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.

One Of These Things

For those of you who watched Sesame Street in the 1980’s you’ll remember the song so often included in the show:
 

“One of these things is not like the other,

One of these things does not belong.

Can you tell which things are not like the other?”

 Refresh your memory with this quick little clip.    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6b0ftfKFEJg

This jingle always comes to mind when I’m getting ready to leave my childbirth class. It’s easy to spot my red pea coat from the pile of black coats and sweaters. Picking up my red loafers, again from rows of paired black sneakers, it hits me- I am different than them.

“As a birth worker serving the Amish, I receive a certain amount of reverence and respect. As a non-Amish woman I am always just on the outside of inclusion; if that makes any sense. No matter how much time I spend serving, living and working among them I will never be one of them. Of course I don’t want to be Amish. Still a little part of my heart hurts knowing that my sacrifice of comfort and time, the gift of quality culturally sensitive care will never win me full belonging. I will never be inside the circle.” 

As I wrote these words last week tears came to my eyes.  The passage is part of a novel I am currently working on. When I started writing the paragraph they were just fiction.  As I sat back to read it I realized it to be my truth. And I cried.

Fourteen years ago when my husband and I bought our house we wanted a rural location and school district. Little did I know how I would become immersed in serving the Amish families in my neighborhood.  Literally my neighbors. I attended a birth just this morning for the family whose farm shares a property line with mine. And I love it. 

They appreciate and respect me and my professional wealth of knowledge. They call, send letters, flag me down when I am out running, stop me in the middle of Wal-mart. Together our children ride the bus, learn at school and play at home. It is a rich life.

Raised in a family, church and community where diversity in culture is embraced it has become a defining value for me. Both personally and professionally, I am comfortable and drawn to relationships with those different than myself. I find myself drawn to vocations that serve people from other cultures. Running a food pantry and financial assistance program, interpreting English to Spanish during a surgical operation, childbirth classes with the Amish-I have loved the diversity of each one.

And for the most part it works well. Culturally competent care stretches my muscles of compassion. Challenges me to look at life from outside my own view and appreciate the differences. I enjoy learning about other people’s experience of life. Being in their homes, eating their food, learning their language. I’ve learned so much and I am a better person for it. 

Now after all that would you believe me when I say that I still feel on the outside at times? And that that last bit of space between our worlds can really be a splinter in my palm. What would it be like to be one of them? Not to actually BE Amish, but to be the same? I don’t feel this way all the time. The tiny bit of hurt surfaces now and then. Mostly when I’ve been in on an intensely emotional experience. Like a baby dying, like a victorious birth hard won.

Sometimes I just want to belong.  Really belong.  Am I alone in this flip side of appreciating difference? Alone in my longing to be the same? 

How rude! Fathers-to-be who challenge me.

Matt is kicked back in the recliner. His cheeks chapped pink from the wind he states, “So are we gonna get this started or what?” Did I just get snarked at by an Amish man? “We will wait a few more minutes on the other couple, they just pulled in. I’m going to wait for them to put the horse in the barn.” I smile my sweetest fake smile I can manage.

–Wow ok, not used to this level of directness within the first hour of meeting.  I’m guessing he’s not too excited to be attending a childbirth class tonight. Well guess what buddy, I’m not either. I traveled 20 miles in near white-out conditions on icy roads at the “rush hour” on the Goshen-Plymouth trail to get here.  I left my family a half hour early just to arrive on time.  This man Matt makes me doubt it was worth the effort.

There are four couples signed up for this class.  We awkwardly sit on over stuffed couches and chairs and make small talk. It’s the first night of class in a series of four. It seems we are off to a rough start.  Half way through though I feel I have recovered and things are going well.  The women are bright eyed, nodding and following my every word. 

I turn from the marker board I am writing on my glance falling on Matt, who is soundly sleeping in his cozy recliner.  Again wow- actually sleeping.  I shouldn't be surprised; he did warn me this may happen.  Politely I noted the fresh pot of coffee available. Laughing he shook his head and waved me off, “Ha if I have coffee now I won’t be able to sleep once I get to bed.” Does napping during class effect your bedtime sleep also? I am having a hard time holding my tongue.

His wife Missy apologizes for her husband’s rudeness with her eyes.  My heart is softened a bit and I remind myself this isn't personal. This guy just really doesn't want to be in a childbirth class.

Over the course of my teaching career I've had about 300 couples in class. From time to time I come across a gem like this one. I get it- childbirth class is uncomfortable. He doesn't want to be here, but his wife “made” him come. It is cold. He worked hard today, has to get up at 3 am for work tomorrow. There are a number of possible reasons for his rudeness.  But those same reasons apply to us all, and we manage to be civil and polite. 

