The Story of Florence Ashlyn Garlands’ Birth
Here lies the story of my daughter’s mysterious and unpredictable entrance into the world on the November full moon, 2019. I wonder if the manner of her entrance is in fact an indication of how she will inhabit this life — as a multifaceted and curious soul.
In writing the story of Florence’s birth I hope to capture a record of the phenomenal human experience of birth. An experience so commonplace that it is often overlooked or disregarded as “normal”, but that is so incredibly extraordinary — the threshold of life itself. In highlighting the liminal magic of birth, I hope to reach people who can connect with this experience in some way, shape or form, whether they have given birth or not. And last but certainly not least, I want to create a record for me to remember this pivotal moment in my life. A record that my daughter can read one day too, if she so wishes.
The common thread that emerged as my story unfolded is one that many first-time mothers grapple with, and one that started during my pregnancy: how to notice things and how to let go of them. For me, I noticed and sought to let go of my own preconceptions about what my body was capable of doing, as we worked towards a natural home birth. I noticed and sought to let go of the deep roots of societies’ and indeed my own mother’s perceptions of the “inevitable” trauma and risks of birth; the medicalised framework of durations and dilations and timings; the feelings of expectation and “performance”. Ultimately I wanted to let go of the rational, thinking part of my brain and instead tap into the ancient wisdom and knowing that exists in my body, as it exists in every woman’s body who has ever grown and birthed life.
My partner, Robbie, and I employed an independent midwife, Suyai, to journey alongside us on our home birth pathway and our transition into parenthood. We thought long and hard about whether to take this route, as it does come with a hefty price tag. I have observed that, in our Western, capitalist, consumer society our eyelids tend to remain unbatted when someone spends a significant chunk of money on a car, a holiday, a kitchen appliance. But yet when we’re considering the smooth entrance of a human life into the big wide world, adding money into the equation will often raise eyebrows. During multiple conversations with people about the route of independent midwifery, I found this realisation quite stunning. What better way to spend hard-earned money than loving and strengthening the foundations of a brand new family, if it is an option to do so. I am safe in the knowledge that this choice doesn’t negate our absolute appreciation and support for the National Health Service, under whose care countless babies are born every day. For us, the decision to use an independent midwife further bolstered our support for the NHS, as we would then be one less mother and baby to allocate precious resources to. Or at least, that was the intention…
Leading up to the day that I began labour I prepared in physical, emotional and spiritual ways. I created an altar, a small station where I gathered various items of significance. My partner’s childhood swaddling blankets, hand-knitted by grandmothers; photos of family members, the ancestors; toys that the baby would one day play with; flowers; candles and crystals. It was a sacred place in the house, in the room that would be her bedroom, a space carved for the purpose of communing. Each day I would spend time at the altar, stretching, breathing, connecting with this little consciousness inside my body. I focused my attention and intentions on the birth. It would be the most unpredictable and yet the most important moment in my life as a woman to date. I wanted to have a peaceful, loving and energising birth — a birth that would empower me and further unite my partner and I. A birth that I would enjoy telling the story of, and that would fill me with a sense of wonder and pride. All these things were certainly achieved, but the journey to get there was anything but expected!
Day 1
At 4.30am on Monday 11th November, one day before the full moon would rise, I felt a gentle surge in my abdomen. I went to the toilet and a calm and knowing wave washed over me. Forty weeks of growing had elapsed, the birth was beginning. I was ready. I knew that I needed to rest as much as possible, so I returned to bed and slept for a few more hours. At around 7am I told Robbie that I had been having surges that morning and he excitedly made me some tea and toast whilst calling his office and informing them he wouldn’t be coming into work today. I slept for a little longer.
