Today I was the one to cram myself into the white zip-up jumpsuit that made me look like the Easter Bunny's long lost sister. I was the one who slipped on the blue booties and hairnet, and tied on my face mask.
Today I was the one sitting on the bench in the hall while they wheeled my writhing, sobbing partner into the unknown. I was the one who wondered if the anesthesia would work or if they would need to knock her out and the next time I saw her she'd have a baby in her arms.
An older man sat down next to me on the bench. "You doin' okay?" He asked, and he genuinely cared about my answer. I could tell by the way his gentle eyes rested on mine. My bootie-covered toes tapped the carpet. "Yeah, I'm good." Because I was good, protected from terrifying reality by the distance of professionalism. She was not my blood or my reason for being, but rather someone who knew she would need help when her child was born. It's easy to be good when you don't stand to risk it all. Then I asked the concerned gentleman about the newest addition to his family. It was a granddaughter, his son's first child. He beamed, then busied himself texting and grumbling at his new-fangled phone.
I wondered if that muffled cry was her.
"I promise they won't forget about you. It just seems like it," said a nurse who had passed me twice now.
"I'm just hot." My body heat collected within the kinda-sterile clothing. The rise in temperature brought my stomach to a boil, a particularly unpleasant feeling for someone about to step foot into an Operating Suite. Pictures flashed in my mind of passing out on the OR floor, or vomiting on the face of the expectant mother. I unzipped the bunny suit and fanned the air between my layers.
Eventually they called me back. I was no longer on the verge of heat stroke--for that I was thankful.
"Sit on the grey chair next to her head," the nurse said. "Don't touch anything blue."
I sat in the grey chair. My partner barely acknowledged me. Almost immediately, the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Then it was gone.
We don't see a thing, just a giant blue tissue curtain. Somewhere beyond that the baby floated in a sea of instructions and chatter.
My partner wished to relay a request to the surgeon, the last two items left on an X-ed- out birth plan. Her voice failed from long hours of struggled breathing. She turned to me to be her voice. Neither of us knew who was there or who would hear us. I turned to the anesthesiologist, who clearly didn't want to interrupt the surgical team. She could see the team, though. I was just guessing.
"Lots of pressure," Someone said.
"You're going to feel some tugging. Just concentrate on your breathing," Someone else said.
We stared at the blue abyss and waited for the next thing to happen.
The baby cried and gurgled, cut off by someone's bulb suctioning.
"It's your baby!" I smiled. Tears filled her bloodshot eyes. "Congratulations, Mama!"
The baby traveled to another end of the OR, X-ing off the rest of my partner's wishes. A nurse remarked about what a sweetheart the baby was, and how adorable. We saw blue while a stranger spent those first precious moments with my partner's baby. This didn't upset the mother nearly as much as it upset me. I wanted to brave the gore and hospital policy to grab the little one and put her where she belonged--cheek-to-cheek with the one whose body took care of her for nine months. But I didn't, because today I wasn't the doula. I was something else, entirely.
Showing posts with label Doula. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Doula. Show all posts
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
The Quitting Season
My holiday winter babies have come and gone and there's a lull until families start contacting me for summer due dates. The lull sucks. It's "woe is me" and "I never want to be on call ever again" all rolled into one confused but adorable me.
It's the quitting season.
It's the point of the year where I mull over each e-mail I get and wonder if now is a good time to hang up the rebozo and live the carefree life of someone who isn't constantly stressed about childcare and if the Doula Wagon will self-combust on my way to the hospital. I daydream about last-minute vacations not sandwiched recklessly between births and on-call periods. I fantasize about not having to navigate dark inner-city parking lots and the twisty-turny catacombs from the after-hours Emergency Room entrance to Labor & Delivery. I smile at the idea of sleeping in my own bed all night instead of contorted into a Cirque du Soleil performer in a rickety vinyl chair for broken seconds of sleep before I'm needed again. I dream about knowing I'll likely never be put in a position where I'm so tired I want to puke and/or cry.
And then I sigh and press the "reply" button to set up that interview.
Deep down, I don't know how to quit this. Not entirely. Because when I walk into that coffee shop and sit across from a mother who is full to the brim of hopes and possibilities, I know this is such an amazing thing to be part of. It's insanely difficult, yes, but nothing short of miraculous. And then I'm pulled back in to repeat the cycle.
It's the quitting season.
It's the point of the year where I mull over each e-mail I get and wonder if now is a good time to hang up the rebozo and live the carefree life of someone who isn't constantly stressed about childcare and if the Doula Wagon will self-combust on my way to the hospital. I daydream about last-minute vacations not sandwiched recklessly between births and on-call periods. I fantasize about not having to navigate dark inner-city parking lots and the twisty-turny catacombs from the after-hours Emergency Room entrance to Labor & Delivery. I smile at the idea of sleeping in my own bed all night instead of contorted into a Cirque du Soleil performer in a rickety vinyl chair for broken seconds of sleep before I'm needed again. I dream about knowing I'll likely never be put in a position where I'm so tired I want to puke and/or cry.
And then I sigh and press the "reply" button to set up that interview.
