In honor of Mother’s Day, this week we’re sharing stories about the journey to becoming a mom.
Part 1: Discouraged by the medical approach to pregnancy, Julia Whitehouse decides to have a home birth.
Julia Whitehouse is a writer and comedian and mother and daughter. She has written for New Yorker Daily Shouts, McSweeney’s, Splitsider, Mutha Magazine, and POPSUGAR. She hosts Manhattan’s longest running weekly storytelling open mic at The Duplex every Monday at 7 pm. She enjoys figuring out how to build things without looking up tutorials but will always look up a recipe before deciding whether or not to follow it.
Part 2: When Nessa Goldman splits with her husband, her dream of having children by age 35 is in jeopardy.
Nessa Goldman is a middle school math and science teacher in Sequim, Washington. She grew up in Toronto, Canada, but prefers small towns closer to the ocean and mountains. She relocated to the Pacific Northwest as soon as she graduated college and now lives at the doorstep of the Olympic National Park. The wilderness is her church and she often spends the weekends hiking and surfing. When the sun goes down, she is the host of a bi-monthly local storytelling event, the Out Loud Story Slam. Her stories have been shared on the Risk! Podcast and Story Night. You can find her online at www.outloudstoryslam.com.
Episode Transcript
Part 1
I love throwing a party. I love a house party. I love doing it all myself. So you bring the drinks and I will make all of the food. I like impressing people with how I can make mini quiches and cut up my own vegetables, you know, for a crudité platter. I'll make that dip. I don't buy that dip. Homemade. I like impressing people.
I overheard my friend Naomi once at a party saying to somebody else, “When you come to Julia's, you know you're going to get fed.”
It's probably this part of my personality impressing people in my home that led me to decide to have a home birth.
Julia Whitehouse shares her story at Kraine Theater in New York, NY in March 2023. Photo by Zhen Qin.
I got pregnant and I hadn't really thought about how to be pregnant or how to have a baby, but I'd heard of home birth before but I was like, “Eww. Gross. Why? Eww. Gross. Why would you do that in your house?” It seemed like not for me, thanks. Like water birth, like why would you do that to a child?
Then I called up some doctors once I found out that I was pregnant and the receptionist used the word ‘viable’ one too many times. Like, “You have to come in to make sure it's a viable pregnancy.” She just sounded so impatient. I felt stupid about it. Like I didn't know what was happening in my body but I didn't want somebody to remind me of that every appointment.
So I thought maybe I'm wrong. Maybe pregnancy isn't an emergency. Maybe I don't need to go to a hospital? I've been to a hospital like when my mom had a stroke and when my friend was run over by a subway. Maybe I can have a baby in my home. Maybe I can do this myself. Maybe.
So I called up a few midwives and I made some appointments for interviews, which you can do. They were all lovely, lovely people but I chose one, a woman named Cara. She was very sensitive, very straightforward and had all the experience, like the 20‑plus years experience of being a certified midwife in Manhattan and the boroughs. I just felt a vibe I was going to be taken care of this woman. If something were to go awry, she'd be there. She would know what to do.
And she recommends all the books: Ina May Gaskin, Natural Birth, The Bradley Method. I read them. I love them.
And she recommends hiring a doula. In fact, she requires it. A doula, first‑time birth, get a doula. I do. I hire a doula. Lots of money? Reflexologist also. Yeah.
Then she also requires that my husband and I take a Mindful Birth class together since we're going to be doing this together. We made this baby. We can birth this baby and we got to learn how to do it.
And we do. We go to this class in this YMCA over on 14th Street. It's like this stinky, stinky room in sort of end of the summer. It's all these couples and we're all learning from this woman named Mary Esther Malloy. Lovely lady. Spoke like this. You can't imagine her ever getting mad at anyone and, obviously, an ex‑dancer because she sat on her, you know. She sat on her legs like that, like bending in a way nobody should. Natural birth, not a natural body.
