The Birth of Kai

By Lisa Lim
Issue 97, November/December 1999

Our second child, a boy, was born on a Saturday afternoon last fall. The sky was blue, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves, and the clouds floated along as I labored. The midwife arrived at our home at 2:30 p.m. I was dilated 2.5 centimeters, very excited, and a little scared.

We went for a long walk in the neighborhood, and in a little over two hours, at 4:49 p.m., Kai James Lim was born in our living room. His eyes were a dark blue, his hair tinged with red, and he weighed a bouncing 8 pounds, 6 ounces.

I chose to stay in my home for Kai's first 40 days, a practice many cultures support. I took the time to recuperate, bond with my son, and also record the story of his birth in my journal. The following is an excerpt.

Once we began walking, I remember passing the hedge and talking with Shelly, our midwife. I had another contraction, and I reached out and held onto her. My arm across her shoulders, I could feel her upper back. She was wearing a tank top and sweats. We all had sunglasses on, and Anna, my doula, was holding my water bottle. I was keenly aware of my surroundings. It was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, the breeze refreshing and alive. There were birds and lawnmowers, the Saturday energy of relaxed chores. We walked, and with each contraction I would gently squeeze Shelly.

We turned onto Bayview and continued to talk, but the voices and the surroundings were fading. I was fading into myself, and I needed all of them for support. It was then that Shelly suggested turning around, to my relief. Just as I walked back onto Fairwood I truly fell into labor. It was a downward force that pulled me to the center of the earth, a drawing down that took my legs with it. I grabbed for my husband Stephen's hand and fell into the three of them, howling back into the world as if to remind them, me, not to get lost. To yell, to howl, to scream so that everyone could find me. To descend but leave notice. We walked on.

Only flashes come back to me: Someone on the hill throwing out the trash. Two men coming out of a garage. The very long way back to my house, which at this point couldn't have been more than a block. Shelly telling us, "Wouldn't it be lovely if all women could labor outside on the streets freely, if we all considered it an honor to come across a laboring woman, saw it as a blessing, a good omen." And I thought how wonderful it would be to view all of this as normal. A woman's pain moving, breathing within the community. Not hidden behind medical walls.

These thoughts were floating through my head, but at the same time I was thinking, "How the hell am I going to make it across the street and the last block?" I remember saying to Stephen, "Get the ?*&% car!" as I collapsed into his arms once again. I was being sucked into the very ground. To stay up and keep moving-how? And before I fell again I was flinging off my shoes and walking across the cool, wet grass of our lawn. My front porch. The railing. Just squeezing the wooden frame and howling deep so they could find me.

Then there was the beautiful face of Davi, Shelly's assistant; comforting music; broken light. Home. My bed. But no. "Lisa, pee first." I ripped off my dress as I moved down the hall. I had to concentrate. I no longer really remembered how to pee. I just sat there hoping it would fall out. I just wanted to lie down. To sleep. To stop.

Next the cool pillows were beneath my head, the soft flannel; beautiful yellow lilies; purple grapes on the blanket; Michael Stillwater's CD gently breaking through. I just wanted to rest, to sleep. "Please, Shelly, I want to sleep, I need a rest." Her hand pressed against my thigh, pushed my hair across my face. "Rest now." And I did. I don't know how long, but long enough to allow the panic to subside-and to let in silly thoughts. "Lisa, you are a stupid woman. You could be at the hospital getting really good drugs." It passed. Instead, I called for Eliot, my physician and acupuncturist.

It hurt. My back. My front. The baby was moving through me, and I was spreading out across the room. I was being pulled in every direction, up, down, sideways, lengthwise, and it hurt. The pain of counter tension. The force of pulling apart. The quiet fullness between contractions when the baby and I were still one, rocking and waiting to pull again.

Shelly was holding my lower back, and Davi was anchoring my feet. I did not want to fly away now. No way. I wanted to follow the suction downward. They would find me. I was hollering loud enough. Davi had my feet; I was safe. And I could fall into Stephen's eyes, sink deep down into love.