To Doula

By: Heidi Biddle

I have been blessed with three babies.  Well, I say ”babies”, but they are nearly 17, 14, and 9.  I remember each one of their births like it was yesterday. Without saying I was naive, when it came to the births of my children, I thought I had it all planned out.

For my first birth, I wrote out a birth plan and looked forward to going through this with my support people.  I assumed the doctor would not only explain everything to us, but would also assist me through my whole labor and birth, all the while talking to me in a soothing voice, and urging me to go on. I thought the nurses would be there to support me and help me through this wonderful time. I knew that I wanted my husband, my sister, and my mom in the room when I had my baby-they would help me, too.  My birth plan was simple: “no drugs unless I am in pain and ask for some.” I prepared myself and my husband for what was surely going to be the most beautiful, sweet, peaceful, and incredible birth ever.

Then, I went into labor. I had an epidural at 3 cm. (as early as you can), but it didn’t work.  I felt it all, including the vacuum that was used to get him out.  My beautiful, perfect, cone-headed baby.

With my second, I got to the hospital at 8 cm. Then she just fell out! There was no doctor, no nurse – just my husband (who was freaking out and saying “is this supposed to be happening?”). Papers flying, husband holding baby in with his hand, my mom looking for help, and my sister -my poor sister -her jaw was on the floor and she looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Where were my support people?

By my third time around, I found a new doctor. I explained that I was a natural at this, and I knew how I wanted it. I wanted no drugs. My babies came fast!  My husband was going to catch this one, he was going to cut the cord, and I would have a mirror so I could watch my baby be born. I wanted my precious baby placed immediately on my chest – skin to skin – and I wanted to breastfeed right away. Period. I reminded my doctor of my plan at every single visit; this is how it was going to be. I explained that my husband was my coach, and we wanted to labor alone. It was going to be beautiful (in hindsight, I was my own doula!).  I wanted NO intervention.

At 43 weeks pregnant (yes, that’s right, world’s longest pregnancy), I had to be induced. The doctor was afraid my baby would be 10 pounds. I cried all the way to the hospital…I didn’t want to be induced! I knew my baby would come when he was ready. I didn’t understand why they wanted me to get him out if he wasn’t ready. So what if he was 10 pounds?  I was sure my body could do it! I sulked all the way through the pitocin drip. I labored away with no pain meds. I was offered drugs frequently, and turned them down every time.  I owed this to my baby. I was 9 cm. dilated and ready to push when my doctor came in and recommended an epidural; he thought it would slow things down a bit and give me some energy for pushing (it turned out he was delivering twins right next door, and they were coming fast). I rolled over to my side, ready to do what he asked, because he recommended it.  Before they had time to administer anything, out came my baby’s head!  The doctor ran back into the room, caught my baby, cut the cord himself, handed him to a nurse to clean him up, dumped my placenta, then left to deliver the twins next door.

My husband missed the whole thing. My husband – who couldn’t wait to catch our baby -missed the whole thing. I missed the whole thing. There was no mirror, no control, no husband cutting the cord, no respect, no birth plan, no empathy, no baby placed skin-to-skin on my chest, and most of all, no 10 pound baby.  He was 7 lbs, 6 oz.

I can’t help but wonder how different these births -especially my third -would have been if I’d had someone knowledgeable in my corner who understood both the medical lingo and the process of labor and birth, someone who knew exactly what I wanted and would help me to achieve that.  Someone not emotionally tied to me, who would have stood up for me -my very own advocate. I vowed immediately after my third and final birth that I was going to do something about that.

When I meet with clients, they are usually only entertaining the thought of a doula.  They mostly want to know why they should hire another person to assist them when they already have a support person – whether it’s a spouse, a friend or a partner.  Furthermore, most couples believe that the doctor (whom they have grown extremely close to), midwife, and nurses will be in the room, by their side, supporting them through their entire labor and explaining everything as it is going on.  Experience has shown me that this is not always the case.  Next to the partner, a doula is the only person looking out for the mother’s best interests 100% of the time.  Whether it is a precipitous (very fast ) labor, or a 70-hour labor, a doula is there the entire time to help the mother achieve the birth experience she wants to have. While the nurses (and I have seen many good ones) do offer support, their primary job is to chart, document, and monitor both mom and baby at all times.

I help my clients come up with a birthing plan.  The parents outline their perfect birth and together we address the “what-ifs” (”should you end up having a C-section, let’s make the environment as pleasant as we can”).  Most people don’t think about these things on their own.  A doula also helps to remind the parents of the birth plan. When the unforeseen happens, or if chaos arises, the doula is an advocate -the ONLY advocate –for the parents. At a time when women are the most vulnerable, usually in pain, and the oxytocin (often called the ”trust drug”) levels are high, a woman will typically do whatEVER the healthcare providers say is best, which can often veer away (sometimes unnecessarily) from the original plan.

