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February 23, 2004
I beg your forgiveness in advance, dear readers, for what is sure to be paragraph after paragraph full of self-indulgent ramblings. I feel I must get this all down, so be prepared to encounter a plethora of worn-out metaphors, shaky analogies and (as is common with my writing) more than a good dose of hyperbole, not to mention a descent into utter cheesiness. I just can’t seem to help myself.
Getting Lost, and Finding My Way….
I suppose, when it comes to discovering ones passion, the journey is just as important as the final destination.
I hesitated to even type that word – passion - as overused and cliché as it is today. I actually cringed upon re-reading the first sentence. Still, the word fits better than any other I’ve been able to find. So passion it is. That is what this entry is all about. Passion. My Passion. Finding it. Accepting it. Learning it. Integrating it. Living it.
(Oprah, are you out there? This is right up your alley...)
I sat down the other day, and thought about how I got from A to B. Although it has only been three years since I began to explore birth, during my pregnancy with Isabella, it seems a long and winding road indeed. Since taking those first, initial, tentative steps outside of mainstream maternity care, I have traveled a long way. I’ve taken several detours and even lost the path all together once or twice (a few of those times were because my feet were in my mouth, instead of on the ground where they belonged, for that I apologize). I’ve learned many truths, and rejected even more. I’ve read (and read and read and read) and researched, I’ve talked to countless women. I’ve taken a hard look at my own fears and biases, and those of the people around me. Through it all, even the most mixed up moments, I had one point of absolute clarity:
My future was going to involve birth.
Birth was my addiction, my obsession, my passion, my spirit. At the risk of descending into the ultimate cliché, Birth was, and is, my calling.
I grew up always wondering if I was missing some essential gene, the one that governed ambition, drive, direction. I’ve lived a life marked mainly by a lack of purpose, meandering through with a certain resigned acceptance that this was just how it was going to be. I’ve always been full of grand ideas, fantastical schemes, wild adventures that I was sure would hold the key to my future (fame and great wealth most certainly included). I’ve also always been pathetically lame at following through. I suppose I kept waiting for something to just fall into my lap – and in the end, in a way, it did.
When I got pregnant, a new world opened up. Nine months later I gave birth, and I wanted to shout to the world about this amazing discovery I had made, I wanted everyone to share my epiphany. My body worked. Birth CAN be ecstatic. Birth is safe, normal, natural and sacred. I didn’t really wonder if people were open to my message, if I offended people or if I pushed so hard that I turned people away. It felt out of my control, it brimmed out of me with every breath I took; I don’t think I was capable of a conscious decision to keep it inside. Childbirth is monumental for just about every woman, but it shook me to the very core of my existence. It changed who I was, and who I wanted to become. It eternally altered the fiber of my being.
(Where is Oprah? This entry really is turning into one of those “Remembering Your Spirit” segments).
And then I hit the wall. All this knowledge, all this information, all this passion (agh- there is that blasted word again – I can’t seem to get away from it) and no idea what to do with it. I knew I was not in the right place in my life to be a midwife - and don’t know that I ever will be. I didn’t believe I had the heart and the patience necessary to be a doula, to support women during hospital births, and to see things I knew would hurt me badly. I tried to find a way to become involved in birth related research, or advocacy, but ran into roadblocks at every turn. I felt frustrated, lost and (at least in my real-life circle) alone in my beliefs – alone to the point of isolation. I was all fired up with energy and a rock-solid belief that I was really onto something, and I just didn’t seem to be able to figure out where to go from there. I felt like I was stagnating, losing my way, drifting once again without making choices, decisions or taking action. Now, though, I know that two years ago I just was not ready. I had to take the circuitous route for a reason.
I had some important lessons to learn.
Two years ago, I was like any convert who has just found a cause. Like a prophesizing Born Again Christian, I wanted to preach about my conversion, about the TRUTH that had been shown to me. This diary was my pulpit – and I was ready and willing to lead my disciples into the light. I was just your garden-variety childbirth zealot, and darn it, I was going to change the world.
I’m quite sure there were times I was simply unbearable.
But along the way a strange thing happened. My beliefs about the normalcy, safety, and sacred nature of pregnancy and birth were continuously reinforced, by all that I read and experienced, by all the women who shared their stories and let me be privy to the details of their births. But, at the same time as my views were being strengthened, they were also being softened, which makes no sense at all – unless you’ve lived it.
I began to realize that absolutes cannot be applied to real people. That ideals were wonderful, but the way they played out in real life is what matters. That when you are hoping for a massive paradigm shift, you need to start small if you want to succeed. That for women to claim power in birth, they must be empowered long before they ever become pregnant. That in between black and white, there are a million different variations of beautiful, unique colour. That choice is paramount, and respect is critical. That a woman’s birth experience should be safe from external judgment or comment, unless the woman herself requests it.
