My second catch

When I saw her there—In her trailer-- Mouth opened, eyes closed, holding on to the sink as if the edge was threatening to fall—and it was threatening to fall--and she knew it. I was momentarily rendered speechless and motionless--A strange non- movement . In that briefness of second, that tiny place offered me her grace.

There I was, in a trailer park, with a mama who knew nothing of Ina May or Marsden Wagner. She hadn’t taken a hypnobirthing class or a birthing from within workshop. She hadn’t taken any class, to be exact. She didn’t know about legislation. She would not have classified herself as fringe or radical. She didn’t eat organic foods or buy non-toxic locally made toys. She drank instant coffee. She ate American cheese. She had never heard of waiting to clamp the cord. She was wide-eyed when we told her about lotus birth. I am sure we were the craziest bunch of women she had ever met. Her husband jokingly called us her “witchy women”.

She chose homebirth because something inside of her told her that she and her baby deserved it. She didn’t understand why they needed all those tests and machines and fears. This was her third baby. The other two came just fine, why wouldn’t this one? She knew she deserved more than 5 minutes with the person who she was allowing to witness her birth. She knew that she was being given substandard care, partly because she was on Medicaid, but mostly because this was standard American birthing.

So, there she was, in her bathroom, in transition, and all alone. Her older kids were with grandma, her husband on his way home from work. I watched her for that briefest of minutes and saw a mama who was tapped into an ancient source. I could feel it walking down her hall. I knew when I opened that door that she was going to be well into herself. I was honored to be invited there with her. I didn’t want to disturb her. When she looked up and noticed me, she gave a crooked smile and asked if she was OK. I nodded. She moved to the tub.

When her husband came in a few minutes later, I knew she was ready to release the baby. I knew the midwife was not going to make it. He gathered up some supplies for me and we both sat, awestruck by this primal mama. Earlier he had told me that he really didn’t like to be at the births. He complained about the sights, the sounds, the smells…He admitted he wouldn’t be much use. But, there he was—sitting with me on their bathroom floor, worshiping his wife and her super-powers.

Suddenly she jolted out of the tub and dashed to her bedroom. She lay flat on her back on her bed, not a position I would have suggested. But this mama knew what her baby and her body needed. She hadn’t needed any coaching so far; she trusted herself and I trusted her. I turned the lights down low. Her husband handed me warmed towels. When her baby slipped into my hands a few minutes later he laid a warmed blanket over his daughter and helped me put her on his wife’s chest. Their daughter gave a minor protest. With each breath we watched as the pinkness radiated out from her heart until every part of her was rosy and full and content with her new home. She watched her mama and her papa and drifted right off to sleep. We waited to cut the cord until well after she had delivered the placenta. She spent a good couple of hours, snuggled in the dim light of dawn---mama, baby, papa.

While I was doing the newborn exam a few hours later, I heard her husband on the phone relaying their good news. He was bragging about the dim lights, the delayed cord clamping. He even bragged that his wife didn’t need a single vaginal exam. He told the person on the other end how they “don’t let you do this stuff in hospitals”.

And there you have it: two people spreading the word about normal birth. Two folks who will go on to help others in their community reclaim their rights to birth how they choose and where they choose. Two people who would never identify as radical or as fringe or as activists, but who knew birth had so much more to offer them than what Western Medicine was letting on. They knew something was missing, they found it, and hopefully they will never shut up about it. Shout it from the rooftops, dear new friends.

Feminism and McBirthing

It always surprises me when I come across a woman who identifies as a feminist but does not support birth as a feminist issue. I come across these women all the time. Women who have bought the idea that modern medicine=painless birth=liberation. We were sold this bill of goods more than a half century ago and it seems we bought it hook, line, and external fetal monitor.

The reality is that we were sold the idea of liberation but it was really about control. Control over a magical, mysterious, powerful experience that is inherently and uniquely feminine. A birthing woman who is in complete control of the process, who is able to feel safe enough to surrender, is a warrior. She is a fierce, primal beast. She is the Big Bang Theory, Creationism, the mythic Ohm. She is love.
The patriarchy most often does not attempt to hide its agenda. It wants women submissive and virtually silent, with a dab of rouge and a smattering of pearls. It wants us to buy the latest brands, barf the latest designer foods, and binge on the latest pharmaceuticals all designed to make us well aware of the fact that we are sad, weak, and fat. If they can keep us trapped in that cycle, they can get things like Cytotec and 33% C-Section rates and Pitocin for every birth past us--Just like they got Twilight Sleep and X-Rays and Thalidomide past us before.