But we learned about pain management from her by holding ice cubes to our wrist. Like how long can you do this? Also, all the best ways to labor, like bouncing on a ball and also sitting on a toilet and also sitting on a chair backwards. My favorite by far was the one where I hang on my husband and I look in his eyes, lock eyes and just sway, like dancing. Dancing, this is the one we're going to do. I love this one. This is great.
So I was imbued with confidence by this class. I was ready. I was, “This is going to be fantastic. Imma do this myself.”
Julia Whitehouse shares her story at Kraine Theater in New York, NY in March 2023. Photo by Zhen Qin.
And 41 weeks, my husband and I are like, “Where's the baby?”
My midwife suggests that I go get an ultrasound. Let's just find out what's happening. The only place that I could get an appointment was at an imaging center that I'd never been to before over on the east side and I'm up in Harlem.
So I take the morning. I take a nice long walk through Central Park, beautiful fall day. There are people running and I'm a runner so I nod at them, like, “I'll be with you soon (laughs).” I'm in such a great mood. I'm just full of myself, full of a baby. Like life, I'm feeling it.
And when I walk into the office, the technician is properly not impressed. She's quite cold, which is fine. It's her job. She sees women like this all the time, I'm sure. I'm perky and the room is all dark. She squirts the gel, warm gel on my belly and she like wands it and room‑room and clickety‑click, clickety‑click on the computer, taking the images. Then she leaves me alone in the room for what seems like a long time, too long to simply wipe gel off my belly with a paper towel.
Then, suddenly, she runs in and rushes me down a hallway into an office with a doctor, a man I've never met, who says to me, “Where is your hospital?”
I say, “I don't have a hospital. I'm having a home birth.”
And he says, “Well, I'm trying to get in touch with your midwife but I can't. I can't reach her. Your baby is small, your fluid is low and your placenta is old. We got to get this baby out now.”
I'm like, “Whoa, what? I'm having a home birth.”
I don't want to cry and I also don't want to explain to this man that, “I don't like how you're making me feel stupid. Like I want to do this myself but not at the cost of my baby. I'm not trying to prove something with this. I just…”
I don't want to cry so I don't. I just ask him, “Is this an emergency?”
And he says, “No, but it's emergent.”
I say, “May I leave?”
And he says, “Yes, but…”
And I say, “Okay,” and I back out, because it's not his fault. I get it. He's just trying to save whatever, like in case. Just in case. Just in case, but no. I'm having a home birth, though. And I don't know who he is.
So I call my midwife. She picks up. I can reach her. And she says, “Go home. I'll be there soon.” And she meets me at my apartment. It's like 1:00 in the afternoon. She checks me out. She doesn't tell me how much I'm dilated but I'm dilated.
And she says, “It's happening today. Later tonight or early tomorrow morning this baby is coming. It's happening. It's happening. You relax. You rest. Eat. And when your husband comes home, have him bring some ice cream and make a milkshake with ice cream, almond milk, castor oil and a splash of vodka if you feel like it.”
So I spend the afternoon just resting, eating a tuna fish sandwich. Then my husband comes home. It's after 6:00. He comes home with the ice cream. He's like, “Here it is,” and I put it all in the blender. He's like, “What the fuck are you doing?”
I'm like, “It's… I don't know. It's what the midwife said.”
Then we lay down because we know like first labor, what we learned in the birth class is a first labor is going to take a while. It could be anywhere from like 12 to 19 to 36 hours. This is a while so let's lay down and get some rest.
As soon as I lay down, I text my mom, “It might be happening tonight.”
I lay down. I'm like, “Oh, it's happening tonight.” Like this wave of a contraction just happens upon me and I'm like, “Whaha. Oh, I can't lay down. I can't sit down. I need to be walking.”
And my husband, he pops up. He's like, “Oh, okay. I'll put some leftovers in the microwave. I'm gonna eat. I'm gonna eat while we're still at the beginning of this.” So he popped some leftovers in the microwave.
I don't know if you guys have ever been at 59th Street and you accidentally get on the A express. You're there and the 72nd whizzes by and then 86 and you're like, “What the fuck? Does anybody else know? We're on a runaway train.” And you're going to 125th but you had no idea that you’re… “No. This is not the train.”