Deep down, I don't know how to quit this. Not entirely. Because when I walk into that coffee shop and sit across from a mother who is full to the brim of hopes and possibilities, I know this is such an amazing thing to be part of. It's insanely difficult, yes, but nothing short of miraculous. And then I'm pulled back in to repeat the cycle.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
The Tapestry Of
When I posted my rant about wishy-washy birth partners the other day, the call to arms I so cleverly titled "This One's For the Fellas", I never dreamed that 100+ people would read it. I imagined a few would skim it and the husband hate mail would begin piling in, but never 100-something sets of eyeballs on my frustrated words.
So far so good on the husband hate mail. I'll give it time. And, no, that's not an invitation. I love you guys, really. Just not as much when you're being a pain in the behind.
On my Facebook wall, where I originally posted this, I explained to my friends that I'd written "This One's For the Fellas" over a year ago when I'd had the displeasure of meeting a couple of particularly unsupportive husbands. One man completely belittled his wife (and, frankly, myself) in public and then left abruptly in the middle of our interview, leaving her to blush and apologize for him when she needed an apology from him more than I did. Luckily, for as many clueless, borderline abusive relationships I've come across in my life and in my work as a doula, I've been blessed to know so many really connected couples and birth partners who go above and beyond. It's amazing to see this first-hand, but really a wake-up call to me when I come across a crumbling situation.
As a doula, I don't have a psychology degree. I'm not qualified to help these families in any way other than preparing themselves for birth. But I still see it. The very primal essence of birth brings all of these emotions to the surface without any effort. If there's a rift in your marriage, I probably will get a good glimpse at it. If you have fear or scars from past abuse, I can guess they exist based on how you bring your baby into the world. Maybe it's science or something else explainable, but I prefer to think it's intuition and knowing after watching a hundred families interact. Or not interact.
We are a hopelessly intricate tapestry woven with the bitter threads of daddy issues and doubts and insecurities. Each one of us are beautiful and tragic works of art.
I cannot fix a lifetime of problems in a few short months. But I can hold witness to it. I can say, yes, I see it. Yes, it happened. You aren't crazy.
I do not expect to right the wrongs of a thousand inattentive partners in a few short paragraphs. On the other hand, I do not wish to rile up all of the volatile pregnant women, either. But this matters, what you are doing as a unit. You are creating a new person who will be a confusing, glorious jumble of threads from you and your partner. This baby deserves your very best, not only for him or her, but also for your relationship.
Families leave me short weeks after baby arrives, and our communications usually go the way of the buffalo. But I always wonder what becomes of the struggling partners after our silence is established. What becomes of the wriggling child I watched gulp its first breath of being? Is this as good as it gets, this outpouring of love and joy at the birth of this child?
I hope not.
So far so good on the husband hate mail. I'll give it time. And, no, that's not an invitation. I love you guys, really. Just not as much when you're being a pain in the behind.
On my Facebook wall, where I originally posted this, I explained to my friends that I'd written "This One's For the Fellas" over a year ago when I'd had the displeasure of meeting a couple of particularly unsupportive husbands. One man completely belittled his wife (and, frankly, myself) in public and then left abruptly in the middle of our interview, leaving her to blush and apologize for him when she needed an apology from him more than I did. Luckily, for as many clueless, borderline abusive relationships I've come across in my life and in my work as a doula, I've been blessed to know so many really connected couples and birth partners who go above and beyond. It's amazing to see this first-hand, but really a wake-up call to me when I come across a crumbling situation.
As a doula, I don't have a psychology degree. I'm not qualified to help these families in any way other than preparing themselves for birth. But I still see it. The very primal essence of birth brings all of these emotions to the surface without any effort. If there's a rift in your marriage, I probably will get a good glimpse at it. If you have fear or scars from past abuse, I can guess they exist based on how you bring your baby into the world. Maybe it's science or something else explainable, but I prefer to think it's intuition and knowing after watching a hundred families interact. Or not interact.
We are a hopelessly intricate tapestry woven with the bitter threads of daddy issues and doubts and insecurities. Each one of us are beautiful and tragic works of art.
I cannot fix a lifetime of problems in a few short months. But I can hold witness to it. I can say, yes, I see it. Yes, it happened. You aren't crazy.
I do not expect to right the wrongs of a thousand inattentive partners in a few short paragraphs. On the other hand, I do not wish to rile up all of the volatile pregnant women, either. But this matters, what you are doing as a unit. You are creating a new person who will be a confusing, glorious jumble of threads from you and your partner. This baby deserves your very best, not only for him or her, but also for your relationship.
Families leave me short weeks after baby arrives, and our communications usually go the way of the buffalo. But I always wonder what becomes of the struggling partners after our silence is established. What becomes of the wriggling child I watched gulp its first breath of being? Is this as good as it gets, this outpouring of love and joy at the birth of this child?
I hope not.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
This One's For the Fellas
Yeah, you heard me, guys..... And, when I say fellas, this isn't to exclude the ladies, should you be in a same-sex relationship. If you're in a relationship and not the one physically growing a human being, I'm talking to YOU. Filter off, and quite possibly, gloves off. I'm blaming this a wee bit on not being topped-off in the sleep department, but maybe just a little because I've seen a recurring theme over and over (which is what a recurring theme is, I guess). And, frankly, for you thrifty gentlemen, I think you could practically put me out of a job if you'd just pay attention and figure out how to put into practice what I'm about to say.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Reflections on Birth
This could be the time, this could be the very day.
