A mother’s story
Desiré Waller and Kareem Folkes wanted a natural birth for their son
When Desiré Waller got pregnant, she put her trust in Houston midwife Afua Hassan. “My great-grandmother had her 13 babies under a tree. I trust my body. I know I can do it.”
Chapter 1
She bought the CVS pregnancy test. He read the results. They sat side by side on the couch, letting the news sink in.
“There was a divine stillness,” Desiré Waller, 23, remembers. “I thought, ‘Have patience and make a beautiful plan.’ ”
She meant a birth plan, one for the next nine or 10 months.
That she and Kareem Folkes, 30, weren’t married didn’t matter to them; roughly 40 percent of American mothers are not. That they were about to exchange their easy, sexy relationship for a world dominated by a 7-pound infant hadn’t occurred to them. That everything in their lives was going to change was too much to fathom.
Desiré and Kareem were just like most first-time, newly pregnant couples — aglow, blissful, oblivious. But Desiré did anticipate one bump in the road. When she gave birth she didn’t want to be in a sterile hospital, powerless and surrounded by strangers.
Chapter 2
In late summer, Kareem happened to be visiting his hairstylist, who raved about midwife Afua Hassan.
Soon he and Desiré were touring Afua’s Third Ward birthing center, where mothers come for prenatal checkups, then labor and deliver as their ancestors did.
No hospitals, no doctors, not even pain relief unless an emergency arises.
Desiré and Kareem didn’t realize it at the time, but they were tapping into a modest, millennial rebellion. In 2014, midwives delivered 8 percent of the babies born in the United States. In 1989, the comparable number was 3 percent.
“My mom had hospital births, and so did my grandma,” Desiré said. “But my greatgrandmother had her 13 babies under a tree. I trust my body. I know I can do it.”
Afua wanted Desiré and Kareem to understand the choice they were making. Despite the rise of midwife deliveries, 99 percent of American women still choose to have their babies in hospitals. Afua asked, did Desiré want to be part of that slim 1 percent?
“Every pregnancy is a risk,” Afua continued. “What’s the worst thing that could happen? The baby could die, and you could die, too. Do you want to be out of a hospital when that could
happen?”
Desiré and Kareem had never met anybody like Afua, so blunt, so motherly, so different from all of the professionals they’d met in the traditional health-care system.
Afua, who lives upstairs from her 24/7 birthing center, is a “direct entry” midwife, meaning she earned her certificate after three years of classwork and apprenticeships. But she’s not a nurse, a certified nurse-midwife or a certified professional midwife. Texas considers Afua’s credentials adequate, but some states, including her native Connecticut, do not.
“I could take the classes, the test and pay the thousand dollars to become a certified professional midwife,” Afua says, “but I’m not going to do it. My clients are like family. If they want me to be a CPM, they should go somewhere else.”
At times, she’s referred patients to physicians. She’s had to send some laboring women to the hospital by ambulance.
Chapter 3
Desiré is 6 feet tall, slim, and she teaches computer skills at E.A. Jones Elementary in Missouri City.
She’s also a native Houstonian. As a kid, she was an outstanding athlete, and her parents supported her as she traveled around the state playing basketball and volleyball.
Later, at South Carolina State University, she majored in speech pathology and devoted every spare moment to collegiate volleyball.
Which was how and why she met Kareem.
She was home on break, trying to improve her strength and conditioning at a local gym. He was an elementary school P.E. teacher by day and a personal trainer at that same gym at night. He offered to help her.
“I saw his height (6-foot-4) and his dreadlocks,” Desiré said. “We stayed in contact, even when I went back to school. He was taking me on dates, but we didn’t call it that. He was just my awesome friend.”
They talked about everything and nothing — his strict, vegetarian-plus-fish diet, spirituality, astrology, numerology, the power of positive talk. Three times she was “most valuable player” on her college volleyball team, and twice she was conference MVP. She turned even disastrous games right side up when she believed she could.