I woke up and ate more, this time poached eggs and avocado — building and storing as much energy as I could. As the day wore on the surges became more noticeable. I read and tidied and carried the altar down to the front room, mindfully setting out the precious items. I leant on the birth ball and my grandmothers‘ sideboard each time a surge came. Robbie was busily buzzing around the kitchen, preparing nutritious and delicious snacks for us to tuck into. His energy was charged and sprightly, and I focused my mind on relaxation and calm, reading a book about moving physical birth pain into different parts of the body. I experimented with stamping my feet and shaking my hands during surges.
The evening drew in and we ate a delicious curry, unbeknownst to us that this would be the last full meal I would eat until Thursday evening. We watched mindless TV whilst I rolled on the ball and moved rhythmically on the floor, inhaling clary sage essential oil as I swayed through each surge, each one becoming more intense than the last. At around 6pm we called Suyai, our midwife, and Mary, our friend who I had asked to be at the birth and updated them on my status. I wanted Mary to be with us during the birth because she has had three natural childbirth experiences, the last one at home with just her and her husband in the room. Her aura is one of earthy, gentle, powerful womanhood. I felt that she would be a wonderful guide and support in our birthing space. Suyai and Mary didn’t come over, as the surges hadn’t taken my full attention yet. We decided that Suyai would come over later in the evening and sleep in our spare room in case things picked up overnight. And pick up they did.
Day 2
Suyai and Mary had both arrived by midnight, and the surges had started taking all of my attention. Robbie set about blowing up and filling the birth pool, the birth playlist sounded from the speakers and the candles were lit on the altar and around the house. I got into the birth pool when it was ready, the warm water easing and gifting my birthing body a soothing weightlessness. Robbie got into the pool with me, and as the surges rose up he would massage my back and shoulders. I looked towards the birth altar, to the images of Brigid and Sheela Na Gig, kneeling against the side of the pool, channeling the energy of these goddesses of childbirth.
Suyai went to get some sleep and we remained in the pool. A sense of nervousness and anticipation filled my body, I was ready but I felt like my brain was holding me back in some way. As I surged the pain settled in my lower back rather than my abdomen. At around 4am I got out of the pool, I had been in there for hours and felt a change was needed. As I stood on dry ground the surges became much stronger, and I became much louder, gravity was doing its thing. Suyai awoke to my groans and came downstairs to see where we were at. I asked if I could have a vaginal examination, as at that point I felt I was in active labour (the cervix is 4cm dilated or more) and wanted to know if that was the case. As part of her practice as an independent midwife Suyai doesn’t conduct vaginal examinations, unless there is a reason. The principle of this approach is one that I agree with in theory — the birthing process is not led by measurements or timings, but rather by the feelings and behaviours exhibited by the mother and baby — but one that I struggled to stick to in practice. Suyai asked me what I would do with the results of an examination and I wasn’t sure, so we collectively decided not to find out how dilated I was at that point.
On reflection, what I would’ve done with that information is to have used it to temper the effort I was exerting and to perhaps not have gone back into the pool. I thought I was in active labour so psychologically I was giving it my all and, as we wanted the baby to be born in the pool, I stayed in the water. If I’d known I was around 2cm dilated (which I now understand I was probably thereabouts) and still had many more hours to go, I perhaps would’ve focused on conserving my energy, and would’ve spent more time walking around the house, dropping the babe into the right position.
Alas, I believed that the baby was imminent so I returned to the pool and a determined intent filled the air. Mary played Suyai’s ceremonial drum and Robbie played our kalimba, they poured water on my lower back and spoke soft words of encouragement and love as I moved through the surges. This time spent together, the three of us as one energy in the space, with Suyai a silent yet omnipresent energy in the room, was a highlight for me during the birthing experience. We spent about an hour like that until the strength of my surges started to subside. I got out of the pool and asked again for an examination. This time Suyai conceded and confirmed that I was 3.5/4cm dilated and she could still feel the amniotic sac over the baby’s head. At this point I felt exhausted and deflated. The hours spent believing we were close to the baby arriving felt wasted. Robbie and I went upstairs to the bedroom and tried to get some rest.