Writing about Matt brings another character to mind.  It was in my first year of teaching and I encountered a man I refer to as “The Heckler”. He was ruthless with me. 

What is a heckler exactly?  Remember the two old guys, Statler and Waldorf, from The Muppet Show? Professional hecklers quite funny if they aren't making fun of you. Glad they don't need childbirth classes.

Heckle: To try to embarrass and annoy (someone speaking

 or performing in public) by questions, gibes, or objections; badger.

My bearded heckler wasn't as lovable as a Muppet 

That sound like fun, no? I spent all my energy recovering from his jabs and maintaining the flow of the class. The other couples were offended and embarrassed for me. I’d dare say that they became angry with him by the end of it all. Any time the Heckler was out of ear shot they would apologize, “Please just ignore him. You are doing a great job. We (the Amish) don’t usually treat people like this.” I got several notes of gratitude and encouragement in the mail once the class was all wrapped up.

While I can’t recall all of his hurtful words I do remember the last class we were discussing caring for your newborn and I was discussing the idea of co-sleeping. “So if I roll over onto and kill my baby, I can tell myself, but Betsy said it was ok.” Yes folks, he was out of control. Another man in the class actually reprimanded him for that one. At some point I realized that this man likely treats his wife the same way. If this Amish man is so bold as to talk to a person of authority in public with disrespect, how does he treat his wife behind closed doors?  I shudder to think. 

So these men bruise my ego a bit.  Maybe they don’t like me.  Maybe it’s the setting and content of class.  No matter which, I continue on, honing my skills at public speaking and interactions with people of all sorts.  I believe that childbirth classes are vital for couples anticipating birth. I believe that whether he admits it later or not, he did benefit from participating in the class. Everyone benefits. If it’s just a handful who insist on being rude, there are approximately 295 more polite, attentive (mostly) and interested participants, then I can live with that. 

Next week I'm going to picture one of these two old gents reclined in the chair instead of Matt.  That should help it go better. 

Betsy, where have you been?

It's been awhile since I've posted.  My productivity has shifted to another project for the month.  I am busily working to rise to the challenge of writing 50,000 word first draft of a novel in the month of November.  This is a world-wide event, sponsored by NaNoWriMo.  Check out their website at: www.NaNoWriMo.org

As you may guess my novel includes birth stories! Its a non-fiction piece about a doula struggling to deal with the grief that childbearing years bring. Hmm, wonder where I got the idea for that? There is lots of other good stuff too, but only being half way through I can't give a more detailed summary.  Because I don't know all the details yet.

It's been hard to resist the urge to blog.  My pending file (not a literal file) holds the birth story of my grandfather, born at home in rural Illinois in early 20th century.  So hard to resist writing it.  But I must focus and be disciplined to reach my goal.

Thanks for understanding and for your support.  Blogging has given me the confidence to see myself as a writer and take risks. I've come a long way in one year.

Listener's Commentary on WVPE 88.1, our local NPR radio station, will play another one of my essays on Monday December 1 at 7:30 am and 12:30 pm. Tune into to hear it. This one is a story from my early years of doula work  with Maple City Health Care Center.

Cleaning Up: My Checklist

Standing in front of her deep laundry tub, the cement floor beneath my socked feet is as cold as the frozen earth outside.  A ten gallon bucket full of dirty towels, a set of queen size sheets and night gown awaits my attention.  The battery powered lantern I brought with me casts shadows all around. Latex gloved hands work quickly to accomplish the task. 

Typical Amish laundry tub, wringer and spinner.

My post-birth laundering takes me to a variety of types of wash rooms.  Dark empty basements full of spiders with just a garden hose for water.  Bright sun filled, well organized and perfectly clean laundry rooms one step out of the main living area.  Vanity sinks that are too small to hold the bulky towel I am wrestling to rinse, without flooding the floor.  Bathtubs that cause my back to ache from leaning over to get to the spigot.  This folks is the adventure of home
birth.  Each set up different, most without electricity, all with their unique challenges. 

Have you ever doused a bloody towel with hydrogen peroxide?  It bubbles and foams like a mini volcano.  My boys would love this, well until they realize its birth blood. Cold water rinses out the blood, hot water for the meconium (black tarry baby's first poo) stains.  Tomorrow the new mama’s “maid” will come to help with the actual washing of this load.

My great great Grandmother Annie Kaufman tended the birthing and dying of her rural Amish and Mennonite community.  The thought of her distracts me, and for a moment we work side by side set to the task. Once spot cleaned, I scrub, wring out and set it to soak.  Treating all post-birth laundry is one of the jobs on my Birth Assistant check list. 

