Could you really help deliver a baby when everything’s gone sideways—no hospitals, no power, nada? Well… buckle up, friend, because here’s a jumble of tips, memories, and half-finished thoughts on birthing in a true SHTF meltdown.
Sometimes I think back to that 2025 Texas blackout (you know, the one that lasted three days)—no lights, neon nothing, and my neighbor’s wife going into labor. Wild, right? So first thing: scavenge for clean water. Not glamorous, but scrubbing your hands (and face, if you fancy) helps—soap if you still have some, otherwise boiling water. (Boil it for at least a minute; or two if you enjoy overkill.)
Find a spot. Indoors is primo—basement, closet… heck, even a sealed tent if the wind’s howling. Lay down a tarp or plastic—trash bags stapled together, maybe—with a towel on top (three towels ideally: one under mom, one for baby, one… spare? Don’t ask). Light? Headlamp, flashlight stuck under a chair. Anything hands-free—because you’ll need both hands, trust me.
Okay—and don’t underestimate the power of a calm sidekick. One person to talk mom through contractions (“Breathe, breathe!”), another to pass supplies. If you’re solo, well… good luck. (I once juggled a flashlight in my teeth and a water jug—don’t try that at home.)
When the pushing starts—crowing, I mean crowning—slow it down. Too fast can tear things. Picture guiding a fragile egg through a narrow crack. Gently does it. Keep talking—“almost there,” “you rock,” “you’re amazing”—but hey, if you swear a little, nobody’s judging. And if the umbilical cord’s wrapped around the neck? Slip it over the head if it’s loose; if it’s stubborn, clamp it in two spots about two inches apart and snip between. Use a blade boiled earlier—or that sharp knife you scavenged—and cooled on a clean surface.
Then… shoulders. Lower one, upper next, and voilà—the rest of the body slides out like a soggy sweater. Wipe mouth and nose with a towel. If no cry, rub the back, tap the soles—gently, like coaxing a sleepy kitten. Wrap in towel, slap (not literally!) on mom’s chest for skin-to-skin. Immediate warmth—vital. Cover both with a blanket (maybe the one you stole from your car’s trunk two years ago).
Delayed cord clamp: wait a minute or two (could feel like eternity). Tie off with sanitized shoelace or cloth strip, cut between ties. Cord care = crucial.
Placenta—ugh, the afterbirth—should come in about half an hour. Gentle bearing down or massage the top of her uterus in firm circles (like kneading dough). Dump all bloody bits in a sealed bag. Bury away from camp—deep hole, far from the water source.
Postpartum mom needs rest: firm uterus (feel for a grapefruit under the belly), massage until it’s rock-solid. Keep offering water—or broth if you can muster it—and high-protein nibbles (nuts, jerky, honey). Perineal care: cool water rinse, fresh towels as makeshift pads. Change often.
Watch for trouble signs—soaking more than one towel an hour, a fever over 101°F, baby not latching or breathing shallowly—and if you can’t handle it, try to evacuate to help. Even in chaos, sometimes help arrives.
It’s messy, it’s scary, it’s… miraculous. And yeah, your hands will smell like iron and sweat, and your heart may hammer so loud you can’t hear the newborn’s wail—but if you’ve got water, light, a (mostly) clean space, and nerves of steel—well, you just might pull it off.