Your body squirms with each mighty squeeze.
Our meeting dips closer then draws away--
Every two minutes, three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.
My mind transforms my womb to blooming flower,
And I cry out loudly in triumph, not despair.
A last surge, one final crescendo of raw power
And new life bursts forth with a first gasp of air.
Your body squirms with each mighty squeeze.
Our meeting dips closer then draws away--
Every two minutes, three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.
My mind transforms my womb to blooming flower,
And I cry out loudly in triumph, not despair.
A last surge, one final crescendo of raw power
And new life bursts forth with a first gasp of air.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Falling In Love
I feel bad for those of you who don't fall in love every day.
Maybe I'm a sap, deep down inside. It's always been this way. Sometimes it is embarrassing, but usually I think it's one of my better traits. As cynical and sarcastic as I might seem, people do matter to me. Odds are, you're one of the people who matter. And I hope that, even just a little, I have mattered to you.
~ Putting on gloves to make sure my best friend's baby doesn't fall on the floor.
~ Is it Mardi Gras?
~ Benchpressing three women and still not hitting the spot, except when it comes to pocket-dialing 9-1-1.
~ Can I get you a glass of water?
~ Peach tea--I don't drink tea, but you can try to convert me!--and, please, punch me in the stomach as soon as that contraction ends.
~ That was not a firm, warm hug. What a load of....
~ Uhhhh, are you anywhere near a hospital?
~ I'm sorry, Jen. You're just not strong enough. Go get him from the lobby. [reuniting a banished husband with a mom who needed every ounce of his strength. To date, one of the most beautiful and exhausting experiences I've ever had]
~You're doing wonderfully. Say hello to my lactation consultant friend.
~ Here, honey. I just Googled this labor position.
~ Come sit down next to me... and... it's okay your water broke. These weren't my good Crocs.
~ Blissful immediate skin-to-skin bonding instead of hours of isolation [true for several of my families]. Happy sigh! My work here is done.
~ You've never met this woman before? Nope. Nice to meet you. Did you want the vitamin K shot?
~ This is the spreadsheet I want you to fill out. Do you have a finance degree, by any chance? No? Well.... Good luck.
~ The epitome of the perfect Bradley method family. I wish I had a magic wand.
~ A family that became like my own. Sorry about your sweater.
~ Kids, you're up just in time to meet your new brother.
~ Let your body move in whatever way it needs to.
~ I'm sorry I ate all of your hummus and you can see my sister's bra. I made you this cute hat(?).... scarf.
~ The Jewish community places high value on sarcasm. [Now I understand why I function so well within the Jewish community.]
~ Now that I've found you, I may never leave. Stupid GPS.
~ Sweet Virginia, and an even-sweeter family.
~ Happy anniversary to you. It's not often I get invited to a romantic dinner for five.
~ Baby Moe. Oh.... Baby Moe.
~ I recognize the toddler in the visitor lounge. That can't be good....
~ Sifting a baby right out. Mimosas and chocolate chip pancakes for all!
~ Advocating so well for yourself that you nearly shoot the eyebrows off of your Ghandi-like midwife.
~ Like a Boss.
~ Eating Snickerdoodle bars with your husband even though you are fasting. I'm glad you are my friend and will forgive me when all is said and done. <3
~ They keep telling me my baby is smart, and yet she wants to stay breech. Is she smart or isn't she? (It turns out, she was smart and so were they). Oversharers = my peeps.
~Fist-bump between pushes.... and ice cream and chocolate sauce solves everything.
There are more moments than time and words to share, but I add to this rich mosaic one piece at a time. It may be nonsense or silly to you, but to me, it is the reason I do what I do. It is why I return the e-mails, make the calls, drive the miles, sip the lattes, and wedge myself into impossible pretzels in the corner of that birthing room. Because I meet and fall in love with hopeful people all the time.
Maybe I'm a sap, deep down inside. It's always been this way. Sometimes it is embarrassing, but usually I think it's one of my better traits. As cynical and sarcastic as I might seem, people do matter to me. Odds are, you're one of the people who matter. And I hope that, even just a little, I have mattered to you.
~ Putting on gloves to make sure my best friend's baby doesn't fall on the floor.
~ Is it Mardi Gras?
~ Benchpressing three women and still not hitting the spot, except when it comes to pocket-dialing 9-1-1.
~ Can I get you a glass of water?
~ Peach tea--I don't drink tea, but you can try to convert me!--and, please, punch me in the stomach as soon as that contraction ends.
~ That was not a firm, warm hug. What a load of....
~ Uhhhh, are you anywhere near a hospital?
~ I'm sorry, Jen. You're just not strong enough. Go get him from the lobby. [reuniting a banished husband with a mom who needed every ounce of his strength. To date, one of the most beautiful and exhausting experiences I've ever had]
~You're doing wonderfully. Say hello to my lactation consultant friend.
~ Here, honey. I just Googled this labor position.
~ Come sit down next to me... and... it's okay your water broke. These weren't my good Crocs.
~ Blissful immediate skin-to-skin bonding instead of hours of isolation [true for several of my families]. Happy sigh! My work here is done.
