A DOULA FOR A DAY
published in Squat Magazine, 2013
Aurangabad, India, February 2007:
A printing error on a train ticket leaves us seatless on an 8-hour journey. Luckily, we are able to squeeze next to a group of twenty-something men who are kind enough to share a few inches on their bench. We enjoy the first part of the ride eating “famous samosas” from our new friends’ favorite station, and sharing family photos from our cellphones. But this pleasant travel encounter quickly deteriorates the moment that the “kids” question is raised.
“Are you married?” the eldest of the bunch asks me.
“Yes, for ten years,” I answer proudly.
“How many children?” he predictably presumes.
“None.” I answer with the same confidence, unprepared for his response.
Without knowing whether we had struggled to conceive, miscarried or possibly even lost a child, this man who had seemingly embraced us as kin, turns his head away from me, flicks his hands towards my face, and “tsks” as if I am some kind of evil aberration not to have fulfilled my womanly duty on this earth. This is the end of our file and food sharing and the end of my candid discussions with strangers about our family planning choices.
Vancouver, BC, November 2012:
“Things are happening, my dear. This is really happening.” I hear Sarah say calmly into the phone.
“Really? So, when did the contractions actually start?” I say, all too aware that I sound like I’m asking about a fireworks display.
“About 4 am. And now they’re about 10 minutes apart. But I think this thing is going to go very fast. So, honey, could you maybe pop by around noon?”
“I’d love to!” I shout. “I mean, you know I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life. I’ll bring lunch. How about Vietnamese subs?”
“Sounds gorgeous, love. See you soon.”
I can imagine the conversation that led to this moment.
“I know we already have an amazing doula and midwife coming, sweetie, but she’s always wanted this. And she’s missed every chance she ever had to see a live birth. Remember? Liesa’s first was delivered by emergency c-section, so they didn’t let her into the hospital room. And Amy’s was two weeks early, so she couldn’t get to St. Louis on time. I think it would be really special if we could share this with her. Plus, I think she’ll be great with all that yoga breathing…you know?”
At noon on the dot, I gently knock on the door. When I enter, the room permeates of lavender and clary sage accompanied by the sounds of soothing Indian ragas. This compels me to talk a lot quieter and slower than I usually do. But as soon as I hear my very pregnant friend burp like a truck driver, I crack up and the placid façade is shattered.
Uwe and I gobble down the sandwiches, but Sarah stops after just a nibble. What was I thinking bring jalapeno at a time like this? Thankfully my good friends know how clueless I am about childbirth, and act gratefully forgiving.
Between contractions. Sarah cleans the dishes. Uwe fills the living room rental pool. And I try to make small talk. There have been about a dozen contractions this past hour and now the expectant parents move towards the door to put on their boots and jackets. Clearly they’ve read the Birth Partner book too. We all know that a hearty walk is sure to speed up labor.
It’s crazy cold out, but we just keep walking. Eventually, we get into a real rhythm.
Every five minutes, here’s our routine:
Sarah: walks; stops; squats; puts hands to knees; groans.
Uwe: Circles to Sarah’s back; puts hands to pelvis; presses down and out.
Laura: Circles to Sarah’s front; squeezes right bicep with one hand; presses between Sarah’s thumb and index finger with the other.
This do-si-do temporarily seems to stop the pain as well as Sarah’s cursing. For a right proper British girl, she sure can drop the F-bomb.
Now it’s dark out, but at least it has stopped raining. We walk some more. Between our little ritual dances, we continue chatting and laughing and everything seems quite normal. Only, it must be obvious that something’s up because I keep hearing people shout “Good luck!” We smile at these cheerleading strangers and carry on.
Rows of white gravestones are visible in the moonlight. “Ironic, don’t you think, to be walking through a cemetery at a time like this?” I don’t mean to be funny when I say this, but we all giggle.
If Uwe’s nervous he’s barely shown it yet. We all talk like we have everything under control. Then the cellphone rings.