Until women stop buying into the myth that painless birth equals liberation and that modern obstetrics wants women to have a choice, we are going to lose more and more babies and mamas. This co-opting of the feminist language is clever: When we cry out over the Cytotec, over the Caesarean birth rates, when we question the necessity of induction, we hear in response, over and over again : Women should have the right to choose a cesarean birth or an epidural or an induction. It is her body. But this same choice shouldn’t be afforded to a woman when it comes to where and with whom she gives birth? I do agree that we women absolutely own the rights to our own bodies, we can do with them as we please, whether that be scheduling an induction, choosing a cesarean, having many children, having zero children, or squatting in our own bathtubs to have our babies.

The real heart of this matter lies in the fact that birth is Wild. An undisturbed birthing woman is a fierce, primal force. Her power is evident and her strength nearly unshakable. Institutionalizing birth removes the wildness. It tidies it up. It keeps women silent and contained—quite literally. If they can keep you plugged in, the machines and the drips and the needles and the belts all ensure you will be immobile and silent and trapped. All other lady mammals move and moan and gyrate to get the baby out. They seek darkness and stillness and safety. When a woman is confined it makes her labor much, much harder, which brings down more and more fear, which can cause her labor to slow and her experience to be excruciating. Wild, gyrating, women are a reminder of the love making it took to get that baby in there, and very few people are accepting of a woman in full bloom—a woman strong in her sexual self—We can accept and even expect a laboring woman to scream in pain, but we turn away in disgust or amusement or disbelief that a woman could also experience bliss and ecstasy, and indeed, orgasm during her birth. Why are we accepting this? Why is it acceptable for a woman to experience pain but not ecstasy?

We began this trip many, many years ago when the Divine Feminine was stripped from us, when thousands and thousands of midwives were burned and drowned, murdered for practicing witchcraft. Western Medicine was in its infancy and in order for men to steal birth away from us, a move that fueled the Patriarchy immensely, they had to convince women that their pelvises were too small, that their babies grew too big, that midwives were ignorant and filthy, that birth was best left in the hands of the professional man in a sterile and controlled environment and we could just stop worrying our little heads about it and get our butt back on that bed, lay flat, and let the doctor deliver us to freedom—and then we could cough up a whole lotta cash to pay the good man for all his troubles. Meanwhile, we now have nearly lost our super power. Birth is uniquely feminine. Women were put solely in charge of bringing life forth onto this planet for a reason, and this threatens the very heart of the patriarchy. When birth is left undisturbed an amazing transformation occurs—A woman is born, full in her strength and in the wisdom of her ancestors. She mothers her baby easier, she can stretch her limits further, she can, more easily, open her heart and connect with the source of all nature.

The thing is, women know on a primal level what they are missing. We live in a society that has us hooked on foods that are made in a lab, on news that is made up on the TV, on excess and on the idea that we no longer know what is best for our own selves. We need a doctor/politician/newscaster/Ronald McDonald to tell us how to eat, feel, breathe, and live. It is no wonder that assembly line birthing has dominated. Our whole culture thrives on convenience and lack of real choice. Pretty soon we won't be able to inhale without consulting 3 physicians as to when the appropriate time to exhale will be. We will all fit neatly into little controllable boxes with our Big Macs and Plasma Screen TVs and nary a word about personal freedoms or choices.

But, I digress; back to the women---they know what they are missing. I talk to women nearly every day who tell me how traumatized they were by their own births. Some may not even have realized how traumatic their births were until 20 years later. I have met little old ladies who can tell me every single detail about their births and how they were made to feel. Women don't forget. We remember our births for a lifetime. We remember them for a reason--because they are important and because our bodies need to remember them. We need to remember scaling that mountain, feeling like we couldn't go on. We need to remember the triumph of surrendering to the power of the voyage and the transcendence that was given to us. Our bodies cling to the memory of the smells of amniotic fluid, the sounds of birthing, the feeling of a slippery, wet, warm brand new monkey baby on our bellies and chests and in our arms. The cells of our breasts never forget how they felt the first time they nursed a baby and watched as his fat little cheeks bulged with our milk.

