Perseverance: One Doctor Makes a Difference

Amelia & Sam with Clayton in 2012

This fall I visited with my grandfather, Clayton Sutter on his 95^th birthday. My grandfather is a storyteller, I likely get it from him. Despite his years in age, he is able to recall many detailed stories from his childhood. Just a few years ago he self-published a book of his life story with the help from family and friends. (Order his book here on Amazon!) When I go to visit him in his small room at Greencroft with my three children it is difficult to visit, always an interruption from one or a shuffling of stuff from the other. It’s hard for me to get time to really hear his stories. On his birthday I visited by myself and was rewarded with this wonderful birth story.  

My grandfather recalled the event with a raspy chuckle. He sat in his brown recliner tipped way back, beyond factory settings. Staring up at the ceiling he methodically described the scene. The details he reports were orally passed down to him, of course he has no memories of his own birth. 

Their home was on a small rural rented tract of farm land in Illinois.  On October 17, 1919 my great grandmother anticipated the birth of her 10^th child.  Within the walls of their humble home, she labored and labored.  The family doctor in attendance watched and began to worry as the labor went on and on. The doctor from the next town over was sent for, in hopes his additional support and assistance could help with this protracted labor. 

Back then home birth was the norm and the local town doctor attended the birth. My great grandmother spent many hours in hard labor, working to push out “little Clayton”. I’ve not done research to find out the detail about what kind of “assistance” was available to moms in that era. I assume it was limited. In the telling of the story my grandfather at no point mentions talk of a hospital or transporting to the hospital.  

According to him, as the minutes passed the two doctors continued to worry about both mother and baby. At some point, they decided to send for the specialist in Bloomington about 25 miles away.

Having attended a few nail biting home births as a midwife’s assistant I understand their stress. The responsibility of being one of two people in attendance of what is potentially an urgent medical situation is a heavy load to bear. In my case I hold to the resources of modern cell phones, Ambulance/EMT and hospital services. My great grandmother and her birth team were limited in their options. So they did what they could by procuring the specialist from the city.

Scale used to weigh baby Clayton

Eventually Clayton Christian Sutter arrived into the world at a whopping 12 pounds. Yes folks 12 pounds!  It is assumed that this, in combination with her short stature, was the source of the difficulty of the birth. But relief did not come upon his entry into the world. Clayton was not breathing. Blue and big. Limp without effort. The doctors worked. The specialist, and two family doctors worked and worked to get this baby to breathe. This baby, my grandfather now calmly telling me this story hands folded across his belly, white wavy hair cushioned against the headrest.  

When the specialist and doctor from the nearby town gave up, the family doctor persevered. The lore is that this heroic doctor turned to the others who had given up saying, “Chris (my great grandfather) needs this boy.”  Being the family’s doctor he knew them well and understood the value of this baby boy. The oldest of Christian’s children Lawrence, was born in 1900. Eight girls fill the gap until Little Clayton. In a rural farming family, sons were of great value. This doctor was determined to not give up.

“What happened then?” I asked sitting on the edge of my seat adrenaline coursing. Grandpa laughed at my serious demeanor, “Well, I started to breathe I guess.”  

Even though he’s been legally blind for the last 8 years, his senses still pickup on all the subtle cues of situation. I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Of course, obviously.  He did breathe. He is still breathing.

But those moments of resuscitation feel like minutes, I’ve lived through them I know. My hands working, mind racing, fingers dialing for help. It flashes real, as if it is happening there in that retirement home room. Occupational hazard, the way those traumatic memories surface in an ordinary day. “Breathe Betsy back to this moment.” I continued what had become an interview of sorts about his birth.

“It was the family doctor, that saved me. My parents were ever grateful for his persistence,” my grandfather recalled. *Play the hero music in the background* 

This family doctor, serving the medical needs of his small Midwest town, humbly saved my grandfather's life. He who lived among them day to day in the same town.  This man persevered and continued resuscitation efforts when the others gave up. 

My grandfather has lived a meaningful life. He spent 68 of his years married to my grandmother, Elsie.  Together they increased the earth’s population by four children, 4 grandchildren and 10 great grandchildren. Oh the difference the doctor's decision to not give up has made in my world.