“That was Lolly,” explains Uwe. “She’s in the ER with another client. She says she’ll have to send a colleague.”
“Tell her not to bother,” Sarah replies. “I think we’ve got this.”
“Yeah, we make a great team, don’t we?” says me, the woman who knows nothing about childbirth.
For the next hour, we truly think that Sarah will birth this baby with only the two of us to support her.
Uwe checks his stop watch. “I think we’ve got 3-1-1.”
We’re thrilled Sarah’s hit the critical combo of 1-minute contractions, at 3 minutes apart for a full hour. With this hopeful cue for imminent birth, we rush back to the warm, dry house.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It’s 11 pm, and we’ve already advanced to 3-1-5. That is, five hours of blood-curdling contractions which render Sarah totally speechless between expletive explosions. We now number four, with the back-up doula. And our cozy team has been humbled to realize how insane we were to think we could have handled this without her. While I have been merely responding to Sarah’s every need (a glass of water here, an open window there), I would have let her pace for a week of standing contractions if that’s what would have best eased her pain. But Raya has skillfully coaxed my brave friend into a hundred poses, each designed to bring about labor. So, with a leader rather than a follower at the helm, things begin to progress rapidly. Sarah’s earlier groans have evolved to low guttural moans, more like those I often hear my husband utter on the toilet. This strikes me as funny, because Raya says it’s the legs-wide-open-on-the-loo pose that is the most effective for getting the baby down. The Queen of Sheba pose really does it though. Like a goddess, Sarah lays sprawled across her bed, propped on her side, with her head resting in her elbow, over a downy mound of pillows. She crosses her left leg over her right and dangles it over the bed’s edge, willing this baby to come. It seems I should feed her grapes, but instead I kneel on the floor beside her, fix my eyes on her intense gaze and fire breathe (yoga’s version of Lemaze). I’ve come to embrace my fierce dragon role.
A few contractions like these, then Raya urges Uwe to take a much needed nap, and walks Sarah back to the bathroom. Sarah hates this excruciating sitting position but obeys with reluctant persistence. Having made the journey from the bedroom, both Raya and I are still standing, much to my friend’s chagrin. Sarah, who has now reverted only to sign language, aggressively waves her hands towards the floor as if commanding a dog to sit. Nothing but eye-level will do. I had heard that labor is a very solitary experience for many women. But being the affectionate and social woman that she is, Sarah takes strength from her close-knit crowd.
Her next gesture, a c-shaped hand tipped towards her mouth, prompts me to hydrate her again. In this all-consuming state, Sarah’s requests are understandably short and straightforward. But she never belies her British manners, and always follows with a thankful nod. We’ve devolved from a glass of water that Sarah feeds herself, to a water bottle I feed to her, to a sippy straw I hold from a cup to her lips. This latter approach works like a charm, for a while. But this time, as I place the red-striped plastic tube to her mouth, Sarah grabs it, hucks it across the room and shouts her first words in hours,
“I hate this $%^&ing straw!”
It is all Raya and I can do not to burst into laughter at this hilarious displacement of frustration, but we comply and replace it with a simple green one.
From the masculine octave of Sarah’s latest cries, Raya knows it’s time to push and calls the midwife at midnight. Annie arrives ready to deliver, but first has to measure Sarah’s dilation. She breaks the blow to her gently,
“You’re only 3 centimeters, I’m afraid. I think we have quite a few more hours to go.”
What Annie doesn’t dare tell her is that it’s actually less than 2 centimeters, and the baby is posterior - Sarah’s worst nightmare. She’s now had 20 hours of back labor without knowing it, which Annie figures is just as well.
“I expect I might hear from you in the night.” Annie whispers to only Raya and me. “Most woman don’t last at home with this much pain. She’ll probably want the hospital epidural before long. But I should go for now. She’ll try harder if she doesn’t think she has me to do the work for her.”
As Annie motions to leave, Sarah clings to this tough-loving mother figure like a breast-feeding infant. It takes three more contractions before Annie finally gracefully slips away.
