The Best Time I Didn’t Deliver A Baby
May 11, 2011 2 Comments
Dear Millicent,
I now know what kind of person I am in an emergency. Yesterday morning, I went to meet a couple who I would be doulaing for, ready with my bag of tricks. I had my lavender oil, my breath mints, my mantras and my own sense of calm. When I got to the door, the baby was crowning, and would be born two minutes later on the bathroom floor.
This happens, and homebirth is not by definition an emergency. Planned homebirth is awesome. Doulas are trained for what to do in an emergency delivery, but it is the kind of training that my brain did not hold tightly. I absorbed it like learning how to punch a window out if your car falls off a bridge and is submerged into water: it is big time useful, but also something that only happens in movies. Except that it all actually happens sometimes.
This was an emergency in the sense that there was no control. Whatever this would be, it would be, and it was happening RIGHT NOW. The dad asked me if I knew what to do. I said what my gut said. “No.”
And then I got thwarted by the fact I don’t know how to use an I-phone. Me and 911 kept saying “hello” to each other. I was waiting for all those important instructions to pour out–look for this, look for that. But I couldn’t get the damn speaker phone off, and asking for directions about a phone is stupid compared to the fact that a baby is coming out, right now. And it did. The baby came out. And started crying. It all worked the way it’s supposed to work, and firemen came, and everything got taken care of.
The Iphone never made sense.
For the entire 2 minutes, I had no idea how to help. I felt like the clumsiest person in the world. It was all very slow, and very fast. It was all high panic, and incredibly calm. A part of me surrendered, knowing that I had no idea what to do. And a part of me insisted that there were practical things to do. Look for towels! Pay attention. Watch. Look around for clues. Look for bad things.
But there were no bad things. We weren’t called on for that kind of adrenaline. It worked. It was a household event. Not a crisis. The firemen seemed happy to have such an easy emergency to attend. All was well. Babies are born every day.
I can’t believe that is how I spent my morning.
When I got home and looked up emergency home birth on the internet, all of the instruction guides (which I imagine freaked out people reading with the laptop set up next to the birthing woman, pissed that the screensaver came on because now they will have to click, then wash their hands again, and that baby is coming!), were amazingly soothing. They promised that this was rare, and that it usually happened with very healthy moms and babies. That birth, often enough to hope for the best, took care of itself. “When in doubt,” one content farm version of instructions said, “do nothing.”*
In the best of emergency circumstances, delivering a baby means lightly holding the head, making sure no cord is around the throat, and catching it. Then, putting newborn on mama’s chest. There are other facts. Babies are blue when they’re born. If the baby isn’t crying, to press its nostrils downwards. To keep the umbilical cord attached. There is a lot of information, but the basic instructions for a routine birth are simple enough to fit into a small bullet list. The internet could get you through it.
For myself, I’m not sure in that moment I would have remembered how the internet worked. But, I now have even more trust in what the body can do. This was the first non-hospital birth I have been at. It wasn’t an ideal birth. It was scary, and fast, and the amount of adrenaline drenching the house was insane. I don’t know if the mama is going to remember it as traumatic or wild. The experience brought home how birth is really about the woman and her body, and that the hospital is an accessory, a location. A minor distinction, one that I had not realized before this, emphasizing how disempowering many hospital spaces are for laboring women. Also, the immense blessing of people who actually know how to deliver babies, be they nurses, firemen (firepeople?), midwives, or OBs.
So, lessons learned:
- Time gets slow in crisis, but crisis keeps moving.
- Figure out how an I-phone works.
- Trust women.
- Babies don’t give a shit about your plans.
- Sometimes, things work out seriously fine.
The Art of The Comment
May 23, 2009 by Carla Fran 3 Comments
Dear Millicent,
I have been thinking of your profile of Jezebel and its evolutions, and agree with the tensions you noted between taking things to task and supporting everybody. It is a problem when every viewpoint is humanized (though, isn’t that an accomplishment of empathy, or just a distracting use of pathos?), and echoed in pop critiques of women’s studies (whininess, black holes of offense and correction, righteousness that insists on the merits of heart and humanity but which cannot offer the same to the uninitiated).
I hear those critiques most often from people who have never gotten near women’s studies (full disclosure: I have never gotten near women’s studies). But the field, like feminism, is more vital than its critics give credit for: it’s not the grumpy wall flower as much as the exuberant and just misfit (for imagery here, I am thinking either of Ricki and Delia in My So Called Life at the World Happiness dance, or of Babs in The Way We Were, soused and dancing all night even though she was supposed to be working the refreshment table).
I also like your description of the commenting culture on Jez, and Gawker. I have to admit that I rarely read the comments, and often wonder why commenting is such an inherent part of blogging. The idea is sound–a large extended conversation, full of challenges and calls and answers–and I am giddy to read any comments we have here on this site. However, in general (and again, please do comment here, I am just a grump), comments seem to be a barage of self applause: commenters either offering inane agreeance, witty snarks, or complaints about their workplace. It seems that Facebook and Twitter have capitolized on this need for constant narration, and I want all comments to really just set up shop over there. There are times when I have read comments that have taken the conversation in other directions, or that have called shenanigans when appropriate, but I rarely consider commenters part of site. When reading Jezebel, I read their content alone, and consider the commenters in their own club, with queen bees who can type up a quick response and be instantly applauded. But then again, maybe I am just jealous because I am not one of them, and we all like applause.
Feministing has a community site as part of their blog, where commenters can post full blog entries. I like this model more than general comments, and often the editors post one of the community posts to the mainpage. One of the last comment sections I read diverged into a long scolding of a commenter for using the word “lame” to describe something they didn’t like. In the following 20 comments, there was an agressive defense and shuddering of the use of the word. It seemed both irritatingly petty (the old trials of PC language), and wildy effective. Though it annoyed me that one couldn’t relax about anything, even a slang adjective, while reading a blog, it was also the right fight. At its base, the word is inappropriate, and disrespectful. This reminded me of your discussion of the small choices where it is tempting to inclusively let all answers stand as correct (taking a husband’s last name, etc.), and the assertion that the choice (the answer, not just the right to choose) actually matters very much.
And, in a sweep back to the other side, my training as a doula totally disagrees, which makes things interesting. Doulas are supposed to support a woman’s choices in labor, and bring in no personal opinion besides offering information. The idea is that doulas are not there to make their version of an ideal birth, but to assist the mother in experiencing her ideal birth. I consider my work as a doula the most directly feminist thing I do. I help women have more power, voice and control at a vulnerable moment, and I get to see direct outcomes. This would suggest the original version– –that we are all snowflakes, and power comes from not denying anybody their snowflakehood. But, when it comes down to brass tacks, I only like this model when all the snowflakes are snowing for their own good as defined by, well, let’s be honest here, me.
So maybe the great work is not in defending the right to all viewpoints, but digging to the harder, more uncomfortable area of conversation that addresses responsibility? A hard task for Jezebel, because responsibility is never an effervescent topic. It makes me think of those horrid serious talks that parents only have with their kids while driving. And maybe that is where commenters come in. How much more palatable would a lecture on unloading the dishwasher have been if there was a chorus of wits making fun of the DJ on the radio, the claustrophobia of the seatbelt,while making sure that I did indeed absorb that the dishwasher needed to be unloaded by me, or else no ride to the mall.
Yours,
CF
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