I sit and see the wind blowing through the trees, visible in the leaves moving, the boughs bending. I hear the rustle of the leaves, and the whoosh of the air moving. But wind is invisible. Not there to be seen. It can be felt, it can be heard. So it is with so much in our lives. The eividence of a phenomenon exists in the doing, in the feeling, in the hearing. But not actually, tangibly present.
That's all.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
My first birth....
Well, inspired again by NG's call for us to share our stories, I thought, what a way to procrastinate doing any of my required reading and other hard work. So here is the story of how I came to be Alyssa's mum. It was a bit of a typical first timers tale, but here goes anyway. At the ripe old age of seventeenn years and 25 days, I began "labour" with my daughter. Well, I say labour. I thought it was labour. But, like so many other first timers, I had NO IDEA what I was expecting. I started having (what I now know were very mild) contractions, every ten minutes at about 11 pm. All night, I stayed up, timing and counting and waiting for more to happen. Nothing much changed, except I got really tired. I went to the hospital at 11am, and was sent home, not dilated. I went back at 3 pm and was sent home, again, only 1 cm dilated. Noone explained to me what was happening. Noone told me about latent labour, or how to cope with it. Just, "go home and come back when it get's worse". So, back I popped at six pm. And now I was the magic three cm's. So I was given the gas, and an ARM. Time to "get on with it".
Wow, oh boy, is there a good eason for not going to the hospital early? the impact of an ARM is understated hugely. They told me it would get things moving (no mention of risks like cord prolapse or infection, mind you). They didn't tell me that my pain, if not my labour, was about to enter warp drive! For half an hour after the ARM, nothing much happened. I got in the bath, but I didn't like it, and halfway down the hall to return to my room, the contractions hit. And how. Every two minutes, I contracrted for a full minute. Now, prior to that I had been having these pissanty little 20 second tightenings... I actually thought I was quite a tough girl, and that labour was nowhere near as bad as everyone said... screaming in pain I was given the gas and put on the monitor. Now just take a second and look at this picture:
Ok, so WHY did I need monitoring? I was 17, in perfect health, and labouring spontaneously (albeit with an ARM). But, instead of support I got my machines, and my gas, and I got left, on my back, on the bed. (by the way, it was 1993, and GHD's did not exist, and my hair ALWAYS looked like that. *shudder*) Back then, that was what labor care consisted of. My GP came and went, through the night. At around midnight, they decided my progress was slow, and I needed an epidural, so that I could get some sleep. I said no, thanks. they said, you have to have one. I said,it hurts. They then called the anaesthetist, who was busy at an appendectomy (I remember that being the joke), and I waited. Now, my memory of this is that I had no choice. I know now that I had a choice, but then, I thought, literally, that I had to have the epidural.
So, eventually epidural sited, I went to sleep... and woke up, alone, in pain, and with my birth partners shooed from the room. I could not reach my call bell, and was completely terrified in the half dark, where I lay for twenty minutes till my partner came in to get something from his bag. I ordered him and the other two back in the room, and someone (I don't know who) came and topped up my epidural..... THEN examined me and told me it was time to push. It was three am.
I had a full and complete numb all the way up to the top of my belly. I couldn't feel someone touching my leg or foot. But, it was time to push. So I did. or, rather, I tried. I pushed whenever the midwife nodded at me that it was time. I pushed like I was "going for the biggest pooh of my life" flat on my back with my feet held up in the air. I pushed and pushed..... and nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. They decided that I wasn't very good at this and after nearly two hours of this, they suggested a c- section, and left to organise it. while they were gone, my big sister and friend who were there, helped my completely unresponsive body up into a squat, supported by them. And in that position, I pushed. And something happened: my baby starting to surge down the birth canal.
The midwife called the GP who returned to catch my baby girl as she flew into the world. No tears, not grazing, nothing, just a ring of fire burning that hurt like hell, but was oh so sweet cause it meant I didn't have to have surgery, which terrified me. Again, my birth was so typical of first timers: I knew nothing. I was told what to do and when to do it. But unlike others, I was lucky enough to survive it with not only a healthy baby, but an intact perineum and abdomen to boot! Alyssa weighed 7lb 5oz. And this is the first photo of her.... If you look really closely between all those hands, you can see her little leg!