~ You've never met this woman before? Nope. Nice to meet you. Did you want the vitamin K shot?
~ This is the spreadsheet I want you to fill out. Do you have a finance degree, by any chance? No? Well.... Good luck.
~ The epitome of the perfect Bradley method family. I wish I had a magic wand.
~ A family that became like my own. Sorry about your sweater.
~ Kids, you're up just in time to meet your new brother.
~ Let your body move in whatever way it needs to.
~ I'm sorry I ate all of your hummus and you can see my sister's bra. I made you this cute hat(?).... scarf.
~ The Jewish community places high value on sarcasm. [Now I understand why I function so well within the Jewish community.]
~ Now that I've found you, I may never leave. Stupid GPS.
~ Sweet Virginia, and an even-sweeter family.
~ Happy anniversary to you. It's not often I get invited to a romantic dinner for five.
~ Baby Moe. Oh.... Baby Moe.
~ I recognize the toddler in the visitor lounge. That can't be good....
~ Sifting a baby right out. Mimosas and chocolate chip pancakes for all!
~ Advocating so well for yourself that you nearly shoot the eyebrows off of your Ghandi-like midwife.
~ Like a Boss.
~ Eating Snickerdoodle bars with your husband even though you are fasting. I'm glad you are my friend and will forgive me when all is said and done. <3
~ They keep telling me my baby is smart, and yet she wants to stay breech. Is she smart or isn't she? (It turns out, she was smart and so were they). Oversharers = my peeps.
~Fist-bump between pushes.... and ice cream and chocolate sauce solves everything.
~ You were never broken. (And I greatly appreciate anyone who giggles at a good "balls" joke.)
~ Seven diapers in one hour is no joke.
~ You did Fantasti*con.... and I'm not just saying that to be creepy. :-)There are more moments than time and words to share, but I add to this rich mosaic one piece at a time. It may be nonsense or silly to you, but to me, it is the reason I do what I do. It is why I return the e-mails, make the calls, drive the miles, sip the lattes, and wedge myself into impossible pretzels in the corner of that birthing room. Because I meet and fall in love with hopeful people all the time.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Plan B
Hours ago I watched a baby slide into this bright world to the shelter of loving arms. A family's joy and wonder was renewed with the cry of life. For me, it was an evening of learning more about new friends, laughing together until baby was near and undeniable. Walking from the hospital with a grin--a nice reminder of how rewarding and powerful it can be as a birth worker.
At the same time, I know my days as a doula are numbered.... Or, at least, my days as a semi-busy doula are. The on-call lifestyle is difficult on families, bodies, and just about everything else. This week it is more apparent to me after a night spent away from home and the subsequent day lounging around the house required to recharge my energy.
I admitted it on the phone to one of my sisters this morning. My sister, in all seriousness, replied, "You need to write."
Where has she been hiding for the past year-and-a-half? Or, maybe, where have I been hiding for the past year-and-a-half?
In her defense, she does not waste much time on the Internet, so she has missed my million-and-one Facebook statuses/blog posts about my books. I'm sure she believed she was shedding light on something I'd been passing over all this time. At the very least, it made me laugh to myself several times throughout my morning.
Really? You think I should write? Eureka!
Make-up writing was my only weekend plan (besides make-up sleeping), but a simple text message looks like it may throw a wrench in those plans. Books never text with emergencies, and books can be written accompanied by a nice meal.... But books, as wonderful as they are, don't hug you at the end of the day with appreciation for the minuscule role you play in their life.
At the same time, I know my days as a doula are numbered.... Or, at least, my days as a semi-busy doula are. The on-call lifestyle is difficult on families, bodies, and just about everything else. This week it is more apparent to me after a night spent away from home and the subsequent day lounging around the house required to recharge my energy.
I admitted it on the phone to one of my sisters this morning. My sister, in all seriousness, replied, "You need to write."
Where has she been hiding for the past year-and-a-half? Or, maybe, where have I been hiding for the past year-and-a-half?
In her defense, she does not waste much time on the Internet, so she has missed my million-and-one Facebook statuses/blog posts about my books. I'm sure she believed she was shedding light on something I'd been passing over all this time. At the very least, it made me laugh to myself several times throughout my morning.
Really? You think I should write? Eureka!
Make-up writing was my only weekend plan (besides make-up sleeping), but a simple text message looks like it may throw a wrench in those plans. Books never text with emergencies, and books can be written accompanied by a nice meal.... But books, as wonderful as they are, don't hug you at the end of the day with appreciation for the minuscule role you play in their life.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Balance
My apologies for the silence. There hasn't be a lot to say lately. Or, more correctly, there just hasn't been a lot of energy with which to say the things I'd like to. It throws me into a spin when I go days without any forward progress on my novel or even taking a few moments to write here.
Several weeks ago I was hired by a family to help with overnight care of newborn triplets.
Yep, it's as hard as it sounds.
