Six years ago, when I birthed my first child, in a hospital, I was clueless to what my rights were as a mother. I arrived, no more than three centimeters dilated and was kept for a precautionary measure never quite explained to me. Fed fear and uncertainty by medical staff not well-versed in comfort, nor natural healing, I was strapped to a bed while IV fluids were inserted, and Poticin given, to speed up my laboring process.

 

The birth I desired, the birth I practiced for, was tossed aside as contractions ripped through my body with a fury I had, yet, to learn was unnatural. I held out for as long as I could, gripping my partner’s face, my mother’s hand, the side of the bed, the place that would become my laboring prison, as each wave tore through my will for natural birth. Around six centimeters dilated, I relented to an epidural…failure seeping into my very first role as a mother.