Desiré and Kareem waited a long time — four years — before allowing their friendship to turn sexual.
Said Desiré, “It just evolved into the most beautiful thing.”
They decided not to use birth control, Desiré said, because it felt counter to the natural or divine.
Chapter 4
Desiré didn’t have the big, classic pregnancy bump until her seventh month. By then, she and Kareem had moved in with each other, and they’d had an ultrasound test that showed their baby, a boy, was developing normally.
He had a name — Kareem Jr.
“It means noble and wise,” Desiré said. “We can’t do better than that.”
During the biweekly checkups, Afua weighed Desiré and took her blood pressure. 110 over 70. Perfect.
Afua also measured the baby and listened to the steady gallop of his beating heart.
Desiré had questions about the reams of baby-related information she was reading on the Internet. Once she asked what Afua thought about hypnotic births. Supposedly, they were fearand pain-free.
“No,” Afua said firmly. “We’re not doing that.”
Kareem, who had given Desiré a pregnancy-yoga videotape for her birthday, spent his time worrying about labor and delivery.
“I know it will be painful,” he said, faking a confident tone, “but I think it will be a good pain.”
Afua gave him a disapproving look.
“It’s a good pain after it’s over,” she said. “While it’s happening, it’s more like breaking a limb.”
Kareem didn’t want to hear that.
Chapter 5
In February, Desiré and Kareem paid off Afua’s fee, a total of $4,000, none covered by health insurance. And they began the round of baby showers held in their honor, three in all. Little KJ — he already had a nickname — was due March 18.
“I have nothing to wear,” Desiré groaned. “Even my maternity clothes don’t fit.”
Her once sleek body was filling out all over, and she worried that she was getting fat, that Kareem wouldn’t find her attractive, that she no longer looked like an elite athlete.
Kareem tried to reassure her, but it seemed to him that Desiré listened only to Afua.
He just shook his head. Why Afua and not him?
He and Desiré went for long walks every day. One day, when she felt really good, she added squats to the exercise regime.
Mistake. Within hours her back was killing her. So were the muscles and ligaments under her belly.
That night, Desiré was moaning in her sleep, and an anxious Kareem finally woke her up. It was 4 a.m.
“Babe, are you all right? Should I call Afua? Should I go to Wal-Mart and get the car seat?”
Desiré listened for a moment and went back to sleep.
Chapter 6
During Desiré’s ninth month of pregnancy, she and Kareem visited Afua every week.
Each time, Afua told Desiré, “Not this week. You’re looking too pretty.”
Desiré made it to 40 weeks, then 41 weeks, then 41 weeks and two days. That Sunday night, she felt regular, painful contractions. Kareem called Afua. Stay put, she said, after Kareem described Desiré’s pain. “Try to get some sleep.”
About 6 the next morning, March 28, the haggard-looking couple arrived at Afua’s front door.
Desiré was dressed in a
short nightdress, striped socks and flip-flops. Kareem was dressed hastily, too. The calmest and best-dressed member of the team was Victoria Williams, Desiré’s best friend and videographer.
Afua, who has delivered more than 800 babies since her training in the mid-’80s, did a quick check. Desiré was beginning serious labor, but she still had a long way to go.
“She was cussing in the car,” Kareem said. “I went over a little bump.” “Let’s walk,” Afua said. They headed northwest, from The Birthing Place on Barbee to the post office on Almeda and back.
They had almost returned to home base, stopping for contractions about every 10 steps, when Desiré needed an emergency restroom stop.
She ducked into the only possible place, a grimy convenience store, but it didn’t have a public restroom.
Desiré looked distraught. This wasn’t going as planned.
Chapter 7
Afua still wasn’t satisfied with the length or intensity of the contractions. If they didn’t pick up, she said, Desiré and Kareem might have to go home.