And it's not because the babies are difficult. They are great, really, other than a little reluctant to burp now and then. But it's that whole quantity vs. quality thing.... The other morning (3 a.m., really) I was scrambling to finish the 2 a.m. feeding so I could go home and finally close my eyelids for the kind of sleep one cannot get when subconsciously remaining alert to the stirrings and chirps of three little ones. Baby A finished eating but had yet to burp a second time despite ten minutes of patting and repositioning. I know he needed to burp because he curled his legs up and squinched his face together, throwing in a whimper every so often. Baby B had begun eating, and before I could finish with him, Baby C was squirming. Between those three babies at one feeding, I ended up changing at least seven diapers. Because the babies were small and spindly, they are in multiple layers of clothing to help keep their temperature regulated, meaning there typically is a couple minutes of snapping, zipping, and coercing limbs into layers of fabric. Somewhere between trying to feed two at once, coordinating burping, and waste management, I traveled from freezing to dripping with sweat... That was just one feeding, one of the hardest I've had so far. Thankfully, they usually run a bit more smoothly as long as they're not having a competition for who can poop the most in teeny increments.
All of that to say I've been more sleep-deprived this past week than I have in a while. Even when a feeding goes smoothly, I often only have an hour, maybe a skoch more, to catch a nap before it's time to warm bottles and start it all over again. So, I've been surviving on an hour of sleep here, an hour of sleep there.... You know, like the parent of a newborn (or three) would. It has not been good for my creativity, really, because every time I find myself in a quiet spot with no babies to care for or alarms to answer to, I konk out.
In terms of my writing, I was supposed to have 50,000 words by the end of December and what I have is more like 31,000. I'm getting a trickle here and a trickle there. Times when I could write--my brain is mostly awake--the nagging thought in the back of my mind is that I should sleep because I'm going to be really sad about skipping that nap when I'm on the other side of 2 a.m.
I don't know whether to relax on my goal because it's not worth killing myself over while I'm doing this doula job, or what. It seems like there will always be an obstacle in my way to either hurdle or hinder. What is the right thing to do?
There is no question in my heart what I want to do with my life, and it's taken me a very long time to come to the conclusion that it's possible. Finding the balance between my dream and my day (or overnight) job is the trick.
Balance sometimes seems like a mythical creature.
Several weeks ago I was hired by a family to help with overnight care of newborn triplets.
Yep, it's as hard as it sounds.
And it's not because the babies are difficult. They are great, really, other than a little reluctant to burp now and then. But it's that whole quantity vs. quality thing.... The other morning (3 a.m., really) I was scrambling to finish the 2 a.m. feeding so I could go home and finally close my eyelids for the kind of sleep one cannot get when subconsciously remaining alert to the stirrings and chirps of three little ones. Baby A finished eating but had yet to burp a second time despite ten minutes of patting and repositioning. I know he needed to burp because he curled his legs up and squinched his face together, throwing in a whimper every so often. Baby B had begun eating, and before I could finish with him, Baby C was squirming. Between those three babies at one feeding, I ended up changing at least seven diapers. Because the babies were small and spindly, they are in multiple layers of clothing to help keep their temperature regulated, meaning there typically is a couple minutes of snapping, zipping, and coercing limbs into layers of fabric. Somewhere between trying to feed two at once, coordinating burping, and waste management, I traveled from freezing to dripping with sweat... That was just one feeding, one of the hardest I've had so far. Thankfully, they usually run a bit more smoothly as long as they're not having a competition for who can poop the most in teeny increments.
All of that to say I've been more sleep-deprived this past week than I have in a while. Even when a feeding goes smoothly, I often only have an hour, maybe a skoch more, to catch a nap before it's time to warm bottles and start it all over again. So, I've been surviving on an hour of sleep here, an hour of sleep there.... You know, like the parent of a newborn (or three) would. It has not been good for my creativity, really, because every time I find myself in a quiet spot with no babies to care for or alarms to answer to, I konk out.
In terms of my writing, I was supposed to have 50,000 words by the end of December and what I have is more like 31,000. I'm getting a trickle here and a trickle there. Times when I could write--my brain is mostly awake--the nagging thought in the back of my mind is that I should sleep because I'm going to be really sad about skipping that nap when I'm on the other side of 2 a.m.
I don't know whether to relax on my goal because it's not worth killing myself over while I'm doing this doula job, or what. It seems like there will always be an obstacle in my way to either hurdle or hinder. What is the right thing to do?
There is no question in my heart what I want to do with my life, and it's taken me a very long time to come to the conclusion that it's possible. Finding the balance between my dream and my day (or overnight) job is the trick.
Balance sometimes seems like a mythical creature.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Breathe.
My client sent me a text confessing she is scared to leave the hospital and the comfort of having a nurse or lactation consultant one button-press away. I sent a text back to her to reassure her that we'd help her find support if it was needed. What I was thinking at that moment was:
"Sometimes the most important thing you can do is take a deep breath, let go of the hands you've been holding, and trust your intuition."
It can apply to so many areas of our lives, can't it? Along with being terrified of failing, are we also just as scared to succeed?
For me, this is significant because I've buried myself ridiculously deep, 8k-ish words, in my National Novel Writing Month word count deficit. The words seem to be dammed up today, and I don't know why. Is it fear? The complete scariness of letting go of control? Hushing the overbearing voice of that so-called "perfectionist" streak?
I need to let go of those things that are holding me back, to trust I can do this because, deep within, I know how to do this... and I want it more than anything. Just like this new mama, convinced she doesn't have the wisdom she needs to be the mother she was divinely designed to be. We both need to stop and realize that God has not given us these gifts without the necessary tools to enjoy them.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
"Sometimes the most important thing you can do is take a deep breath, let go of the hands you've been holding, and trust your intuition."