I explain to the partners that one of the many benefits of having a doula is it allows them to do their job –to love and support the mother.  Partners (men in particular) do not realize how hard it is to see the mother in pain;  they want to fix it, take the pain away. With a doula, the partner can focus solely on the mother and be reassured that everything else is being handled.  I remind the support person to eat, drink, and take care of themselves, which is the only way they will be able to take care of a laboring mom.

My most important job as a doula is to remind parents that this is their birth journey. You will never get a do-over on the birth of your baby. Doulas do not speak for the parents – doulas explain the parents’ options as well as the actions of the doctors, midwives, or nurses. We remind the parents to ask all the questions….what are the benefits? What are the risks?  My favorite question to remind my clients to ask: “What happens if I just do nothing?”

Those who know me know that I am very passionate about what I do.  I feel very strongly about women and the healthy function of our bodies.  We were meant to birth.  And I have no regrets about the way I birthed my babies.  The only regret I have is not educating myself about pregnancy, labor, and childbirth. If I could have ten more babies, I would, and I would have a doula every time.   Now, as a doula myself, I am the liaison between parents and their perfect birth. You dream the dream, and I help make it come true.
More on Heidi Biddle at Your Birth Journey

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Not To Doula

By: Ernessa Carter

Here’s the thing about being a woman who knows she wants an epidural, taking pre-natal yoga classes in Silver Lake: You’re the only one.

So here’s me having to listen to a zen-ruining running monologue from every single prenatal yoga teacher about how certain exercises could help you through the worst of the birthing pain and prevent epidurals. And how yoga helped you to really BE in the experience of giving birth, even though I saw no reason at all to really BE one with the pain, just because that’s how my ancestors did it. At a few points I wanted to ask the prenatal yoga instructor to just shut up, so that I could get my stretch on in peace, but that wouldn’t have been very yogi of me, would it?

After class was even worse. I wanted to make friends. I didn’t know any other moms in Silver Lake, and this seemed like a great place to strike up friendships with like-minded people — only they weren’t like-minded. In fact, it was hard for me to join the conversation when it so often went like this:

“How are your doula interviews going?”

“Great! I found this really wonderful woman named so-and-so, but she doesn’t know if she’s going to have my due date open yet.”

“Oh, I’ve heard great stuff about so-and-so. Doesn’t she use a tub?”

“Yes, and she also chants out these primal rhythms…”

“Oh, she sounds nice. Mine does massage, but she doesn’t chant.”

Okay, obviously I can’t join this conversation, because just the idea of a stranger in the room giving me gentle encouragement while I’m in tons of pain makes me want to rip her head off.

Also, deep down inside, I’m just too nice. I would feel bad about snapping at someone who wasn’t married or related to me. Even if they were getting paid to get snapped at.

But most of all, I didn’t want a doula because there was absolutely nothing a doula could do that my husband couldn’t. Also, my husband wouldn’t insist that I do breathing exercises when I didn’t want to. My husband would rub my back just like a doula would — even better: he wouldn’t rub my back, because I don’t like to be touched when I’m in pain. See, he already knows that, whereas a doula doesn’t. No matter how nice she is, she would try to help me when I didn’t want to be helped and push me when I didn’t want to be pushed. And quite frankly, that’s my husband’s job. He already sorta said he would do everything a doula would in his vows, and I wanted him to make good on his promise.

He did everything right. He retreated when he was supposed to and though we had attended birthing classes, unlike my first charge nurse, he didn’t try to force me to do the stupid breathing exercises, when I told him I didn’t want to.  He didn’t question my need to blog through my contractions, but he did forcibly take the iPhone away after my epidural, so that I could get some sleep. He didn’t sleep, though. And he was by my side as soon as I woke up. He held my hand and changed the TV station and fed me ice chips and promised me Fig Newtons as soon as I was done with the labor. “You’re doing so well, honey” he answered, when I told him “I can’t! I can’t!” And then he cried when our daughter Betty finally came bursting into this world. Now would a doula have done that?

I watched him over at the scale, giving Betty soothing words as she screamed about getting weighed. And though I did most of the heavy lifting, I knew he was just as happy as I to finally meet her. That’s when I realized something for the first time in nine months: It was his pregnancy, too. And his support during my labor had created a bond that would never be undone. Be it Death or Divorce or Disaster, we would always have these hours holding us together, a forever memory. And I’m so happy I didn’t let a doula cheat me out of that.