When we woke an hour or so later the pain had become more severe in my lower back. Suyai and Robbie helped to get me into some different positions, to support the baby’s movement down into the birth canal. I did a forward leaning inversion, a side lying position with my leg pulled over and Suyai used a rebozo sifting method too. The surges remained in my lower back but doing these different positions certainly helped the physical pain and my mental state.
Another midwife arrived at around 10am. Her name is Tara and we had met her once during the pregnancy. She attends births where Suyai is lead-midwife and will come if the birth is taking some time and/or if Suyai requires a second opinion and extra support. In all honesty I felt a spike of disappointment when Suyai told us Tara had arrived, as it reminded me that I hadn’t birthed the babe yet; more people and more fuss was required. The pressure to get this baby out felt like it was mounting, but Tara exuded a soothing, maternal, affirming energy. I felt empowered and relaxed by her presence in the house.
Tuesday was a clear and bright day. I remember being outside with Mary. She had brought with her the most delicious homemade beetroot brownies and between surges we stood with our faces bathed in sunlight, our mouths lapping up the moist cake. The house vibrated with the promise of birth, and our merry collective of birth buddies chatted, knitted and tucked into the food Robbie had prepared for the occasion. I focused on walking, Robbie following diligently behind me, rhythmically tapping my lower back. Up and down the stairs we went, sideways and straight, in and out of rooms, round and around and around the house, willing gravity to help bring our baby down, trying not to stop unless a contraction demanded it. I tried gas and air during surges but it made me feel spaced out and somehow even more sensitive to the pain, so I decided not to use it. As the sun moved across the sky and down to its resting place I continued my journey, walking and breathing, chatting and groaning, all the while my bank of bodily resources were gradually depleting. A slow chip-chip-chipping away at my stamina, but still no sign of baby.
We approached the evening and the full moon rose into the night sky. Tara performed a second vaginal examination. I was now dilated 7cm and my waters were still intact. I decided to get back into the pool to open up the final 3cm. Suyai went to get some sleep. Robbie, Mary and Tara stayed with me. Tara knitted whilst Mary and Robbie poured water on my lower back, still the hotbed of my labour pain. I sank into a trance-like state, “Labour Land” as Suyai calls it. Everything and everyone merged into the background and I was alone in the water with the baby and my body. I saw visions of a black church every time a contraction came. Dark, sharp, idle pain that didn’t feel productive. I now know that it was the baby’s position that was causing this particular type of pain — she was back to back.
A few hours later I emerged from the water. The pain had shifted from my back which was great, but I felt like the pool was having a soothing effect again, and the contractions had faded right down. Another examination and I was still 7cm. All that time and no dilation — this is why knowing measurements and timings are so tricky during childbirth. It is a truly boundless, timeless space where no rules can be applied, each woman’s body and each baby navigating the passage in their own unique way, never to be predicted. Only the laws of nature can determine the pace.
Tara suggested that Robbie and I kiss to get the surges moving again. We went upstairs and stood holding hands. He told me how proud he was of me and we expressed our love for one another. I felt like we were at a festival, there was a buzzing, nervous energy around us, a partnership about to be forever changed, a preparation for the next stage, Robbie and I in it together. I felt the most aligned and connected to him in those moments. We kissed and it brought on really strong surges. I felt myself stepping into the storm. I could sense an anxiety and a holding back in my body, but knew I had to go forth into the unknown. I visualised myself opening up.
We went back downstairs and I used Tara’s rebozo scarf to hang from the door frame, melting into each surge. The noises I was making during the contractions had become very high pitched, so to encourage me to make low, guttural sounds and therefore to assist in opening up my cervix, everyone groaned low with me as the contractions peaked. It was a deeply tribal and moving experience and brings tears to my eyes thinking about it now. Nothing will ever compare to the feeling of solidarity and community in that room. The presence of those people and their willingness to support the emergence of my baby washed over me, soaking my soul. I value beyond words what they all did to support me through what was the most intensely challenging and most beautiful process that I’ve ever embarked on in my life.
