,” an IV med they were thinking of using to try and get my contractions moving a little more strongly. I didn’t want Pitocin. It wasn’t in Plan A. So we asked some questions — were there other things we could try? Did we have to do it right away? The doc agreed to us taking some time to try new positions and see if we could get things moving on our own.

We remained at 8 centimeters. In fact, the doctor began informing us we were almost standing to lose ground at this point. “You’re very strong,” I remember her telling me, to which I responded wryly “why thank you very much” in the best Elvis impression I could muster at the time.

“You’re so strong, but what your body is actually doing right now isn’t helping you…” She then went on to explain that my constant instinct to push was putting such strain on my cervix it was actually starting to swell, which needless to say was the opposite of what we wanted it to be doing. We had to find a way to get it to thin back out while still getting contractions coming stronger in order to get baby out ASAP to combat the infection risk we were still facing, as my temperature still hadn’t gone down.

We negotiated. Yes to Pitocin. But also, yes to augmenting my previously natural methods with medical pain management. Plan B.

Remember now, this is a judgement free zone. This wasn’t (and isn’t) about my strength or tolerance level. Aiding my labor with pain meds (beginning with nitrous oxide, or laughing gas) was a decision we made in the moment to try and get my body to relax enough for me to regain the control necessary to stop putting the pressure on my cervix that was slowing our labor down. This decision was all about our baby’s health and safety.

Unfortunately, the gas didn’t work. We’d chosen that method because it was the least invasive option, and least likely to stay in my system long enough to impact baby in any long-term way. But I couldn’t time my breathing correctly to get the drug to hit at the right time, before the urge to push would take over.

So at 8 centimeters we remained. Not only that, but my contractions began to space themselves out even further, even with the Pitocin. No change in their intensity, just losing momentum. Talks of upping the dosage began.

“Ok.” I remember saying, in that moment, “Ok. We gotta right the See-saw.”

“See-saw” was Bernie & I’s “Epidural Safe-word.” In my mind, if they were going to aim to ramp up my contractions any further by upping the Pitocin dosage, I wasn’t going to be able to control that urge to push anymore, and that was only going to compound the problem. I needed to be able to let go of that urge. I needed to be able to let go, completely. Our baby’s health depended on it.

So we went for the Epidural. Plan C.

This is where things get a bit blurry again. I remember the doctor (and Jen) encouraging us to rest. I remember asking Jen to turn off the music for a moment just so I could be alone with my thoughts and my breathing, which some might find counterintuitive, but something interesting about me is that, even as much as I love music I actually can’t sleep or study with it playing. Music stimulates me so much that unless I want the music as external focus (which I absolutely did during the more active stage of laboring I’d just been occupying) I sometimes have to remove it to recalibrate in silence when recalibration is called for, which it absolutely was during the time the epidural gave me to rest and reset. I needed to let my body and mind gently distance themselves from each other, but not too far, as I asked the anesthesiologist to let me feel at least enough to remain aware of what my body was doing. I wanted to remain present while removing the hyperactive part of me that was short-circuiting the process.

It worked.

We proceeded to 9 centimeters and the doc said “close enough.” She actually reached in, lifted my still slightly swollen cervix a bit so baby’s head could get past it and said “let’s do this.” The pushing phase began. The music returned. Opera, this time. As the room filled with people and lights, the sounds of arias like “O Mio Babbino Caro” rang from the raftors, and I remember feeling this surge of energy return as the epidural wore off (which I welcomed) and everything within me began to feel as though it was simultaneously prying itself open and folding in on itself, waves of contractions rolling over and propelling me towards that moment when one of the doctors said “I see a head” and Bernie exclaimed “Oh my god Natasha she has hair!”

Then Jen asked a question that in that moment that I hadn’t expected, but I’m so grateful she asked.

“Do you want to play some of the music from your wedding now like we discussed or something else?”

I knew we had a playlist of romantic tunes that we’d danced to at our wedding reception, like “La Vie En Rose,” all ready to go for this moment, but right then and there I didn’t actually want those. It was the “or something else,” that caught us. In that moment, and the space between contractions that naturally starts to widen a little bit towards the end of that pushing phase, Bernie and I turned to each other and almost simultaneously said “Sigur Ros.” Oddly enough, this was also music from our wedding, but from the ceremony: the Prelude. But for some reason we hadn’t thought of it until now.

I remember Jen expertly pulling it up on Spotify, having never heard of this band before, but following our instinct to have their Untitled Album be the thing that was playing when our child entered this world.

And it couldn’t have been more perfect. All told, I pushed for a little over hour and a half, enough that the album started to loop, though I couldn’t tell you exactly at which point or track Mo arrived.

But then she was here. Gushing forward in a rush unlike anything I’ve ever felt or may ever feel again, fed from my body into the doctor’s arms and onto my chest in a matter of moments.

And all I could say as the music kept playing was “Oh my Love,” over and over again, “Oh my Love…”

Author reclined in a hospital bed, with her newborn on her chest, covered with a blanket. Her partner is leaned over the bed with his hand on the author’s forehead.

In the moments after birth, as Bernie cut the cord, baby got measured, and I got sewn up from my level 2 tear (ouch), the music continued to play. Jen and Bernie and I were in constant dialogue during that time, curating the playlist as we went. We had known what songs we wanted, but changed up the order and versions of tunes on the spot, rolling with what felt natural moment to moment as we did skin to skin. We sang Paul McCartney’s Calico Skies, then Peter Gabriel’s Book of Love, then an original song we had composed collaboratively with Jen, based on words and phrases she’d heard us use throughout our preparation process: these were words of love and excitement, of wanting to always be able to cherish and provide for this new little person in our lives. I remember thinking to myself “this is probably the most I’ve ever heard Bernie sing in my life and I love it.”

I love it still. Bernie continues to sing to Mo, during changings, feedings, and general quiet-but-alert waking moments. I love hearing his voice and seeing how he loves and cares for our child. Just as this whole new dimension opened up in my world the moment Mo entered it and filled it with her light, it’s almost like a secret portal opened up between and within Bernie & I’s relationship that wasn’t there before either, and yet it feels just as natural and wonderful as anything else between us has ever been.

We are a family of three.

A final note:

Even as a Music Therapist myself, nothing could have prepared me for how moving the experience of Music Assisted Childbirth, as facilitated by another MT-BC, would be. As an evidence based profession, we know that Music works wonders; we’ve seen it and what’s more we can measure it. But when you go into that experience from the other end, as a client, all the measurements in the world, while great, pale in comparison to the sheer meaning made out of the experiences that are shared in those moments. These are memories I will forever cherish and an experience that I would not have had were it not for Jen’s expertise and instinct in that delivery room, to help me focus and be gentle with myself throughout such an intense and lengthy process (26 hours in total!)

I am forever grateful.

Natasha
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