I wish I could name that family hometown doctor here, pass this story on to his own granddaughter. I’d thank him for following his instincts. Give him his due glory. But I don't know his name. 

Instead I’ll thank all the healthcare providers out there who don’t give up. May they feel the gratitude from the patients they serve. May they be made aware of the outward rippling of the the lives they touch today and for years to come.

What's Next?

Outside my window winter is giving over to spring. Sun breaking through fog. Cold of the early morning receding with the darkness and returning at night. Years of birth work have brought me a unique appreciation for the cycles of seasons and nature.  I’m feeling some synchronicity in this season of change. A burst of newness in the grey. 

My 5 year-old and his drawing of spring sunshine

In less than five months, all three of my children will be attending school.  My role of stay-at-home mom tips on the precipice of change. All my 12 years of motherhood I have anticipated this coming date as one to be celebrated.  A time to step out of one stage of life and into another.

What will I do with myself? 

It’s a question I’ve been toying with for months now. I’m qualified for lots of different kinds of jobs. I have connections with several wonderful community agencies. I’ve felt my passion for birth work dwindling, my ardor for birthwork gone. When I think of doing something else I feel excited and overwhelmed. My options lay open like the thawing farmer’s field. I’ve been busy dreaming.

So I’ve putting myself out there.  I’ve tried new things, sent off a Curriculum Vitae or CV, some fancy new term for resume. I completed a first very-rough draft of a novel manuscript. My ear is perked for new positions opening and I’m up for study- college or certification.  Maybe a job at the elementary school, so as to not be so far from my growing children? The possibilities are many.

But then:

February 8, 2015. I held her hand as she rested her head on my shoulder.  The white sterile operating room is cold and sounds seem to bounce off the walls in an echo.  Her nerves were at their end. “Breath, Sarah, its ok.  I am here with you.  Just breathe and rest into me.” I told her. Sarah was in the midst of getting a spinal block for her planned Cesarean birth.  Her baby girl, lay breech within her, and refused to turn. By her side for the fifteen minute surgical prep my goal was to keep her calm. 
"Sarah, listen to my voice, you are ok. This is just where your baby needs you to be.  The doctor is taking good care of you. Just breathe.” Slowly and soothingly I keep speaking these words.

Face-up on the operating table a singular tear escaped her eye, running to her ear. She blinked hard, trying to control the anxiety beating in her heart, in her head.  I wiped the tear. I held the hand of her strapped down arm. “You are not alone. I am here with you Sarah. It is almost time your husband will be here soon.” I coached.

“Don’t leave me alone.” Panicked words spoken to me through more tears.

The prep was finished, time for surgery to start. I, the doula, traded my place with Sarah’s husband and left the operating room. I waited outside the double doors that separated me from Sarah. I prayed, I paced, remembered to breathe. Five minutes passed, six, seven; hearty cries filled the air. The rhythmic wail of a babe just released into the world.

As I waited in the recovery room I texted my husband,“I’m good at this doula thing.” 

"Of course you are, you always have been.” was his reply.

It had been almost a year since I had attended a birth in the role of a doula. And I hadn’t missed it.

UNTIL I DID.

Three weeks later I find myself late evening squatting beside a whirl pool. My fists press with all the strength I can summon on a laboring mama’s back. A skill I have perfected through many hours of labor. I turned down the lights, lit the candles, and played soft music, scent of lavender in the air. Simple things, small things, easy things. She may have not even noticed. Things she would have been fine without. Things that the busy nurse doesn’t have time to think about. But a doula does, I did.

Driving home from that birth I felt it. A crack in the shell around my doula’s heart. “I’m good at this.” I say to the empty passenger seat. “Why are you looking for anything else?” the dark night replied.

I can come up with a long list of reasons to leave doula work behind me. Lost sleep, life on call, difficult births, dead babies, long hours and little pay –all things I can live without. 

Are the moments of satisfaction enough? The joy at the end- knowing that my in small ways I helped? Is the time spent away from my family worth it? I don’t know. 

There is time still to wait and see.  The answer to my “what’s next”? Well maybe it’s what I’ve been doing for years. I need help remembering that it isn’t all or nothing- an EITHER/OR. I could fit doula work into my “what’s next” stage?  More of a BOTH/AND?

Regardless of the outcome I an grateful for moments of joy breaking through to me this spring.