And so I felt transition was beginning. This is the moment when the cervix is fully open and the baby’s head moves into the birth canal. During transition the mother can often present as scared, confused and sometimes may say they want to stop entirely! I got so hot and sweaty that I took off my nightdress, rendering myself completely naked. I was leaning onto the birth pool standing next to Suyai, who was supporting me and making low groaning noises. I growled. I danced. I blew raspberries with my lips. It felt primal and raw and liberating. The pain had shifted to my abdomen so I could really feel that things were progressing. I remember asking Suyai what the time was. Five minutes to midnight. I wanted the baby to arrive on the full moon. I believed that she would, and so I continued to move, to dance, to growl, to bring my baby down with hope and sound and courage.
As much as I felt the support and love from the people in the room, and as hard as I tried to fight the feeling, a pervasive sense of pressure overwhelmed me. The pressure to bring forth life safely and speedily. The pressure to succeed in having the home birth that Robbie and I had invested so much in. The pressure to be one of those incredible mothers who can birth a baby in her home without the need for drugs. The pressure to prove to my mother that I could be one of those mothers. I so dearly wanted to have a birth that I felt connected to and that I could be proud of. In those moments, and I think throughout, I felt the weight of expectation lay heavy on me, because it is so deeply in my nature to please people. I couldn’t simply block everyone out and just be in my body. I got caught up in the perceived expectations of myself and others.
I began to bring an obsessively rational focus to the process. I started trying to comprehend what was happening in my body, asking where the baby was, what the time was, how exactly the baby would descend into my birth canal. The logical part of my brain was really kicking in. I willed myself to be present, to let myself be absorbed by my monkey mind, but my thinking brain was on overdrive. Suddenly the whole concept of a baby departing my body seemed entirely implausible! I attempted imagining the pathway and the angles and the size of the baby, and it just didn’t make any sense. I couldn’t fathom it.
Day 3
Midnight passed and around an hour later the pain of the surges shifted abruptly. I remember crashing onto the floor under the weight of an agonising heat that seared through my lower back. That tender part of my body that had endured so much pressure over the past two days was once again under attack. I screamed loudly and started worrying about if the neighbours could hear me. I was preoccupied and felt unable to move with this type of excruciating pain. I suddenly felt incredibly weary and broken, the days of labour catching up on me. The halt in the momentum I had been feeling reminding me that my resources were critically low. The baby seemed to have moved and the pain felt very different to the pain I had been experiencing over the previous hours, now it was harsh, sharp, unproductive. It felt like sledgehammers pounding on my sacrum. I moved to the sofa and writhed around as the surges came, I was on my front, grasping at the covers trying to escape the pain. “You have to calm down, you’re going to get distressed.” said Suyai. “I am distressed,” I said in response. Suyai checked the baby’s heart rate on her little machine, as she had been throughout the birth, and the baby, unlike her mother, appeared to be relaxed. This I was thankful for. After a few rounds of these contractions Tara mentioned the word ‘hospital’. I’m not sure if this option was presented to try and calm me down or to pull me out of the trench I had found myself in. It was the route that none of us wanted to take, we had worked so hard and come so far to take that route. Everyone was exhausted, all eyes were on me.
I put my nightdress on and started to try and walk around the house again. The space now seemed so small, claustrophobic. Every time a contraction came I crept up onto my tip-toes and cried out in loud, shrill tones. It all felt and sounded so very different to the strong, flat-footed growling I had been able to muster a few hours before. The surges were so unbearable, they were literally knocking me out each time they hit. I would get back up again, but each time I was weaker and more susceptible to the pain. I felt that Suyai and Tara’s energy had become harder. “This isn’t what they are used to”, I thought. We were all frustrated and tired, tempers had started to fray.