Ernessa T. Carter is the author of the novel, 32 CANDLES, which will be released by HarperCollins/Amistad on June 22, 2010. Pre-order your copy on Amazon here.

More on Ernessa Carter at Fierce and Nerdy

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Email us your birth story and we may post it the week of Mother’s Day

momsday@thenextfamily.com

By: Nina Roux

Do I want kids?

I wonder if this is something that all women ask themselves. Or, do most women reach a certain age where either their bodies or the public tells them “it’s time” and that is what triggers the want?

My body has remained mum on the matter – probably because of my hormone imbalance. Or, maybe that voice most women think they’re hearing from their bodies is actually coming from their environment. (Jenny got her period/got boobs/got a boyfriend/had sex/got drunk/got married/had kids/moved to the suburbs, so when is it my turn!?)

At some point in my life, as mentioned in previous posts, I began categorically refusing to do something simply because other people were doing it. So I have had no problem postponing having kids, despite the fact that most women my age, having had two or three, are done having them.

This weekend, as I pondered my procrastination on setting up appointments with fertility specialists, I asked the Mr. “do you have any fears about having kids?” His answer wasn’t surprising to me – mainly he worried about being able to give his kids everything he wanted to give them financially (read: college).

But for me, it’s a complete identity crisis. How can I continue to pursue my dreams if I’m constantly putting someone else’s needs before my own –albeit my child’s? How can I avoid becoming someone who doesn’t fulfill her heart’s desire and simply shrugs and says “I’m a mom!”

I’ve spent most of my life as an assistant to other people’s lives, always deferring my dreams and writing them off as impossible – until recently. Maybe I’m a late bloomer (in the breast department, I was an early, mortified bloomer. So even/stevens.) So now that I’m finally able to recognize what makes me happy, it seems impossible that I can make my dreams come true and be a mom at the same time. There. I said it.

I want to be more than a mom. I doubt that any woman defines herself as “just a mom”.  I simultaneously doubt any of them could deny using their mom status as an  excuse to not do something – whether it’s go to a movie, out for a drink, shopping for herself, a fabulous vacation, or a trip to the gym. “I’m a mom, I don’t have time” to me is the same as saying “I’m a mom, I don’t have to work on my own happiness. The only thing that makes me happy is my child’s happiness.” Which is the same as “my needs don’t matter anymore.” Which is the same as “why am I so miserable all the time!?”

As these fears become clearer to me, I hope I just do it anyway – and get out of my own way now, as I hope to do in the future, when I inevitably struggle to maintain my identity as my roles in life expand.

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One Parent

By: Allison Norris

“How do you do it?  Whenever my husband goes out of town, I think about you and can’t imagine how hard it must be for you!”

And so I answer, “I don’t know any different.”

He wakes in the middle of the night, I get up.

He needs a diaper change, I change it.

He’s hungry, I feed him.

I have to shower, he sits alone and I hope he isn’t crying.

I lay him in his crib after his bath and hope that he falls asleep soon, as it will be my long stretch of free time until I can no longer keep my eyes from closing.  I do the dishes, laundry, play on facebook so that I don’t feel entirely out of the loop, turn on my tunes, and pluck my eyebrows – if I remember.

I hear how the other moms can pass off the baby when Daddy walks in the door every night.  Their needs can be temporarily met while their other half is playing catch up with his offspring.

My son’s father helps whenever he is here and I get a taste of what it would be like; an extra set of hands to load the car or carry in groceries.  Hopefully, some day, I’ll have those hands at the end of every day.

Until then, I’m in control, or at least I think I am.  I control my wee one’s schedule, his mood, his outfits, and his hygiene.  I get spurts of rest in a huge bed all to myself (until my son, who is all of 5 months old, hogs the entire thing), my new biceps are bulging, nobody argues with me about how I want things done, and there is nobody to cook dinner for…  My frozen dinners are my secret pleasure -  maybe this is perfect?

When we lay in bed together, every morning, he smiles at me and I remember that I am not alone.  He is my teammate and my partner.

His hands are the softest to hold.  We need each other and I’ll never be “single” again.

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Two Parent

By: Sandra Peria

My husband is a type A personality; actually he’s more like an A+. From the moment he learned we were going to have a baby, he bought every book, printed out all pertinent articles online and started analyzing everything from sleep schedules to pumping, to recalls on Carter’s p.j.’s. He followed the baby’s development chapter-by-chapter, week-by-week. “Do you want to know what the baby’s doing now? It can hear, it hears noises.” “Hello baby,” I mutter. I am excited as well, of course, but tend to be a more go-with-the-flow-hope-for-the-best type of person. I am a B-.

