Deep in the murky woods of England, just north of London, a scream erupted, echoing eerily from tree to tree. This scream lacked the fear one would expect upon hearing the noise. Rather, it held merely a tinge of pain and knowing that everything was going to turn out all right. The scream of childbirth is like no other.
Struggling and flailing in pain lay a young woman, barely twenty-five years old, on a bed of feathers in her small, two-room log cabin. Emeline could only think about how much she desired this to be over. She had expected to get through this more quickly, picturing the little hands on the child she would soon be holding; this image was bound to motivate her to push harder, and get through this childbirth far sooner, right? Emeline was disappointed to find that she couldn’t even picture her child. She was overwhelmed with pain, searing throughout her abdomen.