It can apply to so many areas of our lives, can't it? Along with being terrified of failing, are we also just as scared to succeed?
For me, this is significant because I've buried myself ridiculously deep, 8k-ish words, in my National Novel Writing Month word count deficit. The words seem to be dammed up today, and I don't know why. Is it fear? The complete scariness of letting go of control? Hushing the overbearing voice of that so-called "perfectionist" streak?
I need to let go of those things that are holding me back, to trust I can do this because, deep within, I know how to do this... and I want it more than anything. Just like this new mama, convinced she doesn't have the wisdom she needs to be the mother she was divinely designed to be. We both need to stop and realize that God has not given us these gifts without the necessary tools to enjoy them.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Perfectly Imperfect
I'm taking a break from writing about my writing to breathe my thoughts onto the screen about something that's been bothering me lately. Forgive me if this is a rambling collection of nonsense. I've been trying and failing to make it more cohesive, to narrow down a main point and stick to it, but apparently that's not my strong point. Moving along....
As many of you know (and it so succinctly puts it in my "About Me" thingie over on the side of this page), one hat I wear is that of a doula. No, it's not a part of the brain, the part that alligators are missing, according to Billy Madison's Mama. It's not round and you don't have to gyrate to keep it from bouncing onto the ground. Quite simply, I support a family as they prepare to give birth to their child, attend to their emotional and physical needs as the baby makes his or her way from the womb, and help ease them into the adjustment from couplehood to parenthood or from parenthood to three-ring-circushood.
This year has been trying for me in my doula practice. It has been a series of strange events and decisions made based on poor or shaky information. I have jokingly (and not-so-jokingly) referred to 2012 as "The Year of the Induction" because I've had more than I care to add up on my fingers and toes. While most have been medically-indicated, at least a couple of those weren't. This isn't judgement, it's just me hitting my head against the wall for the hours these families spent trying to make something happen when clearly no one was ready for that birth. A stumbling heart rate, a failing organ, fear--those things were ready. A mother's mind, her natural hormones, BIRTH--those things were missing.
I'm supposed to trust birth, and I want to, I do. Where does that idealistic trust meet and meld into a healthy respect that things have changed in our bodies and our environments? Perhaps it's not so much birth I distrust, but the myriad of factors that make up a perfectly imperfect individual, a pregnancy, a birth. That fall she took off her bicycle at age 12; the chemical cocktail of convenience foods and sodas she's been ingesting for 30 years; the baby who has decided to run back and forth through his umbilical cord while doing laps in utero; the doctor who is weighing a recommendation on a borderline result, fearful of litigation. We can't take our time machines back and make better choices or coax our baby into cord awareness. All we can do is do the best we can with what we are presented with.... and it isn't perfect, and at the end of the day we're still left scratching our heads.
Is this talk of "your body was designed to birth this baby" and then women ending up with c-sections or without babies in their arms stealing away confidence and trust in themselves, in this process? Women are walking away from birth feeling broken and inadequate, and fingers point in all directions. Certainly, the medical model of care is to blame for much (not all), but at times, it is a mysterious recipe and maybe nobody's the clear culprit.
In the several years I have worked with families, I have been drastically altered as a person. I can feel it deep inside, and I know that my closest friends can feel it, too. Is it from the tears of frustration and heartbreak when plans slip from fingertips? Is it the betrayal women sometimes feel from their own flesh, blood, and sinew? I don't know.... but I wish I knew how to make it stop. It is a heavy weight on my heart when I cannot save the world--and I usually can't.
Most of all, I wish I could shout out loud that you aren't broken, no matter what you've been told and what you've told yourself. You are just an individual, perfectly imperfect, doing the best you can.
As many of you know (and it so succinctly puts it in my "About Me" thingie over on the side of this page), one hat I wear is that of a doula. No, it's not a part of the brain, the part that alligators are missing, according to Billy Madison's Mama. It's not round and you don't have to gyrate to keep it from bouncing onto the ground. Quite simply, I support a family as they prepare to give birth to their child, attend to their emotional and physical needs as the baby makes his or her way from the womb, and help ease them into the adjustment from couplehood to parenthood or from parenthood to three-ring-circushood.
This year has been trying for me in my doula practice. It has been a series of strange events and decisions made based on poor or shaky information. I have jokingly (and not-so-jokingly) referred to 2012 as "The Year of the Induction" because I've had more than I care to add up on my fingers and toes. While most have been medically-indicated, at least a couple of those weren't. This isn't judgement, it's just me hitting my head against the wall for the hours these families spent trying to make something happen when clearly no one was ready for that birth. A stumbling heart rate, a failing organ, fear--those things were ready. A mother's mind, her natural hormones, BIRTH--those things were missing.
I'm supposed to trust birth, and I want to, I do. Where does that idealistic trust meet and meld into a healthy respect that things have changed in our bodies and our environments? Perhaps it's not so much birth I distrust, but the myriad of factors that make up a perfectly imperfect individual, a pregnancy, a birth. That fall she took off her bicycle at age 12; the chemical cocktail of convenience foods and sodas she's been ingesting for 30 years; the baby who has decided to run back and forth through his umbilical cord while doing laps in utero; the doctor who is weighing a recommendation on a borderline result, fearful of litigation. We can't take our time machines back and make better choices or coax our baby into cord awareness. All we can do is do the best we can with what we are presented with.... and it isn't perfect, and at the end of the day we're still left scratching our heads.
