Words by Jayde Kirchert
I was one of those annoyingly jolly pregnant ladies. I loved being pregnant. Even towards the end, I was really happy to wait and let my baby come when he was ready. I wanted a natural, physiological birth, without pain medication, so I might experience giving birth as a spiritual, transformative rite of passage — and allow my baby and I to benefit from ‘oxytocin love bomb’ bonding.
At around 39 weeks I could feel something was starting to happen… but it would take until almost 41 weeks for my baby to arrive. Those last two weeks were agonising as induction loomed over me, threatening the rich, transformational experience I so deeply wanted.
“Always best if baby can come by 40 weeks,” the doctor said at my 39 week appointment handing me a fact sheet on induction. If my baby didn’t arrive by the 41 week mark I would need to be induced — that was the hospital’s policy.
I had done a lot of research into breastfeeding (including a course on gentle breastfeeding) and had learnt that unnecessary medical induction of labour was likely to result in medical interventions — and even the ‘cascade of interventions’ — which would not only make a normal physiological birth less likely, but could also negatively impact on the breastfeeding journey. I had also learnt that there could be variation with due dates and it was really normal for first time mothers to go into labour later, closer to the 41 week mark.
I felt I had done my research and didn’t find the hospital policy satisfactory. However, when I asked if I could just wait, I was told I would have to go up to the city, which was too far if I were in labour. I felt I had no choice. As I approached the ‘deadline’ I had to confront the very real possibility that I would have to hand my body over to the system — and probably lose bodily autonomy. I was angry and scared (neither of these feelings would help labour get started, by the way). I was thrown into the very centre of an age-old feminist question: who gets to decide what happens to your body?
For women the world over, this question has been a constant across generations. It has also been a central theme to my work as a writer and theatre maker. It’s no secret that our bodies have been the site of political battles and power struggles for Millenia. However, these issues are particularly heightened when it comes to reproduction and birth — something I explore in my upcoming play, Ripening.
We have seen the undoing of women’s reproductive autonomy in a most pronounced way with the overturning of Roe vs Wade in the U.S. In Australia, a quieter but equally concerning undermining of women’s bodily autonomy has been occurring as reports have come to light with some regional hospitals refusing to offer or carry out abortions to women. Whilst choices around whether or not to proceed with a pregnancy have been front and centre in media around the world, what is perhaps less frequently discussed is the journey of choice — or the feeling they don’t have a choice — that women must navigate once they proceed to have a baby.
When I entered the public hospital system as a pregnant woman, my assumption was the system was there to support me to choose what birth I wanted for me and my baby. In reality, this was not always the case. Sometimes, it seems like the hospital wants you to do what the hospital wants you to do. Of course, some people do manage to have positive experiences in the hospital system. However, 1 in 3 Australian women experience traumatic births. The recent NSW Inquiry into birth trauma delivered a number of findings, including, “There are a number of individuals who have suffered preventable birth trauma” and “That urgent efforts must be made to address avoidable and preventable factors that contribute to birth trauma.” Yet, the extraordinary and tragic prevalence of birth trauma remains largely unknown and undiscussed by expecting women, particularly if it is their first baby.
Though hospitals have undeniably saved the lives of many women and babies, too many have suffered unnecessarily due to pathologisation of birth, a culture of risk-mitigation and litigation-avoidance and policies based on general population data that doesn’t take into account the personal context of a woman. This, in combination with gender-based ideals that encourage women to not cause a fuss, and not be overly assertive, dissuade women from trusting their bodies and their instincts, and voicing concerns when things don’t feel right.
When I was pregnant, I was struck by how many people started telling me their birth trauma stories. It wasn’t exactly what I expected to hear and it was hard to ignore. I felt it wasn’t right — positive birth stories should be the norm. The NSW Inquiry details many women feeling they weren’t being listened to and that they didn’t have choices about what happened to them.
Fortunately, my birth experience was great in the end. But the feeling that I didn’t have a choice when it came to induction was terrifying and led me to write Ripening: I wanted to help share what I learnt, to empower women with knowledge and raise awareness of these issues so they can feel agency around what happens to their bodies throughout their pregnancy and birth journey. A wonderful midwife said to me, after my birth, “you’ll draw on [your positive birth experience] when things get hard with a newborn”. She was right. And I couldn’t help think of all the women who don’t have a positive experience.
Sometimes, despite all best efforts things don’t go the way we planned. But feeling that we are making the choice is what makes the difference between a traumatic experience and a transformative experience. And having awareness, being properly informed and having conversations before we get into the birthing suite might make all the difference. Ultimately, that is the aim of this play.
If women’s choices matter to you or someone you know, please come and see our production of Ripening at Gasworks Theatre (May 28-31) and help us grow the conversation.