My other tasks following a birth?  You would likely guess things like tidying the birth room, cleaning and dressing the baby, restocking the midwife’s bag.  There are also clerical responsibilities of charting, filling out forms for birth certificate, and newspaper announcements. Sometimes I sit bedside and do some teaching- what to expect in the next 24 hours, how to care for the newborn and mother. 

One of my favorites is fixing the post-birth feast.  Pancakes, peanut and butter sandwich, reheating leftovers with a side of fruit, yogurt and juice.  I regularly hear my fried eggs and buttered toast are the best.  My ego takes that with a grain of salt, almost anything will taste amazing after a birth.   

If you check my resume I am far over qualified for my job of cleaning, cooking and laundry.  Being over qualified though, doesn't make it less enjoyable.  My attention to detail allows a new mother and father to rest and enjoy their new baby instead of tidying the house. My extra set of hands gives time for the midwife to focus on the clinical postpartum details. A birth assistant is a part of a team.  A team with a worthy goal. And it makes all the scrubbing and soaking worthwhile. 

The Poisonous Bloom

Turning south out of her lane I asked Nina how she felt about the approaching birth of her third child.  The next five minutes fill with her anxious weary words. “I just don’t know if I can do it again, the baby seems so big this time, I’m older and so uncomfortable, what if it won’t fit.  I dread the pain.”

“But your second daughter’s birth went so smoothly, nothing like the first.” I calmly reflect.  Eighteen months after her first traumatic birth, a second daughter Hannah Joy entered the world.  Hannah’s arrival was peaceful, calm, hard work, and victorious.  Nina’s second birth gave her a taste of how birth should be. So why was she still feeling such worry and doubt? The shadow her initiation into motherhood loomed large in her mind.  A black inky seed planted by Doc at her first birth, continuing in poisonous bloom. 

Nina’s fears trigger my own flashbacks from that first birth.  All of a sudden I’m no longer sitting in my parked car waiting for her to exit from the Chiropractor.   It’s five years since past now.  Seated side by side I drive my doula client Nina actively laboring to the hospital one county over.  Joe sits behind us, his face masked with false confidence.  Each mile traveled we are closer to the birth of his first child.

She labored patiently, opening about one centimeter per hour.  Her textbook progress pleased the nurse who checked in to adjust monitoring bands, smile for a few second and dash back to the desk.  Joe nervously tended to her needs. Walking side by side his arm around her waist, the powerful wave of contraction crested she leaned into him hard. 

By mid-afternoon the nurse pronounced Nina complete- 10 cm.  Nina was promptly saddled into the bed and encouraged to stay put.  After taking a few notes the nurse stated she was going to call “the Doc”.  “It is Sunday and I think he’s out fishing, I hope I can get ahold of him.”  She says more to herself than to us.

Turning to leave the room the nurse pauses with her hand on the door pull.  “Have her start to push.” She directs to me.  It was so casual the way she laid it there at my feet. The block I would stumble over and resent not seeing. This request to push started the official game clock.  A clock with a strict time limit, of which I was unaware. 

Nina was uncomfortable in bed, but didn’t feel any urge to push.  This natural urge referred to as “pushing pains” among the Amish, didn’t seem to come.  In my wisdom and experience it is best to welcome the rest a woman’s body takes at this point.  Rest because there is much work to come. 

I encouraged her to wait if she could and breathe through the contractions.  She was eager to push so we tried it a few times.  I could see she was at the threshold of the pushing stage, but just not quite ready to step over. 

Just the three of us in the room for that stretch of twenty minutes or so.  Joe holding one hand and I the other.  The nurse bustled back into the room dragging in the warmer and medication cabinet through open double doors.  “How’s she doing?” she asks as she bangs around the room her back to us.

“She’s doing well, getting good rest.”  I reply.  The nurse stops what she is doing and turns to me, “The Doc is on his way and will be up soon.  He wants her to be pushing.”  She directs me this time with more force and I begin to sense there is urgency in accomplishing this task. 

I’m in doula overdrive.  I coach her pushing.  The contractions are consistent and strong but only every 5 minutes.  She’s a “good pusher” as we birthy folks would say.  Strong, young and eager to meet her baby, she does good work, moving the baby lower with each push.  In this stage of birthing the baby’s soft malleable head is moving down in the mother’s body as she pushes.  Down through the boney opening of the pelvis, down through muscle and tissue.  Down during a push and sliding back in during her rest.  Two steps forward. One step back.

Normal.  Totally, absolutely normal.