Is this talk of "your body was designed to birth this baby" and then women ending up with c-sections or without babies in their arms stealing away confidence and trust in themselves, in this process? Women are walking away from birth feeling broken and inadequate, and fingers point in all directions. Certainly, the medical model of care is to blame for much (not all), but at times, it is a mysterious recipe and maybe nobody's the clear culprit.
In the several years I have worked with families, I have been drastically altered as a person. I can feel it deep inside, and I know that my closest friends can feel it, too. Is it from the tears of frustration and heartbreak when plans slip from fingertips? Is it the betrayal women sometimes feel from their own flesh, blood, and sinew? I don't know.... but I wish I knew how to make it stop. It is a heavy weight on my heart when I cannot save the world--and I usually can't.
Most of all, I wish I could shout out loud that you aren't broken, no matter what you've been told and what you've told yourself. You are just an individual, perfectly imperfect, doing the best you can.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Humdedum.
Don't feel like writing much. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe he just took my passion with him.... at least for a little while. I am still a writer.
Man, I miss that horse. I came home from the hospital last night after having waited around most of the day and went out to ride for a few minutes before the sun set. It was so quiet without him. Again, no one standing at the gate, anxious for his dinner. No one sharing a pile of hay with Fansi. No one trying to sneak out when I brought Trinity out to the crossties. No one testing the limits as to how far the fence could bend. It was a blow to the heart to have to move his brush box and halter to get to Trinity's things.
I am just home from the birth of a sweet baby boy, one I am jokingly referring to as Baby Moe. His parents called me to tell me they were headed to the hospital to be induced as my Moe was breathing his last. Tonight, I feel sad that my Moe is gone, but I think I'm too tired to cry. I'm sure that will change soon enough, once I come down from the emotions of the birthing room.
And I feel sad that I'm not more sad tonight.
Man, I miss that horse. I came home from the hospital last night after having waited around most of the day and went out to ride for a few minutes before the sun set. It was so quiet without him. Again, no one standing at the gate, anxious for his dinner. No one sharing a pile of hay with Fansi. No one trying to sneak out when I brought Trinity out to the crossties. No one testing the limits as to how far the fence could bend. It was a blow to the heart to have to move his brush box and halter to get to Trinity's things.
I am just home from the birth of a sweet baby boy, one I am jokingly referring to as Baby Moe. His parents called me to tell me they were headed to the hospital to be induced as my Moe was breathing his last. Tonight, I feel sad that my Moe is gone, but I think I'm too tired to cry. I'm sure that will change soon enough, once I come down from the emotions of the birthing room.
And I feel sad that I'm not more sad tonight.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Home.
Being a birth doula is strange. Being a postpartum doula--especially one who works nights--is a little bit more strange. I just spent the last 36 hours living in someone else's house, rummaging through their cabinets for linens and toilet paper and silverware (not really in that order); eating their food (which, actually is a bit of a stretch because they really didn't have any food there until dinner last night. Let's not talk about it.), sleeping in their guest bedroom, showering in their shower, washing their underwear, snuggling with their progeny. I mean, that is a weird way to make a living.
But these people were grateful and ready to have me come back again--no haggling my hourly rate or bemoaning the divit I'm putting in the newborn's college fund, all the while I can't stop thinking of my children at home all day with a sitter who will expect half of what I make. Not complaining--it's not their fault that this is what I choose to do with my life and that I have hooligan kids of my own who need someone to break up the fights every once in a while. It just is what it is.... This family was ecstatic for a handful of hours of sleep strung together and someone with the clarity of mind (yes, that'd be ME) to pipe up and suggest, "Hey, I bet your baby would love to be held after spending the last few days in isolation, more-or-less, in the NICU."
I'm home now, curled up in my own bed, drinking an iced coffee that I mourned the loss of for an entire day. In a few hours, I will move again, hopefully to eat cheeseburgers and other food I probably shouldn't but am too tired to stop myself from. For now, I'm thankful for a few things: Fighting babies, parents who are strong, coffee, chocolate chip cookies, and thunderstorms. Not quite in that order, but close.
P.S. - While working, I had to park at the end of the street to avoid a ticket. When I got in my van this morning to head home, it was clearly threatening me. "Wash Me! Or I will break on you!" was etched into the crust on my back window, along with a sun holding a sponge? That van bettah recognize. No one tells me what to do. No. One. ;-)
But these people were grateful and ready to have me come back again--no haggling my hourly rate or bemoaning the divit I'm putting in the newborn's college fund, all the while I can't stop thinking of my children at home all day with a sitter who will expect half of what I make. Not complaining--it's not their fault that this is what I choose to do with my life and that I have hooligan kids of my own who need someone to break up the fights every once in a while. It just is what it is.... This family was ecstatic for a handful of hours of sleep strung together and someone with the clarity of mind (yes, that'd be ME) to pipe up and suggest, "Hey, I bet your baby would love to be held after spending the last few days in isolation, more-or-less, in the NICU."
