Birth Stories: Prepare for the Improbable

Welcome to Birth Stories, a collection of real, unedited birth experiences shared by members of our community. These stories are shared exactly as they were told, offering an authentic glimpse into the many different realities of birth. Our goal is to provide expecting parents with knowledge and support as they navigate their own journeys. If you have a birth story you'd like to contribute, we’d love to hear from you! Simply email us at hello@thelabourdept.com.

Today’s story comes from C., who shares her experience of giving birth to her second child in Amsterdam.

The verdict: "We have to call an ambulance now"

"We might need to drive her to Belgium," the EMT mused, only half-joking, revealing the first glimpse into the systemic strain on the Dutch system of encouraging home births. This answer came in response to my husband's slightly panicked question—"What's next?" It was a quintessentially Dutch moment: the EMT joke teetering between dark humor and clinical detachment, and an audience that did not appreciate either.

The audience in this case was me, the severely hemorrhaging new mom, my husband, our midwives, and our 1-hour-old son Louis. His arrival had been swift and decisive, erupting into the world less than three hours after the first contractions signaled his imminent debut. This was a home birth, a practice as Dutch as windmills and bicycle lanes. This tradition is rooted in a national healthcare tradition that encourages home birth, knowing that in this tiny country, a hospital is never more than a 10-minute drive away.

Louis arrival was  textbook—his Apgar score nearly flawless, his 3.6-kilogram frame a testament to his father's genes and my "push-power" as a second-time mom. The first signs of trouble were subtle: the placenta's stubborn refusal to emerge. Blood began pooling, swiftly transforming the serene home birth into a critical scenario. After an hour the verdict came: "We have to call an ambulance now," the midwife firmly stated. When the EMTs suggested I walk down the stairs, the request seemed as absurd as proposing lunar travel. My body, depleted and traumatized, responded with a swift and definitive blackout the moment I attempted to sit up.Faced with my unconsciousness, the EMTs pivoted—first entertaining the surreal notion of summoning the fire brigade, then listening as the midwife cut through the bureaucratic hesitation with a stark ultimatum: "Carry her. Now. She will bleed out." In that moment, medical protocol and the deep Dutch love of doing things by the book gave way to urgent human necessity. The journey to the hospital became a bit of a macabre trail—my blood marking my exit out of the house like a crime scene. My cousin (bless her!) later mopped up the evidence of this medical emergency, so it would not freak out our napping toddler. Or my mother-in-law, who was on her way over.

At the hospital, an all-female medical team took over. The procedure to remove the placenta—a process I'd rather not describe in detail, and I don't recommend you Google either (which is what I ended up having to do as no one bothered to explain it to me after I woke up from it)—was conducted under general anesthesia, a merciful intervention. The last thing I remember was the doctor telling me to "relax and imagine being at the beach" and me yelping: "I don't want to go to the beach, I want drugs, so the f---ing contractions and pain stop!" So said, so done. I was out like a light.

When I woke up, my husband and Louis were in the hospital room with me. The pain was gone and so was the fear we had all felt that morning. But I had lost 2.5 liters of blood, a volume that would complicate my recovery and breastfeeding. Furthermore, the hospital made several mistakes (other than refusing me in the first instance, as a patient in a life-threatening situation)—that further complicated my recovery. The irony is not lost on me: the people who best kept me safe were also the persons with the least formal medical training, our midwife and my husband.

My birthing story is more than a personal narrative. It's a critique of the Dutch healthcare system showing its fractures—hospitals refusing patients, communication breakdowns, and a post-natal support system that often feels more mechanical than compassionate.

Yet, my overall reflection five months later is that I would choose home birth again*, if I had to do it all over. The key lesson we learned is deceptively simple: prepare for the improbable. Home birth comes with statistical reassurance. Yet, the practicalities of the pressures on the Dutch system mean that there are systemic risks in addition to the probability of individual medical emergencies. Have a contingency plan—not just for medical emergencies but also for the labyrinthine hospital system that awaits when things go wrong. More critically, arm your partner or support person with the most vital skill: fierce advocacy.

And then, the mundane yet crucial: prepare the practical details in advance. Install the baby car seat weeks before your due date. Do not find yourself, newborn in arm, wrestling with installation instructions while you wonder whether you just said your final goodbyes to your significant other. Oh, and getting a good mop. You know, just in case.

* the caveat here being that: We don't want more kids and that even if we did, because of my experience any future babies have to be born in the hospital. 

Thank you so much C for sharing your birth story. Do you have a birth story you would like to share? Email us hello@thelabourdept.com