That's kind of like what happened in my labor. We thought we were at the very beginning and I am suddenly like, “Whoa.”
And the sound of the microwave is “bubum, bubum, bubum,” like your food is ready. And I'm like, “No.” I won't let my husband go because I'm locking eyes. This is the position that I want.
Then suddenly I'm like shitting and vomiting and leaning up against the bathroom wall, sweating and crying, looking at my husband saying, “I've gotta get better at this.”
He calls up the midwife. He says, “Hey, this is what's happening.”
And she says, “Hey, first labor. It's okay. It's fine. I will be there soon in a matter of hours. It's all right. It's fine.”
Then, suddenly, I rip off all of my clothes and I jump into the bathtub and I want to push. I want to bear down. I want to get the baby out.
And he tells this to her and she goes, “Oh, okay. I'll be there soon.”
She instructs him to tell me not to bear down, not “huuh” but to blow him. And he says, “You have to blow me, Julia.” I say, “What?” He explains and so I “whoo-whoo-whoo”.
Then she also instructs him to put his hand between my legs to see what he feels and he feels the baby's head. So she tells him to keep his hand there, in essence holding the baby in until she can be there.
Anyway, so we're there and he's holding the baby inside me and I'm blowing air at him and he says, “Do you want the water on?”
I say, “Oh, okay.” I hadn't planned on a fucking gross water birth. I didn't clean my tub. Like I was going to feel this with all the pain imaginable. I can do this.
And I'm like, [crying] “I don't know. Okay. Water.”
He turns on the water and then the sound of the water is just so annoying. I say, “Turn the water off.”
He says, “Julia, you're doing a good job. You're doing a great job.”
And I say, “There is no Julia, only ZUUL.”
Finally, the midwife arrives. She comes into the bathroom and I'm so weak at this point. All I can say is, “Cara, what do I do”
And she says, “What your body wants to. Just push.”
Julia Whitehouse shares her story at Kraine Theater in New York, NY in March 2023. Photo by Zhen Qin.
And one contraction later, my beautiful baby is born into about an inch of water, piss, shit and blood. We're all tears. The placenta comes out, third stage of labor
And then everybody leaves the bathroom. I shower my now empty body, feeling very proud of myself. I get out of the shower. I wrap myself in a towel, put on my first pair of mesh underwear and walk into my living room where the lights are dim. It's warm.
The doula has finally arrived. All is forgiven that she missed the entire thing because she's scrambling some eggs and some potatoes. The midwife is fixing the handheld scale to weigh the baby and my husband is sitting by the window with our little bundle wrapped in warm towels. Tears have dried on his face.
I look at everybody. It's my baby's first house party. And I clap my hands. It's like let's do that again.
And two‑and‑a‑half years later, we do. And my midwife says, “You know, it's good that you planned on a home birth because you never would have made it to the hospital.”
A hospital birth just wasn't for me. Thank you.
Part 2
I told my husband that by the time I was 35, I wanted to be holding our children. We were 30 years old when I met. I wasn't in any rush but I'm a science teacher and I'm a planner and I know how biology works and so I made it very clear that that was what I wanted. But, somewhere down the line, ‘when’ turned to ‘if’.
Fast forward. I am 35 years old and I am childless and my friend Dawn has just told me that she is pregnant. The thing that is happening to me at this time is all my friends are starting to have children, is that I have the appropriate response, which is to be very happy for them, followed by this depressing, crushing sadness that I can't control. It's sabotaging my life and my relationship.
So on this drive out to a cabin, as I've just received this news, it is very uncomfortable in the car with my husband. I just can't stomach it. I can't take it because kids have become a four‑letter word, but I can't take it anymore.
So we get to the cabin. I just asked him, “What is the worst part about not having kids?”
And he says, “Not having time to take care of other people.”
I was like, “What? That is what having kids is. That is exactly what it is. It is taking care of other people.”
And he's like, “This isn't a fight. It's not a debate. It's just how I feel.”
