Home Birth, Home Death

She panted at times as if to give birth again — only this time to deliver herself from this life

By Gerald Grow

After the ultrasound and a visit to the birth center, Christl, who would be 41 at the time of the birth, turned to me and announced, “I’m going to have this baby at home without a midwife — and I hope you’ll be there.”

Her experience with our first son in 1977 soured her on a hospital birth. Even though she negotiated what she wanted, the new shifts ignored the agreement. And, sensitized by pregnancy, she did not like the midwife’s vibes. So, our second child was to be born, in the summer of 1985, on the bed where he was conceived — with just the two of us present.

We worked hard to make a home birth possible. We took classes, we rehearsed, we studied. I practically memorized a manual on emergency childbirth — the most useful thing I found.

Christl gave herself totally to being pregnant. She exercised, she practiced yoga, she meditated, she danced, she followed a pure diet. She focused every day on bringing a healthy baby into a loving home. She meditated on her ancestral home in the Austrian Alps and summoned the generations of mothers whose birthings had produced her, and me, and every person who ever lived. She was calling them, and joining them.

As the pregnancy progressed, her body grew entirely new dimensions. Her belly and buttocks spread. Her breasts revealed…