Lucy
Svetlana holds birthing class in a conference room on the third floor of the Kremlin, where there appears to be various offices. I see a sign on a door that says, “quiet, massage in session,” and guess that must be where Natasha sees her clients.
There are a few other couples sitting around the large conference table and a mother with a baby on her hip standing up, talking to them.
“Lucy, Ravil, welcome,” Svetlana says in English with a relatively thick accent. “I’m delighted you could come.”
She gives me a hug like we’re old friends. Like the last time she saw me, she didn’t stonewall me by speaking only Russian. Of course, that was Ravil’s fault.
Svetlana pulls down a projector screen and plugs her Macbook in. She starts by having us introduce ourselves.
Hi, I’m Lucy, and I’m a prisoner in this building. The father of my child is a dangerous criminal who wants to control every aspect of my pregnancy and birth.
Wonder what they’d say if I led with that?
But no. Trust-building, I remind myself. Surrender.
“Hi, I’m Melissa,” a very young woman with long dark hair and olive skin says. “We, uh, got pregnant on our honeymoon. It was sort of unexpected, but we’re happy.”
“I’m John,” her husband says.
“I’m Larry, this is my wife Jane. This will be our third home birth with Svetlana, so we don’t really need the class, but it’s an excuse to get away from the other two kids and have a date night together,” a bearded man says. His wife laughs and snuggles against his side. “Plus, we love the videos,” Jane says.
“Oh yes, the birth videos,” the woman with the baby says. “I’ve seen them twenty times, and I still cry every time.”
Everyone smiles.
“I’m Carrie. I don’t have a birth partner,” a hippie-looking blonde says. “But I’m planning on hypnobirthing. I’ve been listening to my audios.”
Hypnobirthing. Ravil mentioned something about that to my parents. At the time, I was fairly certain it was yet another crazy thing he was throwing at me to keep me off balance. Now, it sounds more like a real thing. I make a mental note to research it.
“That’s all right. I will be your birth partner,” Svetlana says. “Or Genevieve.” She indicates the mom, who is now nursing her chubby baby in the corner. “My assistant.” Genevieve lifts her hand and waves. “I’m Genevieve. This is Sammy.” As if the baby knows he’s being talked about, he pops off her breast, leaving it exposed to the room, turns around and gives us all a dazzling smile. Milk drips from his reddened lips.
My own nipples tighten at the sight, as if my body is willing to nurse him, too, if something happens to his mother.
Everyone laughs, waves, makes baby-faces and coos over the adorable Sammy, Ravil included. It’s sweet. I relax a little.
These aren’t my people-they all seem like the crunchy, granola type, which makes sense, if Svetlana is their midwife and/or birth coach. But we’re all here for the same reason. The same result.
To have our own fat, happy, adorable baby at the end of it.
“Hi, I’m Lucy,” I say, kicking myself for sounding every inch the stiff, frigid lawyer.
“I’m Ravil,” he cuts in, like he realizes I don’t know what else to say.
Svetlana fires up her computer and goes through a Powerpoint on proper diet during pregnancy. It’s basically the same checksheet she left with me on Tuesday.
Then she starts talking about birthing techniques and baby positioning. How important it is to have the baby head down, face down for the birth and what we can do toward the end of our pregnancies to ensure that happens, like crawling on our hands and knees, or doing handstands in a swimming pool.
Part of me wants to roll my eyes and blow this all off as a bunch of hippie nonsense, but the other part of me can believe there might be some old wisdom here, passed down through the ages through women like Svetlana, before the time when doctors took over births and giving birth in hospitals became the normal thing.
That doesn’t mean I want to forego the hospital birth. Lord knows, I want the epidural and the oxygen and everything else that might be necessary to keep me and my baby safe. Especially considering my age.
Svetlana puts on a video of a home birth. I’m a little shocked at first to see a pregnant woman fully naked on her hands and knees on a bed.
Moaning.
She circles her hips and sways from knee to knee as her birth partner strokes her back.
“He is using very light touch, making figure-eights on her back,” Svetlana says in her Russian accent. “This helps her relax.” The woman’s moans get louder.
“She’s having a contraction. See how she doesn’t stop breathing? Instead she lets out a low sound. This low sound helps relax the pelvic floor. What the mouth does, the pelvic floor does. Relax your mouth, relax the pelvis. Baby comes out.”
I’m embarrassed watching it. It seems like such a private moment, and yet here we all are, intruding on it, watching the poor woman struggle through the most intimate of acts. “I can’t believe she let someone videotape this,” I mutter.
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Jane pipes up. “You think you’re going to care who sees you give birth or sees you naked, but when the moment comes, none of that really matters. You’re willing to share it because it’s beautiful and natural and your baby is a miracle.”
John squeezes her closer to him. “That’s right,” he agrees. “Jane even let my mother in the room.”