So I'm like, “Okay.”
So over the weekend I'm just running it through my head. Who are these other people? And so I ask him. I said, “Who are these other people?”
And he said, “I don't know.”
And I go, “Great. Other people. He doesn't know. He just doesn't want to have kids. This is awesome.”
And as I'm ruminating on this, I'm just realizing that the problem isn't that he wants to take care of other people. The problem is that these other people are not me.
Nessa Goldman shares her story at Jewelbox Theater in Seattle, WA in March 2023. Photo by Elizar Mercado.
Prior to this weekend, we have been looking to buy a house together. As the weekend came to a close, I told him I was going to be looking to buy a house by myself.
Three months later, I am in my very first home that I purchased by myself. And I think I'm ready to start dating. I've never been on the dating apps before but I think I know how they work. “35, loves to hike, looking for my baby daddy.”
So if you can imagine, I didn't get too many takers right off the bat. A couple burned hot and fast. Nothing really went anywhere and then the pandemic hit. So, now, I'm reevaluating everything in my life and I can't help but think about Mike, my ex. I'm just like, “Why? Why aren't we together?” The world's going to hell. Kids don't matter. In fact, I'm glad I don't have kids at this time. I just kind of want to be with him.
So we start hanging out a little bit, going on socially‑distanced walks. At the end of one of these walks, I ask him. I say, “Do you want to date me? Shouldn't we just date again?’
And he said, “No.”
So we hugged for a very long, uncomfortable time at the end of that walk. And he said, “Now what?”
And I said, “This is it.” Because I didn't want to be his friend. I couldn't be his friend. I still loved him.
And so he got in his car and he drove away. I sat in my car and I sobbed.
It was one of those days where it was just kind of like sun showers and raining a bit. As I drove away, the sun came up from behind the clouds and Jimmy Cliff came on the radio. It was ‘I can see clearly now the rain is gone. It was just somewhat prophetic as I cried and really came to understand that this relationship was over and it was time for me to start something new.
As I thought about what that something new could be, what does my new life look like, I realized that in my attempts at dating, I had really been trying to fill what I called the Mike‑shaped hole in my life. I was looking for the next man to just step in so we could continue on this journey towards starting a family and that just wasn't fair to me and it wasn't fair to any of the men I was going to date. I needed to figure out what my new future looked like. Maybe it had kids. Maybe it didn't. Maybe I did it alone.
And as I'm contemplating all these options, I realize that, more than anything, I just want time. I just need a little bit more time to figure it all out. And then like a light bulb goes off, I realize, “Oh, my goodness. I can freeze my eggs. I could freeze my eggs and I can have some more time.”
So I contact my doctor and I start that ball rolling. Turns out, at 37 I'm actually a pretty good candidate after we run all the tests. The only thing is that my AMH is a little on the low side. I'm actually in the 10th percentile. AMH keeps track of your ovarian reserve. And so while most women could expect to get 15 to 20 eggs, I would be lucky if I got 10 to a dozen. But I'm fit and I'm healthy. I can do a dozen. We can do this. So, a couple months later, I became a human science experiment.
Nessa Goldman shares her story at Jewelbox Theater in Seattle, WA in March 2023. Photo by Elizar Mercado.
Now, like I said, I am a science teacher. I am not a medicine. I have never administered a needle before and all I really got was a couple PowerPoints and my dosage and then there I am giving myself needles on a regular basis. I'm giving myself FSH and LH or synthetics that trigger in your body. I am sticking the pointy needle into the fat fold and I'm getting the hang of it. And these drugs are sending my body into overdrive because, ordinarily, a woman will release one egg in their cycle. Like I said, I wanted a dozen.
So we are sending signals from the endocrine system to my ovaries to get those eggs pumping. We want to make lots of big, juicy, mature eggs so that we can keep them for later, right?
After about a week and I'm getting the hang of giving myself all these needles, I go in for my first screening. This is kind of the moment of truth. We are going to find out if this even worked at all, because there's a chance that it didn't work.