Doc blusters into the room.  Camouflage pants and a grubby t-shirt.  His chubby short hands are rough and ugly.   He is only interested in the nurse’s assessment of the situation and addresses all communication to her.  No acknowledgment of my presence- I can handle that.  No acknowledgement of his patient- this irks me.  Look your patient in the eyes when you ask how she is doing!  Stop and shake the hand of this father to be who trusts your hands to safely deliver his first born.  Your ugly hands. 

He looks over the computer printouts of contractions, gathers his information from the computer display instead of the patient.  Gruffly he turns and exits the room.  I reach out to the nurse, who seems quite accustomed to his manner, to translate what just happened.  What can we expect?

“He’s going to change and scrub up.” She says busily preparing a sterile set up for the birth.  Drapes, spotlights, all manner of routine ridiculousness occupy her attention.  I am so glad I am there to look Nina in the eyes: to encourage her, to breath with her. 

Doc re-enters the room looking like one of Snow White’s dwarfs decked out in sky blue scrubs.  Directly he proceeds to do a vaginal exam.  Broadcasting his assessment without fanfare,  “That baby is too high up in there.  How long has she been pushing?” he asks the nurse who has now perched herself at his right hand.  She looks over the computer record to find his answer. 

“Only about thirty minutes.”  I say.  And for the first time doc turns and notices me sitting to his left.  “And WHO are you?” he is nearly snearing. “I’m her doula, and she’s only really been pushing about thirty minutes.” The nurse interrupts from the computer station across the room, “She’s been complete for an hour now- so pushing for an hour.”

“Unacceptable, she can’t do this,” doc grumbles under his breath.  I try again to interject that this labor is progressing at a normal rate and she HAS made progress in her half hour of effort. He doesn’t even turn his head to acknowledge my input. 

“Get the vacuum out” he says to the nurse.  My stomach lurches- this baby is way too high to get a suction cup on her soft head.  Would he really use it now?  She has time yet, the baby shows no signs of distress.

But she doesn’t have time.  The game clock, set and marked by Doc has run out of time.  The details of what transpired in the next 20 minutes include but are not limited to inappropriate clinical application of vacuum suction to an infant’s scalp, violation to the integrity of mother’s vagina.  Actions causing permanent emotional and physical trauma for this new mother, father and infant.  It brings tears to my eyes to this day, what I witnessed him do to her. 

When it plays over in my mind, like all traumas do, I am watching-frozen in disbelief. Washed with guilt I am unable to intervene or change the outcome. Frozen. Powerless. Afraid.

Janae Lynn 9 lbs 6 oz was pulled from her mother’s body around 5:35 pm that hot August Sunday.  She entered the world with a large purple/blue bruise on the top of her head.  This bruise remained inflamed and swollen for her whole first week.  Ripped open and then roughly repaired, her mother Nina had been initiated into motherhood. According to doc- this is just the way it is.  Unfortunately, he speaks his truth, this is how Doc does birth.  How many hundreds of times has he done this to Amish women over the years?  Women who trust his authority.  Women bound by their religion to turn the other check, leaving him protected of any legal repercussions from inappropriate and irresponsible clinical actions.

“She’s such a big baby.  It was so hard for her to fit through.  It may not work out so well the next time.” Doc says, finally looking Nina in the eyes.  Addressing the pale faced new father, “You saw how hard that was for her?  She wouldn’t have done it without my help.”  Doc is gloating.

I want to kick his shins, push him down, scream and yell, pour out justice for the violation I had just witnessed.  But I didn’t, couldn’t.

Nina exits the Chiropractor’s office waddling up to the passenger door and I return to the present moment.  Sunshine pushes through the windshield, yet the dark trauma of Janae’s birth hangs onto us both.  Our drive home is made in silence.  

Nina birthed her third child today.  He was welcomed into the waiting hands of a midwife at our local birth center.  I was not there to witness her victory, but tears come when Doris’s mom calls to tell me “It is done.”  She worked hard and she pushed out a 10 lb baby boy!  Several hours later, Doris calls me while I’m driving to town.  Her weak voice reports, “He is here.  It was A LOT of work. And I think this is it for me.”  Still tired from the task, reeling from sleep and blood loss, she isn’t celebrating yet.

So I celebrate for her.  The brilliant noon sun resonates off the yellow and orange maple leaves as I pass.  Appropriately bright, hopeful and celebratory color and it fills me with light.  I needed her victory too.  I needed to remember that there are providers that CARE about their patients.  That a woman’s body is capable of the task, that dignity and respect for a mother during her birth is not too much to ask.  I anticipate the moment when I will hold this “buster” of a baby tonight.  Ten pounds of celebration, wrapped in a sweet cotton cloth.  Nesteling him in my arms, I will hold him close.  Touching his soft dark hair I will whisper pray for his mama and hope of her healing.