By Tina Cassidy
In early 2004, as I was about to become a mother, the women of my family regaled me with stories of their own birth experiences.
My grandmother, who gave birth in the 1940s and '50s, explained how she was "gassed,'' slipping in and out of consciousness on a stretcher with crib-like bars in the hallway of the hospital and screaming like a madwoman. The nurses told her to "shut up" and my grandfather was literally out to lunch, as he had nothing else to do while she labored. She didn't see her first child for three days.
My mother, who had me in the late 1960s, recounted an equally frightening story, condensing her five-hour labor and delivery ordeal into a 10-second sound bite.
"They gave me an enema. They made me walk around the room a couple of times. They shaved my pubic area. They gave me a shot. I woke up three hours later standing on the gurney in excruciating pain. The doctor came in, gave me another shot and then the next thing I know you were born.''
When she had my brother in 1976, she had attended Lamaze classes, which were then in vogue. There she learned how to breathe—hee hee huhhhh—and Dad was prepped to witness the birth. She had an X-ray to determine if her petite pelvis could allow for a child to pass through—even though I was proof of that—and the doctor said its width was borderline before ordering a C-section.
My youngest aunt, who had her first child in the early 1980s, just as so-called natural child-birth methods were peaking, had the most unusual experience of all of the women in my family to date: She had to beg for pain medication.
In the back of my mind, I smugly thought that bad hospitals and unchecked respect for the medical establishment had conspired to doom all of their birth experiences. Mine (in a Boston hospital) would be different. I was convinced. Armed with a birth plan—the latest fad in obstetrical empowerment—I would sail through labor and delivery wearing my favorite black spaghetti-strap nightgown, with the lights dim and an epidural juicing my spine only if absolutely necessary.
But after 10 hours of labor and fully dilated, the nurse told me not to push because the doctors were busy. I waited an hour, got the green light, pushed for four hours and…nothing. Despite my protestations, they told me I needed a C-section.
The next morning, my ashen spouse cornered the doctor.
"What did they do in that situation before there were C-sections?'' he wanted to know.
Her answer was horrifying.
When I felt better, many weeks later, I began researching the history of childbirth, mostly to put myself at ease. I craved context for trends in childbirth today. Was I supposed to feel lucky that I had had a c-section? Or should I have been outraged that I had become a statistic: one out of three hospital births today is a C-section.
My childbearing experience, like the chain of births the women in my family had during the last half of the 20th century, was merely a reflection of the time in which it took place. It may not have been better. It may not have been worse. It was different.
One of the most important lessons I learned writing my book is that where birth happens makes a huge difference in how mothers and babies are treated. Hospitals are not always the best place. That was true in my grandmother's day, and it is still true today.
Tina Cassidy is the author of Birth: The Surprising History of How We Are Born. Tina was a reporter and editor at the Boston Globe for over a decade, covering everything from business to politics to fashion, which, she learned, are the very things that have influenced birth for centuries. When Tina became pregnant with her first child in 2004, she took a permanent leave to write her book. Her first child was born by unexpected C-section and her second child was a home VBAC. Tina now lives in Boston with her husband and their children.
Tina can be contacted at birth@tinacassidy.net
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