I'm home now, curled up in my own bed, drinking an iced coffee that I mourned the loss of for an entire day. In a few hours, I will move again, hopefully to eat cheeseburgers and other food I probably shouldn't but am too tired to stop myself from. For now, I'm thankful for a few things: Fighting babies, parents who are strong, coffee, chocolate chip cookies, and thunderstorms. Not quite in that order, but close.
P.S. - While working, I had to park at the end of the street to avoid a ticket. When I got in my van this morning to head home, it was clearly threatening me. "Wash Me! Or I will break on you!" was etched into the crust on my back window, along with a sun holding a sponge? That van bettah recognize. No one tells me what to do. No. One. ;-)
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
21 Hours In
Still no coffee. I had to settle for a warm Coke, and have yet to actually eat more than a piece of chocolate. Great family, though. Can't complain too much.
Reading on my Kindle, mostly, in the downtime. And napping now to make up for the sleep I'm going to miss this evening.
Ready for my house.
Reading on my Kindle, mostly, in the downtime. And napping now to make up for the sleep I'm going to miss this evening.
Ready for my house.
1/3
Almost 12 hours into a 36-hour postpartum job.
I'm a little anxious because now it's morning and I'm not quite sure where my coffee is coming from.....
I'm a little anxious because now it's morning and I'm not quite sure where my coffee is coming from.....
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Balancing Act
This morning I am waiting for "the call", the one that tells me it is time to go be with a family as they welcome their newest little one. I'm crossing my fingers that today is really the day because I have one waiting in the wings and a couple other families who I'm to help postpartum. It's making me feel like next week (or this weekend) could be the week that never ends. I can see how easy it is for doctors to schedule births for their convenience. These babies really need to get synced up on my Google calendar so they can get things straight, knowhutimean?
My kids came home from church Sunday night with a memory verse to practice -- Philippians 4:13 -- "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." The kids learned it without my help, even Isaac. On Monday morning, as I was staring at one of the papers, I checked my phone to find that the random daily Bible verse I'd been sent was also Philippians 4:13. I felt like God was trying to prepare me for a tsunami.
"You've got this, right, kid?"
No, God, I don't got it! A little help, please?! Preferably a clone, pleaseandthankyou.
Anywho... Last night I attended a murder mystery dinner at the Melting Pot with my good buddy Beth. It was originally supposed to be six of us, but as the day went on, the number went down, down, down. I'm not bitter ladies, even though I had to make the reservation-update-call-of-shame several times and I started to question my loserishness quotient. I'm happy to say that, against all odds, Beth and I persevered, in the name of all that is cheesy goodness. Beth got to be a loyal secretary named Trish Fish. I stopped paying attention to most of the clues somewhere around the food showing up, so when it was time to guess the killer, everyone was guilty. Our group got the distinguished award for "Best Worst Answer" because I couldn't be bothered to get my nose out of the fondue pot. Guilty till proven innocent--that's the way it works, right?
I've got this lawyer thing on lock! Oh, yes, I do!
...I blame it on not watching enough Law & Order or something. I feel like making that statement about L&O will probably cause me to be disowned by my grandparents. If you know my grandparents, hush.
Currently, I'm on a self-imposed Facebook fast because. Yes, just because. It may or may not have had something to do with PMS. But, also because my husband doesn't believe it's possible for me to cut back. Also, because I'd like to hammer out my second draft by the end of July. Why? Because I am trying to do absolutely zero on this summer break, that's why.
It seems that having Facebook open in a tab on the side of my screen while I'm writing shouldn't be a big deal, but it is. My eyes are drawn to it, and clickety-click, there goes my productivity. I love my Facebook friends, I do. It's not you, it's me.
It seems that having Facebook open in a tab on the side of my screen while I'm writing shouldn't be a big deal, but it is. My eyes are drawn to it, and clickety-click, there goes my productivity. I love my Facebook friends, I do. It's not you, it's me.
That being said, Facebook Fast of 2012 is more like Facebook Diet of 2012. I've had to log in once each day to check on events that were supposed to happen today and yesterday. Seriously, I'm fasting. It just doesn't look that way if you're stalking me closely enough. I think I've shown enormous amounts of restraint. I mean, I've had a lot of funny status updates in my head these last couple of days. Stuff I know you'd "like". I'm a people-pleaser. I like it when you "like" my stuff. To not have anyone to give me a thumbs-up in real life is kinda a downer.
Do I know when I will return to Facebook full-time? No. The husband prays it's never, but I think it's inevitable, what with needing to market a business and eventually a book.... and, goodness knows, talking to adults on Facebook is sometimes the only adult conversation I partake in ALL DAY. Wrap your mind around that, lovelies. The witty repartee we have about coffee obsession, Johnny Depp, creepy things people do with placentas, etc. Sometimes that's all I got. The rest of my day is full of talk of Legos, Angry Birds, chocolate milk, and the multi-faceted use of the word "poop". Okay, so maybe my so-called adult conversation isn't that big of a step...
It's about balance, of which I have little to none. Balance in my doula life, and balance in listening to clues while stuffing my face, and balance in social networking. It's a good lesson to learn, and I hope you'll bear with me as I figure it out.
Especially if it means fondue.
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