Tiffs and Tats are common among married folk.  Heck, just this morning, Tim and I had a little spat about a slight miscommunication.  Well, in my book, he pretty much fucked up, but I’ll let him think I was just a poor communicator.  Because, I understand, it’s entirely possible — nay, probable, to hear “Can you please plan on attending Zoe’s performance on Friday morning so that I can go to work and she’ll still be supported” and reasonably translate that to “I think it’s a fantastic time to schedule some vital and important conference calls for Friday morning.”  Yeah.  That’s totally reasonable.  Totally.

I digress.  But only a bit.

So, I’m pretty understanding that these moments of real but not-so-earth-shattering stress are common, and, in fact, necessary for the health and well-being of good, strong marriages.  It wasn’t a surprise, then, when I was speaking to my dear friend  to be witness to one of her marital spats.  She, too, is a doula, and was unexpectedly called this morning to a birth.  She was ironing out some details with me for an unrelated issue, but mentioned that her husband was only slightly thrilled at being called unexpectedly to be stay-at-home-dad for the day.  Honestly, we really do understand their sacrifices.  And we’re empathetic. So that’s why, when her husband got all pissy about his unexpected task for the day, both my friend and I totally understood.

But he really crossed the line when he said “We’re planting that tree today whether you’re here or not.”   That was just too much.  Both my friend and I were incensed, our sympathies completely stretched.  And I was entirely on board with my friend when she replied bitterly, “You will NOT plant MY placenta without me!”

Yeah, your normal garden-variety marital spat.

There wasn’t any reason to think this wouldn’t be a fairly quick birth. Mom’s first labor had been relatively short, and her mom’s labors were near precipitous. The thought of my coming to their house to help her labor along peacefully at home was laughable to her. Her instructions: get to the hospital as quickly as possible!

And so, there we were that Sunday evening, Mom, Dad, Grandmother and me. An angel in the form of a midwife serving as her nurse was helpful, kind, thoughtful and supportive of Mom’s wishes. It was a fine evening, full of warm humor, excited energy, anticipation, and, yes, a bit of nervousness.

Her waters broken, the work began in earnest. The lightheartedness in the room dimmed, and was overtaken by serious attention to the task at hand. A few moments later, Mom asked for a warm blanket. I left the room, passed the nurses station, and nodded to the midwife serving as Mom’s nurse that day. It was less than a minute later when, warm blanket in hand, I opened the door to Mom’s room.

I knew immediately that that blanket would be put to another use.

Mom was standing, having lifted herself from the birth ball, with baby there. Baby wasn’t just crowning, baby was there, head birthed, with her body just taking its time.

There was much confusion in the room. Calls to the nurses’ station. Shouts for help. With no doctor present, the angel that was the midwife ““ miraculously sensing just moments before that mom just shouldn’t be alone — did what she needed to do. We asked Mom to move a bit, and she did, but the confusion and disorientation were obvious. Mom had been prepared for quick, but she hadn’t prepared for this. No warning, no period of pushing, just a contraction, and then”¦baby. Amidst all of this chaos, all of this disorder, Mom was understandably lost. This was not a calm, peaceful moment. Mom was not shepherded by serenity and quiescence, there was no tranquility, no stillness. Instead, these moments were stormy, frenzied, chaotic. Everything tasked to me as a doula, left wanting. Until…

Mom, look down at your daughter.

I’d been searching for something, something, to give her focus. It was her daughter who was the one to give it to her. Immediately, the confusion withdrew from the room. Calm clarity descended upon everything as Mom, with love and absolute adoration, told her little girl hello. “Hello, there,” she said, “Hello.”  And little girl wailed hello in return. Everything was as it should be.

Every birth is different. You hear it all the time, and still, we’re all tempted to guess at her tactics, tempted to predict just how it’s going to go. For all of our guessing and predicting, she’s usually able to outsmart us, injecting confusion and chaos in our paths. She’s not unlike life in that way. In the end, though, if we’re lucky, it all comes together and we’re able to see things with calmness and peaceable clarity. Mom, look down at your daughter. All is now right with the world.

When I first read the email, I was saddened.