By then, the group waiting for KJ had grown to include Desiré’s mom and stepfather and Afua’s midwife apprentice. Everyone headed around the block, then east toward Texas Southern University, with the midwife apprentice clutching the “just in case” blanket.
Desiré was trying to walk, trying to speed the baby along, trying to display her faith in what she called “the process.” But the contractions started coming so often and hurt so much.
“Rock it out,” Afua said, swiveling her hips.
Desiré reached for Kareem and wrapped her arms around him. Together, belly to belly, they did the baby dance. That’s when Kareem realized: Desiré really did need him. He really was her greatest comfort and support. They made it to TSU and back. By then, Desiré was in hard labor. It seemed the contractions no longer stopped and started; the pain was sustained and didn’t let up.
“I have a crying urge,” Desiré said.
“Let it out,” Afua said, and hot tears hit the towel in Desiré’s lap.
Almost as one, Desiré and Kareem moved toward the hot tub outside their bedroom in the birthing center. For a little while, Desiré was comfortable there, with Kareem serving as her back rest. Afua got out a tiny diaper, a baby blanket and a bulb syringe to clear KJ’s nose and throat. It seemed like he was ready to arrive.
Then everything stopped. With difficulty, Desiré clambered out of the hot tub and lay back on the kingsize bed. She had not only stopped dilating, the lip of her cervix had swollen so that she had less room for the baby to exit.
Desiré looked around the crowded room with despair. Maybe she couldn’t do it. Maybe she should admit that and go to the hospital. She couldn’t deliver a baby with so many people watching.
Chapter 8
Afua ordered everyone out of the room; only she and Kareem stayed with Desiré. An hour passed, maybe an hour and a half. By 4:30 p.m., it was OK for the waiting crowd to file back in.
Afua was cooing to Desiré. “He’s ready, he’s got plenty of space, take nice deep breaths for your baby.
“And one more. Push. Push.”
All day, Desiré had allowed herself only a few moans and groans. She didn’t want to scare the baby. But finally the pain was so bad, she cried. Again.
“You’re almost done,” Kareem whispered. “Breathe.”
“You’re doing such a good job,” Afua said. “Excellent. Push. Give him to me. Keep it coming.”
“Help me,” Desiré moaned. “It’s burning!”
“Grab your legs and push,” Afua said.
Then, KJ’s head popped out. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth.
Afua reached in, making sure the umbilical chord was not wrapped around his neck. It was 5:08 p.m.
At 5:09, KJ slid all the way out. He was pink and gray and still. Silent. In those first few seconds, it wasn’t clear. Was he breathing? Was he OK?
Then, he let out a single, weak cry. His fans cheered.
“Look at those feet,” Desiré said, trying to regain control. “And his hands! Big hands like his daddy. Don’t worry, Baby. Mommy and Daddy are right here.”
Desiré cradled her baby in her arms, then passed him to Kareem. She was shivering. Her body seemed in shock.
“I love you, Baby,” Kareem sang. “I love you.”
“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Desiré said to the room once, twice, three times.
Then she muttered to herself, “I’m not doing this again.”
Chapter 9
Three weeks later, Desiré was back at Afua’s, telling her birth story to a crowd of women. Some had suckling babies at their breasts, as Desiré did, and others had swelling bellies.
She told them she had underestimated the pain. That they should practice their breathing because it helps. That they should allow one support person and Afua into the birthing room. No more.
When the pain is overwhelming, Desiré said, keep going, forge ahead, think positively like an elite athlete. “You can do it, but it’s a lot. It’s the longest marathon you’ll ever run.”
Desiré enjoyed telling her story, but she’s moved on to new challenges. Like finding time to take a 15-minute shower in a 16-hour day. Like the prospect of returning to work at a job she loves when it means leaving KJ behind. Like keeping up with Kareem. He has so much energy, so much love, and she is still tired, still sore.
But she has a man she loves and a baby she adores.
She smiles a tentative, mother’s smile.