Mary recommended that I take a shower. She had found the warm water really soothing during the births of her children. The two of us escaped to the bathroom and I let the water soothe me, along with Mary’s kind and loving words. My contractions became bearable during this special time, but as soon as I stepped out of the steamy room the pain was waiting there like a demon, ready to pounce. It was a deeply psychological matter. I paced up and down the hallway as Suyai, Mary and Robbie sat on the stairs discussing our options. For the first time during the experience I felt that my agency had started to dissipate, like I was looking down onto a scene that I was meant to be part of, but it was happening to someone else. I was a ghost, tip-toeing around them, breathing shallow, nervous breaths, moving with volatility, a wounded bird. I had commenced a process of disassociation. I asked Robbie if he could take over for a while, if he could take the burgeoning bump so I could rest. I so desperately needed to rest.
At around 3am a decision was made to try the birth pool one more time. Suyai reminded me that I needed to start feeling that I wanted to bear down, as this was when I could start to push. With the contraction pain at the level it was I would soon exhaust my dwindling resources. I slipped into the pool and felt the pain ease. I was so grateful not to feel the intensity of the surges that I started to fall asleep. Everyone was exhausted. It was quiet and there was a heaviness in the air. I could get some rest in here, but Tara objected on the grounds that it was too dangerous. Fair play. Another decision was made for me to try and get some rest in the bed. Mary had made me a bed earlier on (in the day, night, who knows!?) with lots of pillows to rest on, but I hadn’t been able to get comfortable with the contractions and the positioning. We tried again anyway, with even more pillows, and I realised almost immediately that it was totally unrealistic. I was in too much pain. I got up and told Suyai and Tara I wanted to go to hospital. An ambulance picked me up at around 5.30am on Wednesday morning. I said brief, sad goodbyes to Tara and Mary, interrupted by the pain of surges that were coming thick and fast given the flashing lights and stressful situation. Robbie came with me in the ambulance, and Suyai followed in her car.
From there on in came intervention after intervention. I had a vaginal examination as soon as I arrived and the midwife on duty immediately burst the caul around the baby’s head with her hand, something that Suyai and Tara had not done because of the risk of infection. My cervix had reduced to 7cm dilation — I had literally (and unsurprisingly) closed up. I was swiftly given an epidural by a stoic anaesthetist called Connie, for which I was told I had to sit absolutely still for at least 20 minutes (laughable considering I was constantly squirming around with the pain of the contractions). Thankfully, Connie was very skilled at her job and as soon as the painkiller seeped into my veins, at around 7am, I lay back on the bed and passed out, saying a teary goodbye to Suyai who I wouldn’t see again until after the baby was born. The midwives pulled out a camp bed for Robbie and I’m certain he was asleep before his head hit the bed.
I woke up at midday to a catheter being inserted into my urethra. Not the most enjoyable way to be roused from sleep! I could feel the sensations of this unpleasant procedure so I ramped up the painkillers on my epidural button. Hurrah for drugs! A midwife called Jess was in the room with me and I hazily held a conversation with her about her home birth, one which had also ended in hospital. Jess had the most disarming smile and demonstrated such powerful and authentic empathy, I automatically felt heard and understood. She did not try and convince me that “I was in the right place now” or something of that ilk. She got that I wasn’t where I had hoped I would be having this baby, and that wasn’t a slight on the NHS or her role within it. I really believed that Jess had been sent as some kind of guardian angel for the day. She was a beautiful gift.