So I'm like, “Come on one dozen.” We go in for the ultrasound and it's not a dozen and it's not ten. It's eight. Most people might be upset that it's eight but I'm like, “Hey, it's working.” I just want to be an optimist about all this. I'm just so happy that I did something about it.
Now, at this point, after sending those ovary factories into overdrive, now I need to kind of pump the brakes. Because the way that the menstrual cycle works, for those of you unfamiliar, is that your ovaries produce eggs to a certain maturity and then they want to let them go. We ovulate. But I don't want to ovulate just yet, so now I have to do this new needle, Cetrotide, that's going to stop my ovaries and make sure I hold on to them.
The other drugs really weren't so bad. I didn't have too many side effects. I was told Cetrotide might have a little bit more.
Well, the first night, not so bad. I'm like, “I got this.” The next day, I am laid up on the couch cradling a hot water bottle, groaning, being like, “What have you done? Of course this was gonna happen. What did you think when you stuck a bunch of drugs into you? That you weren't gonna feel anything?”
I'm starting to think this must be what morning sickness feels like. I am so uncomfortable. I don't know if I want to puke or pass out, but all I know is that I don't want to do this alone. I just wish I had somebody to take care of me. Even though I really want kids and these eggs are an insurance policy, more than I want kids I want a family.
So, I'm going in for the big day. I've had my final screening. Everything is good. Final trigger and I'm on the gurney in my cute little hospital gown. The nurse is giving me the once over before I go in for the procedure.
The way it works is they're going to go in through my vagina with a speculum. Then they take another needle, perforate my vaginal wall, pluck out some eggs out of my follicles and, if they get any good ones, put them in a Petri dish and we'll freeze them.
Now, if that sounds a little painful, it is. That's why you go under general anesthetic. So I count down 10, 9, 8 and, before I know it, I'm waking up and the nurse is giving me the news. “We had great success. We got four eggs.”
I'm like, “Hmm, four eggs. That was not what I was told.” And I'm thinking about it. I'm like, “I just paid $10,000 for four eggs?” And I'm doing the math, like at 15% attrition that's less than one egg is likely to become an embryo. So not a great result but I got four eggs, so I'm ready to date again, guys. This time I'm like I don't need to find my baby daddy. I just want to have a good time.
So I go out on lots of dates. I make a spreadsheet because, of course, I love a good spreadsheet. So I'm keeping track of their names, their age, their nicknames. We've got dad bod and handsome Vince. I'm keeping precise notes about them and then, most importantly, if they are a potential life partner.
In one week, I go on six dates in six days with six different people. And by the time I got to my sixth date, I was pretty tired. I was supposed to go with this guy named Lucas and I was like, “I don't know. This goofy country boy, do I really want to rally?” And I was like, “Come on, Nessa. You said you were gonna give everybody a shot. You should go.”
I'm so glad I didn't cancel on him because Lucas is nothing like my ex‑husband. Where my ex is short and furry and completely unmotivated to do anything with his life, Lucas is tall and handsome. We're talking about the Dunning‑Kruger curve and how to improve ourselves and what we want. We have this incredible chemistry and he wants kids. So I'm pretty excited about Lucas. He gets the first tick in the potential life partner box, but I don't want to put all of my literal and figurative eggs in his basket just yet.
Nessa Goldman shares her story at Jewelbox Theater in Seattle, WA in March 2023. Photo by Elizar Mercado.
So I keep dating and we keep dating. We live about two hours apart from one another so we're doing this long distance back and forth. First, it's like one night every month. Then it's two nights every couple weeks. And then it's Friday night to Monday morning at 5:00 AM every single weekend.
And on one of these weekends, we start talking about kids and not in this far off when lalala we're going to have children. We talk about our kids, like what we want to raise our children like and how we want to be a family. And so 18 months after we first met, he moves in with me.
We adopt the most wonderful dog in the world named Herbert and start our family and we start trying to get pregnant. After nine months, I got pregnant. Eight weeks later, I had a miscarriage. So, we're still trying. And if these old eggs don't work, I got four more on ice.
Thank you very much.