Even through all this learning, and growth – I was still unsure about what to do. Although becoming a doula seemed the natural extension of my desire to work in birth, and the most logical first step– I fought it long and hard. I simply didn’t believe I had it in me to support women in a hospital environment, where I believed (and still believe) the great majority of policies and practices are not a reflection of evidence-based care, and not necessarily in the best interest of moms and babies. I didn’t know if I was strong enough to hold on to my trust in birth, when I would be continually interacting with those who lacked that faith. My heart hurt when I heard difficult birth stories, where women were disrespected and research was ignored. How on earth could I sustain myself under such conditions? On the other hand, how could I sit by on the sidelines and watch it happen without at least trying to do something about it?
The turning point for me was attending the birth of fellow Moms Today diary writer, Laura. Laura has still not posted her birth story (hint, hint Laura – a little good natured pressure from the queen of procrastination), so I can’t really say what I learned from her birth, and what happened to change my mind. She’s got her own story to tell, so I’ll keep the details private until she is ready to share.
I will say that I went into her labour thinking I knew a lot. And I did know quite a bit, except it was mostly book knowledge, and everyone knows that book knowledge can be worth next to nothing in real life (especially when ‘real life’ is a woman experiencing mammoth contractions every two minutes). I left that birth with a new sort of wisdom, and a conviction that the presence of a trained, knowledgeable, and supportive woman is something that all women deserve, regardless of where, when or how they choose to give birth.
I left Laura’s hospital room feeling a kind of exhaustion I don’t think I had ever experienced before – even after Bella was born (when I had the benefit of all those lovely hormones keeping me on a new-baby high). But despite the bone-numbing fatigue and my aching muscles – I had never felt so alive. I swear, my blood was tingling in my veins. I had played a roll, however small, in the birth of a child. I was present for the beginning of a new life. There is a wonder, an honor and a privilege in that, and I would never be able to convey it in writing. It sounds so trite now, to say that I knew in that moment that becoming a doula was something I had to do – but I’ve been cliché already in this entry, and I might as well keep it going.
Making the decision to become a doula was like turning a corner, from dark into light. To backtrack just a little, when I closed my diary last spring, I was in a BAD PLACE (that has to be capitalized for emphasis. It just does). My friendships were in turmoil (ask me someday how the most incredible group of friends I ever had disintegrated before my eyes…there are lessons to be learned there) and I was experiencing a deep, personal crisis. I was emotionally, mentally, professionally and spiritually unfulfilled. I felt empty, lethargic, and unresponsive. Most distressing of all, unlike any other rough period in my life, when I always cared too much – I was sinking into a dangerous state of apathy.
I have been, for most of my life, a veritable Pollyanna. The great majority of the time, I’ve been that glass-half-full sort of girl, the one to convince others that things are all right, that all will be well and that life has a way of working out for the best. I’m hopelessly sincere and foolishly, blindly, endlessly optimistic. I believe in the basic goodness of all people, and in the beauty of life, even the mundane and dreary bits.
[This of course, does not include a period of normal teenage angst, when I spent years filling journals with tragic epics (rhyming, of course) bemoaning numerous episodes of unrequited love, and purposely recording compilations of the sappiest love songs (Air Supply, anyone?) on cassette tape in order to give me a soundtrack to cry to. Lets face it, when you are 13; depressed is the ‘in’ thing to be. I ran with it.]
Yes, I’m prone to a normal (or perhaps above normal if you question my beloved husband on the subject) level of whining, kvetching and complaining. I do break certain commandments (terribly guilty of coveting, terribly, terribly guilty), and envy and greed are more familiar than I would like to admit. Circumstances do occasionally get me down, and self-pity is not at all unknown in my world. But, at the root of it all – I’ve always been more than content, able to bounce back, rolled with all the punches. In the past, I’ve actually run into people that don’t trust it, that don’t trust me because of it. They think I’m being disingenuous. However, I am, who I am, who I am, and for most of my life that has just plain been HAPPY.
Aside from Sam, I discussed my feelings with very few people. My dearest husband began to be concerned that I was falling into a state of depression. Let me just say that I paused before using the word depression, as I don’t want to confuse my experience (wallowing in the muck and mire of self-pity/identity crisis) with true clinical depression. I have family members and dear friends who are truly affected, and I do not want to minimize the pain of their experience by unintentionally equating it with my own temporary period of despair. However, just as I failed to find an acceptable alternative to ‘passion’, I have not stumbled another word that describes my experience better than ‘depression’. Please chalk it up to the failings of MS Word’s Thesaurus, and not a lack of sensitivity to those suffering from this difficult illness.