Mom speaks no English, and we are unable to find a translator. Dad can speak some English, but not much. Mom had two children in her village home, supported by midwives and surrounded by women. Because of the language issues, Dad will be there, but he is very uncomfortable in such a setting. Mom is understandably frightened by the hospital technology and intimidated by the language barrier. Would a kind doula be willing to share the international language of touch and birth with this woman?

My job as a doula is to help moms achieve the birth they want, not the kind I want. But here was a mom who appeared to have no access to the kind of birth she wanted, or, at least, the kind of birth to which she was accustomed. She’d been thrown in to “the system” and did not know what else she could do. Worse, I later learned, her tiny frame — her healthy but tiny frame — was being held up against modern Caucasian standards for both weight gain and fetal growth. She was a ticking time bomb, according to the doctors, destined to birth an unhealthily underweight baby. Week after week, she was subjected to test after test. Each test revealed the same thing. Mom and Baby seemed to be doing fine, but baby was small. Dangerously small. Perhaps, they’d said, we should induce her early to pre-empt possible complications.

I couldn’t bear it. I was probably overstepping my bounds. No, I was overstepping my bounds. But when I saw just a tiny window opened, I had to take the opportunity.

“Is she aware of other alternatives available to her?” I asked of her sponsor, the woman facilitating the family’s transition into life in the U.S. I had been connected with her and the expectant mom as a volunteer doula.

“I don’t think she has any other alternatives,” she said. “I recognize this is far, far from ideal — I don’t believe any of their dire assessments — but I just can’t find any other options.”

The window opened wider.

“There might be, ” I said. “Do you think she would be open to having a baby outside the hospital? With a midwife? I could help investigate her options, if she would be interested.”

“Let’s ask her!” she replied.

And with that, the window flung open. Mom indeed did want something different.

With a few phone calls, and a little bit of convincing, I found a group of midwives who would consider taking her on. Mind you, these midwives must, out of necessity, limit their clientele to strictly low-risk women. Here I was, a third party to a third party, begging them to consider a woman with only some documented prenatal care, one given a diagnosis of IUGR by high-risk perinatoligists, and one rapidly approaching her 39th week of pregnancy. Miraculously, perhaps, the director agreed to look at her records. She would be considered.

A few mornings later, on the day, in fact, that Mom and Sponsor were to tour the birth center, Mom woke up in labor. Her sponsor took a deep breath and called the birth center, wondering what they were going to say. They still hadn’t officially accepted Mom as a client yet. I can only imagine the midwife, too, took a deep breath before she said, “Bring her here.” I know she took a leap of faith, a little bit of a risk. And I thank her for it.

A few short hours later, a beautiful healthy baby was born to a beautiful healthy mom. It was a peaceful birth.  She was supported, not frightened.  Encouraged, not bullied.  She birthed her child, no one delivered it from her.  And she has continued to receive personal care from kind midwives who respect her culture, and, more importantly, believe in her body.

I never made it to the birth. Things happened too quickly that day.  I didn’t once touch her with my hands. I didn’t once attempt to soothe her with my voice. I did nothing, in fact. Nothing.

And yet, I was given some of the most heart-felt thanks I have ever received.

I love my job.

It happened several years ago, and it happened so innocently. It was a simple question, really. But it sparked such an outpouring of emotion, of heart-felt pain, of tears and of bitterness. Almost as soon as it was asked, it became apparent that a collective nerve had been touched. This was something bigger than any one of us, than all of us put together. A voice, loud and strong, sang in those days following that query. At times, it shook, cracked, even. It wasn’t a pretty tune, but it needed to be heard.

What’s so bad about a cesarean, anyway?

That’s what she asked. There was nothing angry or disrespectful in her question. She really didn’t know. Didn’t understand.

The answers she got aren’t everyone’s answers. Others would respond differently, for sure. And, admittedly, some might respond as loudly and provocatively to the analogous question, What’s so bad about a vaginal birth, anyway? All of these questions need to be asked, and answered. And we need to listen. Indeed, all of these voices need to be heard; this, I believe.

But, today, listen to these women. Hear them. Understand them. And cry with them. You will, I assure you, be changed.

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