Seventeen months later, I was back for Erika, and a very different birth. but what stayed with me, forever, was just how lonely I felt, and how little I understood what happened to me. Not long ago, I snuck a peak at my labour notes in my hospital records: They do not tell my story. I do not even know how to tell my story, cause so much of it, I didn't get told about. I don't know if I had a syntocinon (pitocin) drip. It was awful. but, from that xperience, a midwife was born.... and so was my beautiful, wonderful, intelligent daughter, now nearly fifteen: Alyssa.
Wow, oh boy, is there a good eason for not going to the hospital early? the impact of an ARM is understated hugely. They told me it would get things moving (no mention of risks like cord prolapse or infection, mind you). They didn't tell me that my pain, if not my labour, was about to enter warp drive! For half an hour after the ARM, nothing much happened. I got in the bath, but I didn't like it, and halfway down the hall to return to my room, the contractions hit. And how. Every two minutes, I contracrted for a full minute. Now, prior to that I had been having these pissanty little 20 second tightenings... I actually thought I was quite a tough girl, and that labour was nowhere near as bad as everyone said... screaming in pain I was given the gas and put on the monitor. Now just take a second and look at this picture:
Ok, so WHY did I need monitoring? I was 17, in perfect health, and labouring spontaneously (albeit with an ARM). But, instead of support I got my machines, and my gas, and I got left, on my back, on the bed. (by the way, it was 1993, and GHD's did not exist, and my hair ALWAYS looked like that. *shudder*) Back then, that was what labor care consisted of. My GP came and went, through the night. At around midnight, they decided my progress was slow, and I needed an epidural, so that I could get some sleep. I said no, thanks. they said, you have to have one. I said,it hurts. They then called the anaesthetist, who was busy at an appendectomy (I remember that being the joke), and I waited. Now, my memory of this is that I had no choice. I know now that I had a choice, but then, I thought, literally, that I had to have the epidural.
So, eventually epidural sited, I went to sleep... and woke up, alone, in pain, and with my birth partners shooed from the room. I could not reach my call bell, and was completely terrified in the half dark, where I lay for twenty minutes till my partner came in to get something from his bag. I ordered him and the other two back in the room, and someone (I don't know who) came and topped up my epidural..... THEN examined me and told me it was time to push. It was three am.
I had a full and complete numb all the way up to the top of my belly. I couldn't feel someone touching my leg or foot. But, it was time to push. So I did. or, rather, I tried. I pushed whenever the midwife nodded at me that it was time. I pushed like I was "going for the biggest pooh of my life" flat on my back with my feet held up in the air. I pushed and pushed..... and nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. They decided that I wasn't very good at this and after nearly two hours of this, they suggested a c- section, and left to organise it. while they were gone, my big sister and friend who were there, helped my completely unresponsive body up into a squat, supported by them. And in that position, I pushed. And something happened: my baby starting to surge down the birth canal.
The midwife called the GP who returned to catch my baby girl as she flew into the world. No tears, not grazing, nothing, just a ring of fire burning that hurt like hell, but was oh so sweet cause it meant I didn't have to have surgery, which terrified me. Again, my birth was so typical of first timers: I knew nothing. I was told what to do and when to do it. But unlike others, I was lucky enough to survive it with not only a healthy baby, but an intact perineum and abdomen to boot! Alyssa weighed 7lb 5oz. And this is the first photo of her.... If you look really closely between all those hands, you can see her little leg!
Seventeen months later, I was back for Erika, and a very different birth. but what stayed with me, forever, was just how lonely I felt, and how little I understood what happened to me. Not long ago, I snuck a peak at my labour notes in my hospital records: They do not tell my story. I do not even know how to tell my story, cause so much of it, I didn't get told about. I don't know if I had a syntocinon (pitocin) drip. It was awful. but, from that xperience, a midwife was born.... and so was my beautiful, wonderful, intelligent daughter, now nearly fifteen: Alyssa.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Horizontal violence in midwifery....
Well, here goes, a serious post. My experience referred to here has finally settled enough in my brain for me to dissect and analyse all the places it led me to over the ensuing weeks. Horizontal violence in midwifery is something that we who work in this crazy profession have all heard of, and I anticipate, have all seen. It is encompassed by judgement of each other, suspicion of practices we are not used to and anyone who sits out of the box even a little bit has probably experienced. But, it isn't even just those who sit outside of one box that feel it.... It is all of us, cause we can't quite sit in every box.