“It’s okay if you want it private, too,” Svetlana interjects. “Your comfort is the only thing that matters.
The couple on the screen change position. She squats on the floor in front of the bed, her partner sitting on the bed, supporting her beneath the armpits.
A woman-Christ, it’s Svetlana, herself!-sits in front of her, hands outstretched. Svetlana speaks to the woman in Russian. A dark head appears, and we all gasp. In the next few seconds, shoulders appear, then the rest of the baby slips out.
“Oh!” Carrie covers her mouth with her hand, tears in her eyes.
I’m not feeling it, but maybe I’m too shocked by the whole scene. I sneak a peek at Ravil. He is also unmoved.
Svetlana puts on another video. “This is a water birth. I know some of you are considering it.” She darts a look at me.
Like hell we are.
“Waterbirth was pioneered in the 1960’s by Igor Charkovsky in Russia to reduce or eliminate birth trauma to the baby. It became popular in Russia in the 1980’s. I have assisted one hundred and twenty-nine waterbirths,” she claims proudly. “I think you will see the appeal when you watch the video.”
A pregnant woman is in a giant plexiglass tub, like a whale in an aquarium-totally on view to the camera and audience. Her head and shoulders are out of the tub, and her husband strokes her neck and shoulders, murmuring to her in Russian.
She moans and holds her belly. You can literally see it tighten, the muscles squeezing the baby down and out.
It goes on for a little while-long enough that I start to wonder how much longer we have to watch and then, suddenly, the baby’s head appears. Svetlana reaches her hand into the tub, not to catch, but to gently massage a circle on the baby’s head. There’s no shouting or yelling like in the movies. Svetlana and the birth partner speak in murmurs, the mother moans in a low, guttural tone.
The rest of the baby slips out. Still, Svetlana doesn’t catch him. She lets him gently float a moment while the mother cries her tears of joy.
It’s the mother who scoops the baby up and out of the water to hold against her chest, and only then does Svetlana nudge in to surreptitiously hold a stethoscope to the baby’s back while the parents weep with joy.
I burst into tears. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The birth was so peaceful. The parents’ joy is so palpable. The miracle of it all so intrinsic.
Ravil drapes his arm across the back of my chair and strokes my shoulder. When I hiccup, Jane looks over at me, her eyes and cheeks wet. “Right?” she says.
I sniff and nod. “Yeah. That was beautiful.”
Svetlana beams at me, like I just passed some kind of test. “As you can see, water births are extremely peaceful for the mother and baby.
Tears continue to stream from my eyes. It’s absolutely mortifying and completely unlike me to cry at all, much less in front of a bunch of strangers. All I can do is bob my head and try to choke back my terraced breaths.
Maybe Ravil wasn’t just being a dick when he told me I was having a water birth. I mean, he definitely was a dick because the choice should be mine. But the idea doesn’t seem quite so insane or abhorrent now.
Ravil massages the back of my neck, strokes my hair. I find myself leaning into him, drawing his strength, the comfort he offers. And despite the logic, despite knowing I’m still his prisoner, and he’s keeping me here against my will, I’m grateful to him for bringing me here to this class. I never would’ve seen a video like this without him. Wouldn’t have known about water births and the beauty of them. Wouldn’t have researched home births, or hypnobirth or any of this alternative information.
And while it’s not me, I feel far more capable of having a baby than I did a week ago. I have more trust in my body and nature and the beauty and miracle of birth.
I look over at Ravil.
I have more trust in him.
I’m playing the game to get him to trust me, and yet, I’m the one falling under a spell. Because all I see is kindness. Good intentions. Heart.
I reach out and rest my hand on his thigh. He draws me closer with the arm around my shoulders.
I turn my face into his neck and lay a tentative kiss there.
Ravil goes still.
Carrie slides a glance at us. “You’re lucky,” she says. “I wish I was having this baby with someone I love. But hey, it’ll be me and baby, and we’ll love the hell out of each other.”
My eyes pop with tears again. Not because she’s made the wrong assumption about us. But because a week ago, I was in her shoes. Planning on doing it all, all by myself.
And now I’m suddenly being waited on hand and foot. Cared for. Pampered. Massaged. Having my toes sucked. My body played like a fine instrument.
Do I really think I’d be so much better off alone? My old life suddenly seems so empty.
So sterile.
And that’s what I’d be bringing a baby into. To a sterile, empty apartment with a nanny to feed my baby by bottle while I work my ass off all day trying to make partner at my dad’s firm.
None of that feels right any more.
Watching the videos made the idea of a baby seem so much more real. A tiny, miraculous being that would come into my life. That should be celebrated and honored. And birthed naturally in peace.
Christ, did I really just think that? I must be crazy.
But I am thinking it. I am considering what it would be like for my sweet, sweet baby to come gently into the world in Ravil’s salt water hot tub. With him behind me, massaging my shoulders and weeping with me as I lift our son reverentially from the water.