Raya knows that only the pool will allow Sarah the essential rest she needs, between contractions, in order to last through this grueling birth. The next eight hours are spent in the Aqua Spa. Despite unbearable discomfort, this is the ideal that my tenacious friend still holds to. A home labor surrounded by capable women professionals and loved ones, basked in warm water to welcome her new one. Sarah is grounded in the knowledge that most births don’t go to plan, yet maintains her fantasy of an orgasmic birth – the sensuality promised by numerous intimate accounts of a home birth. Perhaps to this end, Sarah has been completely naked since 7 pm. But I am sure that this is the least fun she’s ever had with her clothes off.
At 4 am, Raya wisely suggests we take sleep shifts and opts for the first nap. She urges Uwe to sleep again, too. Raya has witnessed many a restless father and recognizes the delirious fatigue of Sarah’s loving and attentive partner, as he needlessly launders another load of towels and nervously realigns the poolside candles for the tenth time. This leaves me alone with Sarah for the first time. She now manages an occasional 2-minute snooze, in the water, thanks to Raya’s advise to roll onto her back and lean on the pool’s edge between contractions. I stay knelt by Sarah’s side. We alternate between shifts of fierce dragon breaths and complete stillness. Not even the dawn birds chirp yet. At one point, in this peaceful state, Sarah reaches for my hand, brings it to her mouth, and languorously brushes her lips against the back of my palm for a very long time. Last this happened to me, I was having a make-out practice session with my junior-high camp bunkmate. I know it may not be the elusive sexual experience Sarah had imagined, but it feels silly, natural… good.
Next, it’s my time to nap. Raya resumes her shift for a mere half hour until I’m startled awake by Sarah’s second retort since the straw debacle.
“Is she actually SLEEPING through this!!?” she yells across the living room. That is all that a guilt-ridden, half-Catholic, half-Jewish girl like me needs to stay awake for the entire rest of the labor.
My girl friendships mean the world to me. There are roles that I have cherished, like seeing my childhood friend through the search for her birth mother and the adoption of her own two children. And others that I never could have imagined, like when my best friend’s toddler died in a car accident and I had the horror of delivering his ashes to the morgue, though I knew I was helpless to remove even an ounce of her unbearable sorrow.
True friendship is put through many tests. As I scoop Sarah’s poop from the Aqua Spa I find this one the oddest. But I do everything I can to ensure a safe and hygienic arrival for her baby. The sun is up, Annie is back, with Alicia to help, and we are all now wide-awake. The midwives are astounded by my friend’s courage and endurance. Twenty-nine hours in, it takes Sarah only two pushes to deliver her beautiful bubble boy. At 8:46 am, Jasper Arlo is born “to the caul” - a rare occurrence, considered fortuitous since medieval times. Sarah’s water never broke, so her son was still in his amniotic sack as he floated into this world. Predictably, Uwe, Sarah and I become saturated in tears. She did it. We did it. I am in awe of my friend. A proud aunt, godmother, artist and teacher, I am content to have birthed a few non-profits and numerous creative endeavors throughout my life. Still I know that I will never get closer to birth than this. Perhaps it is cheating to have wanted to witness the miracle without the pain. I’m just so grateful Sarah gave me the chance.
6 weeks later
The incredible result of this once in a lifetime opportunity sleeps before my eyes. As Jasper’s chest softly rises and falls, I am astounded to think that I saw his very first breath. I hope that this will bring us a certain bond throughout his life. But I know that the real intimacy I forged that night was with his mom.
The baby makes a quiet, staccato cry that tickles my skin. I swaddle him as Sarah has taught me, sway him gently, and bend down to give him an Eskimo kiss. When I lift my face, I notice one of my eyelashes on his cheek. I remove it with my finger and blow the first wish that comes to mind. It is not to have a little one of my own, as one might expect. Rather I imagine that I am back on that Indian train, and again, I am asked “How many children?” But this time I answer “many”. Because, finally, I understand that that we are all, in our own way, mothers.