I was put on a pethidine drip which had fully opened my cervix by 1pm. I started pushing to get the baby out. My legs were in stirrups, I was on my back, Robbie was on one side and Jess was on the other and checking progress. I couldn’t feel any pain because of the epidural but I could push down. It felt satisfying to be productive again. I wanted to push my baby out so much. I pushed every couple of minutes for what seemed like no time at all, until the obstetrician, Claire, came in and examined me. Claire informed us that the baby was facing the wrong way in the birth canal. This made sense — I had felt the position had been tricky throughout the birth experience. Claire tried to turn the babe there and then, but to no avail. The conversation moved alarmingly quickly onto theatre and the potential of having a c-section. I was adamant about not wanting to take this route. The baby was right there, the heart rate was steady, as it had been throughout the entire process, and I really didn’t want to have gone through three days of labour to then have the baby surgically removed from my body. Claire said she would try a ventouse (hoover) and if that didn’t work forceps (salad spoons) and if that didn’t work then it would indeed have to be c-section (knife). A delightful menu of medical accoutrements.
I was given a spinal block. I felt the cool numb of heavy narcotics pump through my system. I was wheeled into theatre where six new faces greeted Robbie and I. From the ethereal, sensual, candle-lit environment of home where I had smelt essential oils and sweat and acutely felt every millimeter of my baby’s descent, to this bright, white spaceship in which all things were sterile, shiny silver, where everyone was masked, gloved, robed, and I couldn’t physically feel a thing. The full sensory spectrum.
Claire set to work. The ventouse twisted but didn’t retrieve the baby. The salad spoons mobilised and I felt a forceful pull. And there she was. My baby. A beautiful baby girl. Florence Ashlyn Garlands. Perfectly formed. A tiny mouth emitting the most raw and resonant sound I had ever heard. Ten fingers. Ten toes. A splash of dark hair that we quickly placed a hat over as she was laid onto my chest. I felt her gentle weight soothe and satisfy me, like I had somehow been missing this little being my whole life and suddenly she had returned. A nascent, ancient connection. Immediate. Irresistible.
Robbie and I wept as the portal through which she had finally emerged was tended to. I still couldn’t feel anything but as I gazed up, eyes glazed with tears, the round mirrored light that hovered above me like a UFO told the story of an epic battle. I was transfixed by the sight of luminous crimson, the fabric and fluid of my daughter’s first home, the habitat within which life is created and nurtured. I was being sewn up. An episiotomy which I had not recalled consenting to, but which I understand was vital given the method of extraction. Jess assured me that Claire was the best episiotomy stitcher around. She wasn’t fibbing. The placenta was given to Robbie so that we could bury it and consume it, honouring this incredible organ that kept my unborn baby alive inside me all those months.
Florence and I slept at the hospital that night. Robbie returned to us the next day and we drove home to our cocoon, exhausted and disbelieving that Flo was finally with us, that we were now actual, real-life parents.
Returning Home
Stepping back into the house with Florence in our arms after leaving under such difficult circumstances was a challenge, to say the least. There has been a process of mourning the desires I had for the birth of our baby, of holding and sitting with the grief. I look back on the moment that I accepted that having a home birth would sadly not be the route for this babe’s entrance into the world conversely as one of the moments that I am most grateful for in the whole journey. Of course I was devastated to see all the planning that had gone into the home birth effort slip away from us in the space of a few minutes. However, the fact that I had the option of calling an ambulance that would take me, for free, to a clean, safe place with personable and professional humans, where I could access effective pain relief and support to birth my baby, and that this whole process would take less than an hour, was unreal. I think about all the women who live in countries where healthcare is expensive or simply unattainable. I felt fiercely proud and grateful for the NHS in those moments, and will hold that sentiment in my heart always. They ensured, when the shit really hit the fan, that my baby would be born safely and that I would survive the process too.
Reflecting on Flo’s birth I can say without hesitation that I am proud of everything that happened. All the ups and downs, all the contradictions and flaws, all the joy and all the chaos. It was a journey that rocked our worlds, an all-encompassing spectrum to grapple with, a 60-hour birthing extravaganza traversing so many different terrains and emotions. And I know in my heart that Flo’s entrance into the world unfolded exactly as it should have done. Each moment was meant to take place. The home birth of dreams didn’t materialise, but the love and intention that powered that dream has been deftly woven into the threads of our family, and will live on forever.