After the birth, he kept me on a strict feeding schedule, getting up with me some nights to make sure I remember to actually feed our child. For this I will be forever indebted. He also put the baby to sleep at precisely the same time in exactly the same way every night. He’s the sleep master; three books, a lullaby (“You are my Sunshine”), and off to sleep our son went. When I am especially busy in my day, I know how lucky I am to have my man take care of things like paying the bills and organizing the children’s books tall to short, (told you he was type A) and even taking a swing at dinner, sure to have a protein, a veggie, and a carbohydrate on each plate. He follows the recipe very closely.

There is a strange thing that happens when your husband is Mr. Overachiever; it makes you feel inadequate and you start to doubt every decision you try to make. Is it time for his bottle? Should I take him out or is it too close to nap time? My husband, the dear man, would call me from work telling me it was time to put the baby down. “I was going to,” I explained, “but he needed to be changed and then he seemed hungry again so I thought…” “That’s not what we set up, honey. That’s not what we committed to doing, you can’t make up your own rules.” He is a well-meaning, lovely man, but I can’t help feeling like a complete idiot in regards to raising our child.

Sometimes I do wish I was single and it was just my son and me, battling the world together, making mistakes, doing it wrong. Staying up until midnight eating cold pizza, running around with no diapers, drinking too much juice and bouncing off the walls, putting crayons up our noses, walking in the dirt with no shoes, and then, to finish, the cardinal no-no in our house: sleeping in our bed. I wish I had the right to do it all my own way. I mean my parents screwed up; don’t I have a legacy to uphold?
I realize organization and routine are ultimately for the best, but if I were a single mom, I would love to just jump in the pool with my boy to see if he can swim.

All said, I wouldn’t change my husband or my son for the world and I love them both dearly.

By: Nina Roux

I’m an opinionated snob. I own this. As a New Yorker, I can be quite pushy. I think we city folk hone this skill because we are jealously protecting the tiny amount of personal space we are allotted. So, when the opinionated, snobby pushy beast rears its head, it’s hard to hold back the hounds. I recently decided that this same trait, when possessed by someone who holds the opposite views from mine, makes them a bigot.
I got into a Facebook fight with some dude I went to college with, I don’t really know him, and he definitely doesn’t know me. But like most of my Facebook “friends”, we have casually (and probably pointlessly) become connected again.
It all started with the vapid comments made by former Miss. California, Carrie Prejean, when asked about her thoughts on the legality of same-sex marriage.
The status bar on my Facebook page was something like; “anyone who says they believe something just because they were raised to believe it, is basically saying they don’t have any thoughts of their own”. There may or may not have been the word “jaggoff” somewhere in there.
I guess I assumed I was preaching to the choir, safe in my smug liberal, coastal bubble. I wasn’t thinking about this dude and he didn’t find my snarky (okay, mean-spirited) commentary amusing. The problem was that in his response, he used condescending language like “now, now” and “I hate it when you lefties…” The Opinionated New York Foul-Mouthed Snob Hounds would not drop the bone, and along with my husband and 3 or 4 friends, we let this dude have it.
I should mention that I am Buddhist. One common misconception about Buddhists is that we are passive. There is in fact nothing more “Buddhist” than standing up with the courage of a lion in defense of what is right
Here’s why their “right” is wrong: my husband and I could not be legally married if people had continued to believe something simply because they were taught to. My African American husband’s grandparents would have been slaves, like their parents were. His parents wouldn’t have been able to vote or to drink from the same drinking fountains as mine. As a woman I would not be able to vote. I would not be sitting in a window office. Hell, I would be at home with 12 children, wearing an ankle-length skirt, with no electricity if our parents’ parents’ parents had held rigidly to their ideas of the “right” way to live. If previous generations were afraid of change and the evolution of ideas and human rights, white folks wouldn’t be on this continent.
Just as our generation was pivotal in electing the first African American president, we will also be responsible for ending bigotry and hatred, just as every generation before us and every generation after. It is OUR fight as human beings. The face of bigotry changes, just like the faces of the oppressed. But it is a fight, and it will require our whole heart, and the courage of a lion and the voices of the hounds of hellish functions like this opinionated, foul-mouthed, pushy snob. As a straight, married woman, to believe that I myself don’t have to worry about whether or not my gay friends should be allowed to marry, is just lazy. We can’t get anything done by thinking “that’s someone else’s fight”. Ending bigotry and fear of what we don’t understand is every compassionate individual’s fight. And the weapons and armor in this fight are intellect, education and maybe a little bit of snobbery. But for what it’s worth, for my part, I am working on the latter.