[I want to take a moment here to thank Heather R., for supporting me through the above mentioned quarter-life crisis. Heather, I could not have pulled through without your wisdom and friendship. It is amazing the counseling that can occur via MSN Messenger. You’d make a rather fabulous shrink lady - you knew how to ask all the right questions, and how to help me find the difficult answers.]
So to get back on the track of this convoluted story, prior to the birth of Laura’s ‘Little One’, that is just about where I was. Afterwards, however, everything changed. The ‘old me’ came back. Sam noticed the difference right away; it took me a little longer to admit that this one life choice had changed so much. Once the ball got rolling it was really apparent. I cared again. I had energy. I felt optimistic and eager for the future. I was a better mother, I was a better wife, I was a better person. I was fulfilled on a level I had never been before. Of course, it wasn’t a magical event that took all my troubles away. Self-doubt and insecurity will always be a part of who I am, but I was no longer drifting through the doldrums. For the first time since Bella’s birth (and really a long time before it) I was going forward with intention and direction.
I did my doula training (through Doula’s of North America, www.dona.org) in October of last year. It was a one weekend training session at a private home in Sedona, Arizona. I spent the weekend with a diverse group of women, learning the art of labour support (and rest assured – it is an art) with the stunning red rock mountains as an inspirational backdrop. When I returned, I sat in on a hospital based childbirth class taught by Robin, one of the apprentice midwives who supported me during my pregnancy and birth, who is truly my mentor. Although I was expecting to have quite some time to get myself ready for working with clients, and figured it would be a challenge to find the three births necessary for certification, the universe had other plans. By the end of the childbirth series, I had three clients, and another two quickly followed. This was thrilling, and terrifying. I didn’t feel even remotely close to ready for this to be real, but real it was. I’ve never been one to put too much stock in cosmic mumbo jumbo, but it appears that when one is on the right track, opportunities align and things fall nicely into place. Regardless of who you believe is in charge of such things, it seemed obvious to me that someone was telling me I was onto something fairly important.
Thus began a VERY busy few months, when I saw my husband in passing as I handed over my daughter and ran out to door to yet another prenatal, or post-partum visit, or birth. I read furiously, researched madly, pestered experienced doulas for assistance, and (as far as the business stuff goes), made thing up as I went along.
I was welcomed into the lives of five different families and the births of five different babies. I’ve learned more about birth in the past three months than I had in past three years. There have been great highs and great lows. There have been instances where my presence made all the difference in the world, and times when I was powerless to change a thing. I’ve been at births where things flowed as if by magic, and births where I felt as if I was witnessing a train wreck. I’ve witnessed incredibly compassionate, respectful care, and I’ve also seen levels of callousness that I would never have believed if I had not been present. I’ve watched families work within hospital policies to have the birth they want, and I’ve seen others so tangled in the web of rules and regulations, of time limits and liability concerns, that their desires go unheard and their desired birth experience is just a dream. One thing has been clear, regardless of whether the pregnancy and birth have been beautiful and uneventful, or spiraling out of control, the work of a doula is good, honest, vitally important work. Now that my five clients have their precious babies safely at home, and I have no other clients yet on my calendar, I’ve had some time to write this entry, and to reflect on all that has happened.
There are so many things I love about this work. I love watching a woman labour. When she is in tune with herself, trusted and respected by those around her. When she feels safe and cared for, and able to relinquish herself to the experience, it is a thing of such extreme beauty that it brings tears to my eyes. The way she moves, the way her face flushes with a contraction, the way she travels further and further inward, until she is alone in her own universe. It is, quite simply, breathtaking.
I love hearing a woman’s labour song. It seems every woman has one, and every woman’s song is different. It might be a moan, a series of breaths, a sigh, or a word or a name repeated over and over again in a breathless mantra. It might be low, it might be high, it might change with each contraction. But when a woman has found her labour song, there is no doubt. Whatever the sound, whatever the tone, whatever the volume – when a she hits it, the vibrations in the air change, the energy in the room changes. She handles contractions better, her face relaxes, she is in ‘the zone’. When it seems she needs connection, I love to meet her song with a matching sound, so that our voices vibrate together. Long after a birth is over, I can still hear the sound in my head.
I love the role I am able to play in facilitating the bond between a woman and her partner during birth. I have been blessed to work with some phenomenal couples, with complex and wonderful relationships. Many fathers worry initially that I will try and take their place, that I will step between them and their wife during birth, and that they will be supplanted and made redundant by my presence. For me, and for the way I have chosen to practice this profession, nothing could be further from the truth. I believe that the relationship between a labouring woman and her partner is paramount, and that one of my most important roles is to help the father-to-be work with his wife so that their relationship is deepened and made stronger by the experience of bringing their baby into the world. When there is work to be done, I try to position myself in the background, so that when the woman opens her eyes, it is her partner’s face she sees. By virtue of my presence at the birth, I am granted the honor of witnessing the transition between husband and wife to father and mother. I try to do what I can to give them both confidence in their own abilities, so that they can carry that confidence onward into their future as parents.