So, if you are a direct entry midwife you can't sit in the nurse first box. If you do homebirths only, you can't sit in the hospital supporting midwife box. If you don't do home births, you can't sit in the home birth midwife box. If you look after VBAC's, some midwives will view you with disdain: If you don't others will call you uncommitted. If you work with obstetric staff, you may be viewed as a traitor, and if you don't, a dangerous cowboy. We are, quite literally, damned if we do, and damned if we don't do ANYTHING.
So, midwives, what are you? The catch cry of the late eighties and early nineties in New Zealand midwifery was "A midwife is a midwife is a midwife" and at the end of the 2006 NZCOM conference we called out the same cry. Whether you work in a hospital or out, in homes or in specialist areas, we are all the same, we cry. So, why, when I go to a birth in hospital, and roll my birth ball down the hall to my Mama, do I get rolling eyes, and sighs, and feel judged? Why when I tell my old colleagues on the PN ward that my lady has flattish nipples, but a strong commitment to breast feeding, do I feel myself thinking "not that you will actually help". And why when another midwife ends up in the newspapers, do we all jump on the "well I would have..." bandwagon?
In her post on WHO's a midwife NG asks what makes a midwife... and in asking those questions, she sparks me to thinking... Am I a midwife? I don't do what Barb does... I work in a completely different system, and some of her comments are as alien to me as computer language! And Agatha routinely forces me to remember that we have a different reality to each other, even though we are doing the same job. And yes, on the good old SMS we have banged heads over issues that we see differently. I hope that Agatha knows that I hold her in high esteem, despite our occassional differences of opinion. In fact, it is SMS that most makes me aware of the very real and continuous issue of horizontal violence in this industry: It comes up all the time, with students abused and confidence destroyed over and over again by overbearing, mean midwife mentors.
Why do we eat our young? This question was asked in an article I read a few years ago, and midwives were exhorted to stop doing it, to support the up and coming new midwives... and yet, as a "new" midwife, I still feel like I am at least being tenderised on a semi regular basis. But it is not just me: staff midwives bag indy's, Indy's bag staffies and at the end of the day, WOMEN SUFFER. It tires me, it hurts me and it makes me want to cry.
So, if anyone has any idea of WHY we do this, let me know.... I want to avoid it!
So, if you are a direct entry midwife you can't sit in the nurse first box. If you do homebirths only, you can't sit in the hospital supporting midwife box. If you don't do home births, you can't sit in the home birth midwife box. If you look after VBAC's, some midwives will view you with disdain: If you don't others will call you uncommitted. If you work with obstetric staff, you may be viewed as a traitor, and if you don't, a dangerous cowboy. We are, quite literally, damned if we do, and damned if we don't do ANYTHING.
So, midwives, what are you? The catch cry of the late eighties and early nineties in New Zealand midwifery was "A midwife is a midwife is a midwife" and at the end of the 2006 NZCOM conference we called out the same cry. Whether you work in a hospital or out, in homes or in specialist areas, we are all the same, we cry. So, why, when I go to a birth in hospital, and roll my birth ball down the hall to my Mama, do I get rolling eyes, and sighs, and feel judged? Why when I tell my old colleagues on the PN ward that my lady has flattish nipples, but a strong commitment to breast feeding, do I feel myself thinking "not that you will actually help". And why when another midwife ends up in the newspapers, do we all jump on the "well I would have..." bandwagon?
In her post on WHO's a midwife NG asks what makes a midwife... and in asking those questions, she sparks me to thinking... Am I a midwife? I don't do what Barb does... I work in a completely different system, and some of her comments are as alien to me as computer language! And Agatha routinely forces me to remember that we have a different reality to each other, even though we are doing the same job. And yes, on the good old SMS we have banged heads over issues that we see differently. I hope that Agatha knows that I hold her in high esteem, despite our occassional differences of opinion. In fact, it is SMS that most makes me aware of the very real and continuous issue of horizontal violence in this industry: It comes up all the time, with students abused and confidence destroyed over and over again by overbearing, mean midwife mentors.
Why do we eat our young? This question was asked in an article I read a few years ago, and midwives were exhorted to stop doing it, to support the up and coming new midwives... and yet, as a "new" midwife, I still feel like I am at least being tenderised on a semi regular basis. But it is not just me: staff midwives bag indy's, Indy's bag staffies and at the end of the day, WOMEN SUFFER. It tires me, it hurts me and it makes me want to cry.
So, if anyone has any idea of WHY we do this, let me know.... I want to avoid it!
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