Most women in our culture, however, only remember that their pelvises were too small or that their cervices could not dilate at the proper speed. They remember the smells of stale linens and ammonia. They remember the glare of the fluorescent lights and the sounds of the beeping, always beeping machines. They remember starkness and hard surfaces and coldness as a metaphor for the entire process. Their births were processes. A means to an end. They don't remember the transcendence because most of them were not allowed to feel it. And you know what? A lot of women buy it. They buy that what they experienced was as good as birth gets. They may even buy it for 50 years, but at some point, sometime, most of them come to feel robbed or violated or lost. These are the women who find me and I am grateful to help them. Sometimes it just seems futile in the midst of the birth machine. Every time I am at a hospital, which is rarely lately, I am confronted with how big the machine is and how deeply entrenched it is in each of us. My guts feel it, my head knows it, and my heart breaks because of it.

With all the time I have in the car lately, I have really been giving space in my brain to the exploration of my love of midwifery and theatre and how to connect the two. I miss the stage profoundly. I never did anything spectacular. I did a lot of community theatre as a teenager. I studied theatre in college and got some relatively decent roles. I surrounded myself with artists and actors and I couldn’t imagine life without acting (pretentious and dramatic enunciation on the word acting).

But, something was missing. I knew I was called to do birth work, but it wasn’t just that. There was something missing from the process—from the experiences I was given on stage and by instructors. It was hollow. What really drew me to the stage was this primal wanting—this desire for self exploration—a need to go on a voyage, a vision quest—creation--and I wasn’t given that. I didn’t even know how to ask for it. I couldn’t have articulated that need back then anyway; it just lived somewhere deep in my subconscious. I wanted to let go of my ego, my sense of rightness, any moral trappings, the fear of risk…I wanted to be guided on how to surrender all of that bullshit and ride a wave to somewhere else…to someone else…I wanted all of us, on the stage, to be transported to another fucking planet.

There were glimpses of it here and there. Moments of wicked inspiration, when I would come off the stage knowing that I was truly someone else out there and that everything I had felt and every action I made was sincere and authentic. But, for the most part, my stage experiences left me with a profound longing for something I couldn’t even verbalize or fully know then.
That is where the midwifery comes in. Each and every mama and family I work with—in every bedroom or kitchen or living room or field—every single birth is a transformative quest. It is the ultimate in the creative. In order to hold that space for that mama’s work I have to let go of all pretention and ego and all the trappings of righteousness. I have to ride with that mama to another world. I have to trust. I have to get fucking down and dirty with another human—not be afraid to go to a place where I think I am on the edge but I know I have to push further and so I do and I realize that there really is no edge only a boundless creative well and it is from this place that I can help a mama come there too and we are both artists at that moment—in that space—she the ultimate creator—and me, humbled and transformed.

This is where I am really learning about the art and craft of midwifery. I knew it intellectually, but now I am experiencing it. I feel like more of an artist at every single birth than I ever, ever did on the stage.

I am anxious to get back to acting soon. I am hopeful that the right opportunity will come to me. I am giddy at the prospect of applying what I have learned through midwifery to the stage. For the first time in my life though, I feel like I am answering a true calling. I know I will never entirely give up acting or writing, but right now the call of the birth work is strong and I am honored to submit to it.

my latest birth inspired rantings

It was cold that night. One of those nights here in Appalachia that cause stillness. Everything was moving in slow motion. My blood felt thick under my skin. Stagnation comes with the freeze. This was a couple of nights ago. It was the perfect night for a birth, actually. I got the call as I was leaving work. I drove through the back country roads thinking of her, the mama, all the way.

The back way is actually the fastest route to her house, so I decided to take it. It was a witchy night; the kind that brings storms and lovers and babies. I thanked the Universe, as I always do, for allowing me in on this secret. I sent out thanks to the mama who was allowing me to bear witness. I wondered where she was: a silent, introspective 6 centimeters? A fierce and primal 9? I wondered about her husband and other children. I wondered if the midwife had gotten to her yet or if I would be the first. I felt her quickness. I knew she was going fast.

