Dear Ann,

After Tristan's birth, in which I was drugged and disconnected from the entire experience, I sat in my hospital room and waited to be discharged. It took hours and hours longer than it should have. I was required to take an Infant Care class before I could leave, even though I knew exactly how to take care of a newborn. I was not allowed to sleep with my baby in my hospital bed. I was not allowed to carry him down the hallway. He was to stay in his isolette. Every move I made was monitored. I was enraged. I swore, from that day forward, that I would never have another baby in a hospital. At that time, that was all it was about. Anger that I wasn't trusted with my own child. And later, anger that postpartum depression had destroyed the bond I should have had with Tristan--all of this I vaguely blamed on the hospital and my caretakers and their insistence that they knew what was best for me.

As the years went by, after examining my first two hospital births, my desire to birth at home was due to my belief that my medicated hospital births sabotaged my ability to breastfeed. The sleepy babies, the lazy latches, the jaundice--it all seemed interconnected and I knew that the next time, I was going to nurse my baby.

And so, five years after Tristan was born, I became pregnant. Initially, I saw my obstetrician. I googled "find a homebirth midwife" and came up with your name. Brent and I met with you, for a free, one hour consultation in your living room. I came armed with pages of questions and you answered each and every one with confident assurance. All of my fears regarding the safety of homebirth were eased. I knew I was in the right place. I went back to my OB/GYN and told her that I was discontinuing my care with her and she was disappointed. "Why??" she asked. I said, "I have to wait in the waiting room to see you, sometimes up to an hour. When I finally get into the exam room, I get five minutes with you. You weren't even there to deliver my last two babies. I want more personalized care." She told me that she was sorry, that she was pressured by her group to take more patients than she could handle. I wondered how many patients she cared for. You intentionally took only a handful a month.

During my pregnancy with Rylan, I was an information sponge. Every appointment with you was in the privacy of your home. You had a library full of books on natural birth and various other related topics. I checked out books from you every time and I read them from cover to cover. You educated me. It was a whole new world. My mind was opening up, swallowing ideas that had never occurred to me before.

Like the last two pregnancies, I was riddled with excruciating pelvic pain. You advised me to see a chiropractor and as soon as the adjustments began, I experienced very little discomfort. I couldn't believe that I went through my last two pregnancies with an obstetrician who told me "it's just a symptom of pregnancy" and brushed it off without any recommendations or suggestions. You gave me Vitamin B injections for morning sickness that eliminated my nausea for a week at a time. You gave me natural prenatal vitamins and fish oil capsules and papaya enzyme for heartburn and homeopathic remedies that immediately eased every discomfort I experienced. You raised me up, you educated me.

Towards the end of my pregnancy, around 37 weeks, I began something I now know as prodromal labor. I had contractions on and off for weeks. They weren't producing a baby and I was DONE with the pregnancy. I was frustrated and emotionally spent. I took it out on you. "If I was having a hospital birth, I would have arrived at the hospital having contractions and they would have admitted me and given me Pitocin and I WOULD HAVE HAD A BABY BY NOW!!!" I was angry at you and I was angry at myself for choosing homebirth. I became a crazy person. I yelled and sobbed and you sat calmly and empathized with me and assured me that my baby would come when he was ready to come and explained all of the reasons why my patience was important. I told you that if any point during the labor, I asked for an epidural, you were to transport me immediately to the hospital. You smiled gently and said "no problem", but assured me that it wouldn't be necessary and that you knew I could do this.

Of course, the big day came and my water broke. Contractions did not begin for two and a half hours. You were not concerned. I knew then, that if I had been at the hospital, I would have already have been connected to an IV drip, confined to bed, and I most likely would have been demanding an epidural from the pain of Pitocin induced contractions.

When the contractions finally began, you showed up at my house and brought more supplies and equipment than I ever expected. You set everything up: oxygen tanks and an IV and medications for every possible emergency and chux pads and suturing supplies and an infant scale and a handheld doppler and various other items.

Unexpectedly, my contractions slowed and stopped completely, and I experienced what I now know to be my trademark "white coat syndrome." The reason why my previous labors had been augmented and hurried up--any professional presence stops my body from progressing. You recognized this immediately and told me that you were going to go out to get something to eat and I should call you if anything changed. Later, you told me that you had fibbed. You didn't need to eat. You only left in order to give me space to do my thing. As the headlights of your Jeep were backing out of my driveway, the contractions re-appeared and ramped up with intensity and frequency. We called you back to the house and you stayed out of my way, busying yourself with preparations while occasionally monitoring the baby's heartrate and my own vital signs. I labored in my living room while watching Desperate Housewives, in the bathroom on the toilet while chatting it up with my husband, in my bedroom on a birthing ball listening to Norah Jones on the stereo. I was free to eat and drink whatever I wanted and I was free to wear my own clothes in the comfort of my own home environment.

You only checked me internally once, and that was with my permission.

When transition hit, and I started vomiting uncontrollably, you clapped your hands and excitedly said, "Good! Throwing up equals ten good contractions!" I thought back to my hospital births, when the pink basin had been set at my chin and I was terrified and sick and the nurses clucked their tongues and made me worry. I tried to lay down and it was horrific and I wondered how or why I birthed on my back for hours at a time in those hospital labor rooms. I stood up and felt my baby drop into my pelvis and I yelled to you that he was coming. You came to my side, put your hand on my shoulder and you checked my cervix. "Yep, there's a baby right there!" you remarked, gleefully. You asked me where I'd like to go and in what position and I felt like the only thing I could do was collapse onto the bed, sideways. This put you between my bed and the wall. It was a difficult position for you, but you did not mention it. My comfort was the most important.

No one told me when to push, or how to push. No one was yelling "1...2...3!" This time, there was no holding my breath or bruising the sockets of my teeth or popping blood vessels in my eyes. I grunted and was encouraged to push in whatever way my body told me to. You softly encouraged me every step of the way and explained to me what was happening and that it was all happening exactly as it should.

My baby slid out of my body and you placed him on my chest. He stayed there for a long time, as long as I wanted. You placed towels, warm from the dryer on his little body and mine. You did not touch him or take him until I asked you to. You did not rub him furiously or suction him and he did not shiver or cry. He was quiet and alert and staring up at us in wonder. You did not instruct us to cut the cord until it had stopped pulsating completely and we were ready to. You weighed him and quickly checked him over on my bed while I sat there, watching. You handed him back and I diapered him and dressed him and swaddled him and nursed him. You cleaned up all of the supplies, and the mess, and tidied up my house. And then, you tucked me, and my baby, and my husband into our bed and you sat down at my feet and read me a poem. I cried, and you cried, and you kissed my cheek and told me how proud you were of me. You turned off the light and you quietly left. We all slept wonderfully, and woke in the morning in our own bed, in our own home, to life resuming peacefully and without interruption.

My birth was not extraordinary. It was normal. It was allowed to unfold on its own, carefully and tenderly, with you simply nudging me towards trust and faith in my own body. You instilled confidence in me and the experience changed me not only as a mother, but as a woman. You handed me what would eventually become my life's passion--for birth... normal birth. You did not just give me this gift--you have given it to hundreds and hundreds of women over the years and you continue to do it because it is also your passion. You are an angel in disguise, a woman who has become an extended member of our family, even though we don't keep in touch anymore. I will never, ever forget the many kindnesses you showed me and the way your presence in my life shaped the person I have become.

With many thanks and lots of love,

Rae