I love bearing witness to a baby’s first moments in this world. There are a few short seconds right before the baby is born, where the anticipation is palpable, and the air hums with electricity. And then, the moment arrives. There is certain magic to each newly born babe, a lingering spirit that can be felt in that moment when they exit their mother’s body and take their first breath. That first touch between mother and child, they way a mother looks at her baby, and talks to her baby, expresses her gratitude, and laughs and cries and embraces her partner. The emotion on the father’s face as he looks at this wonderful being that has just entered his life. As much as every birth is different, they are all much the same. And the babies, oh the babies. The way they cry with justified anger, or stare peacefully into the face of their mother. The way they stretch languidly, or punch and kick and squirm with great vigor. The way they take in the world, and process the fact that they have arrived. Ah – ‘tis magic, pure and simple.
I learn so much from every birth, from every couple, from every baby. I try to be open to all the lessons, whatever form they take, because I know that each and every one of them, no matter how small, will make me better at what I do. The lessons are far too many to list here, but I will include a few.
~I have learned that it is not always about respecting the choice, but about respecting the woman who makes the choice.
~I have learned that because I cannot speak for a woman, my most important job is helping her find her voice before she needs it.
~I have learned that it is not about hospital or home, midwife or doctor – it is about philosophy of care. It is about treating a woman with respect and dignity, empowering her through words and actions, and trusting in the process.
~I have learned that I must respect a woman where she is right now. I have no way of knowing her history, how she got where she is, why she makes the choices she makes. My job is to provide her with information, not to determine what she does with it. I help provide the tools, but it is up to her to decide what to build. I do not have ownership of the birth, nor should I.
~I have learned that my work is not about the fetal monitor, or epidural, or the hospital or the doctor, or any of the other details; it is about the woman, the baby and the family.
~I have learned that true informed consent is virtually non-existent at the births I have attended. Risks are minimized, misinformation is given, women are not respected enough to be trusted with full and complete information. This is WRONG.
~I have learned that a good nurse is worth her weight in gold and a bad nurse can irrevocably change the birth experience. I have also learned to cross my fingers at shift change.
~I have learned that the ‘perfect birth’ is defined by the woman I am serving. I has nothing to do with my wishes, or the doctor’s standard practices, or the hospital regulations and it has everything to do with what she needs and wants.
~I have learned to bring toothbrush, toothpaste, breath mints AND gum to a birth. I have also learned not to eat garlic heavy meals when I am on call.
~I have learned that it is not about making this birth better than the last birth I attended, or better than my clients previous birth, or better than the doctor’s last birth. It is about doing what I can to make the birth experience better than it would have been had I not been present.
~I have learned that many women at local hospitals, at least in my (albeit limited) experience, are not providing evidence-based care. From confining a woman to bed, to withholding food and drink, to suggesting formula supplementation by the second night after birth - examples of standards of care not supported by scientific evidence have been far too common.
~I have learned that just when I think I’m getting the hang of this, something will happen to knock me on my ass and remind me that I don’t know a heck of a lot after all. :)
The work of a doula is hard work. Physically grueling, mentally challenging, emotionally exhausting. No doubt about it. I normally leave a birth with aching muscles, a fuzzy brain, an empty stomach and at least a few symptoms of sleep deprivation. I often get sick soon after a birth, as the efforts of the work combined with an extended period in a germ filled hospital wreck havoc on my immune system. Attending a birth leaves me drained, empty, zapped of all energy, but in a crazy paradoxical way, it also fills me up, leaves me exhilarated and fulfilled – ready and willing, even eager, to do it again.
I read in a magazine recently that most people tend to feel that their life’s work fits into one of three categories; a job, career, or a calling. A job is a means to an end; it pays the bills and nothing more. A career offers personal fulfillment and reward through accomplishment and advancement. A calling, however, offers a satisfaction for its own sake, for the good the work does in the world and for the people that it touches. Those who felt they had a calling were significantly happier than those in the other two groups. Reading that a few years ago, I would have felt a deep envy for those ‘called’ to their work, for my work was always a job with slight potential to become a career, no more than that. Reading it as I did, just last week, it was infinitely more meaningful for me, as I understood it on a most basic level. I do feel called to this work, and it is rewarding for me, in and of itself, almost to the point that I feel guilty accepting money for my services. In fact, I can tell you without a doubt, that if someone told me I could never make a penny doing what I do, I would do it anyway. That, my dear readers, is a marvelous thing to feel. To do what you do, simply because you love it. The freedom in that, the simple happiness…I wish it for all of you.
"We have a secret in our culture, and it's not that birth is painful. It's that women are strong."
~ Laura Stavoe Harm ~.
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