Ani Difranco was lamenting from the stereo in my old Jetta. I thought about all the women who have allowed me to be with them through this, and I thanked them all silently while I listened to Ani rail against the patriarchy. I will never understand feminists who do not support the birthing rights movement. The control over the birthing options of women by paternalistic obstetricians is based wholly on a lack of trust of women. Women’s bodies are broken. We need Western Obstetricians to tell us when and how to eat, drink, push, inject, disinfect, labor, breathe. Women are being sold this bill of goods that the good doctor will liberate them from the torment that is surely childbirth. Meanwhile, here in the US, we continually rank nearly the worst in infant mortality rates. Our local c-section rate is nearly 50%! The World Health Organization says 15% is optimum. They are trying to tell us that nearly half of the women here in Appalachia have bodies that are broken. Mother Nature must have messed up. They have babies that are too big—too small--sideways—upside down—backwards. Mother Nature left a whole lot of them with uteruses that simply won’t contract or cervices that won’t dilate. Never mind that it is a rare, rare mammal that needs any intervention at all in childbirth. Nature usually gets it right. Why would women be any different?

I’ll tell you why—it is because the power we have to create life and bring it to this planet threatens the heartless center of the patriarchy. Childbirth as we know it today—taking place solely in the hospital-- has only been around since the 1920’s but traditional midwifery was slipping away long before then. Still, before 1900 about 95% of births were taking place outside of the hospital and by 2000 99% of births were inside of a hospital. Obstetricians did not win the battle because they were producing better outcomes than midwives or because hospital birth was safer. They won because of their sure and steady smear campaign that demonized midwives and force fed the idea that women needed rescuing from the tribulations and suffering of childbirth. Women bought it because they had to. Where else were they gonna go? Midwives all but disappeared in most places and with the new fancy maternity hospitals in every neighborhood and sold on the idea that birth=eve’s sin=physical torment, they slowly came to the new Obstetricians and willingly gave their bodies over to ether and twilight sleep and a host of other sad and harmful practices.

The word Obstetrician, not even coined until the 1820’s, comes from the Latin meaning “to stand before” . The word midwife comes from Middle English and means “with woman”. The first assumes a role of power, a sense of authority. The second conveys a partnership, a cooperation.

But, I digress…

The night held that certain witchiness I was describing. I drove the hour and 20 mins to her house through those dark, twisty country roads. The mountains rose up over my car and I felt inspired and protected. I stood outside of her door for a moment and breathed in the wind and the chill and the waning moonlight from the year’s fullest moon who rose only two nights before.

Her house was quiet—the darkest, stillest one on the block. I didn’t even need to check the house number. This was the birthing place. I could feel it, even though I hadn’t ever been there before. There was unmistakable warmth coming out of it. She had a fat, 10lb baby very shortly after I got there. Once again I was grateful to be there, basking in this mama’s joy and power. She was radiant there, on her bed, with her other kids and her partner and they were all on the same trip I was—drinking in this mama’s strength and love and grace. Such a gift she gave her children—the gift of normal birth. They will grow up believing in the normalcy of birth and in their bodies.

She whispered to me before I left: “I knew it would be wonderful if I wasn’t afraid”

I left there wishing it weren’t such a secret—that all women could feel what she had just felt—
That all women could be encouraged by a community of other women to trust their bodies and their babies. Imagine a world where women reclaimed that fundamental right of trust. It would change the whole fucking world.

witness

14 years have been swept away since I had my first. I suppose it was standard American Birth that happened to me that first time around, but it left me with a sharp and precise longing--a missing of something intangible and indefinable. My story could have become a part of the quilt of miserable stories of dysfunctional uteri and incompetent cervices. Broken bodied stories in which some hero of a doctor rushed in and saved a woman from her own self--saved a baby from a threatening vagina.

At first the birth work was a sort of healing. The trauma of my first birth sealed in tiny fragments with each baby who slipped easily into his own mama's hands. Every midwife I met fell in love with those mamas as they labored and birthed. Mamas were surrounded by family and friends and toddlers and babies and teenagers. Some mamas had no partners, but it was always the same. We surrounded these mamas and every single one of us in the room, no matter how many of us there were, fell in love with her.

This was the indefinable: love. The lacking part of the equation in Standard American Hospital Birth.

Since those early births in my early doula days, my healing has happened. Now I am motivated by a sure and righteous love of women--by a need to help women reclaim their right to birth how they choose and where they choose--by a radical idea that women's bodies are not broken and that every woman deserves to birth in bliss with folks who trust her body and her baby and who will ride that transcendental birth ride right along with her...

I am now a student midwife and the lessons I am learning from every prenatal consultation, from every birth, from every conversation with every birth worker I have met, are numerous.

Here is my place to reflect and bear witness to the process...