We all know that giving birth is a rite of passage; an initiation. For birthing women and
for families, birth is a transformative event. It is nothing less than life-changing. We
know this.
What often goes unacknowledged is that we as doulas are also initiated by birth-- and
then reinitiated by each pregnant woman with whom we work, and every birth that
we attend. The American Heritage Dictionary defines initiation as 'a ceremony, ritual,
test, or period of instruction with which a new member is admitted to an organization
or office or to knowledge.' (Italics mine.) To me, initiation is a perfect description of
what we are invited to experience, in our service to women and families.
We bond, we share, we learn about each other. And then we pack our bags, we leave
our families, and we go off to be in sacred space with a laboring woman, her loved
ones, and her caregivers. Each time we are present at a birth, we learn something
new. We are invited deeper into the mystery and the power and the miracle of birth.
My own original initiation as a doula continues to inform me even now, many years
later. Each subsequent gift has built from that foundation.
I was fortunate to receive my doula training from a traditional midwife, and to attend
homebirths with her, as well as the hospital births to which my childbirth students
and friends invited me. My first opportunity to actually witness a birth was a
homebirth, attended by my midwife, my friend, and my mentor, Gretchen.
At the time I began working with Gretchen, we didn't know that she was teaching me
to be a doula. We'd never heard the word. This was 1987, five years before DONA
came into being and eleven years before CAPPA was formed. I had just been
certified through the American Academy of Husband-Coached Childbirth (AAHCC),
and was beginning to teach childbirth education classes. I worked with women
during their prenatal appointments with Gretchen, in both 'doula' and midwifery
assistant capacities, and I had even done some labor assisting on my own. But I had
never attended a birth prior to the November day when Kieran was born.
Jill was in her thirties and her husband was in his fifties. This would be their first and
perhaps only child. On the morning that Jill went into labor, I arrived at their home as
the sun was rising, and it was my job and my privilege to stay with her during the
early process. Jill labored gracefully and powerfully, and she progressed quickly.
Gretchen arrived perhaps two hours later, and very shortly afterward, Jill was in and
then through transition. That's when her labor just seemed to stop.
Although I was a rank amateur as a doula, I'd heard of labor plateaus. I just hadn't
ever seen one at this phase of labor, much less controlled my concern, my
eagerness, and then my admitted impatience through one.
Meanwhile, Jill certainly didn't seem eager or impatient. She was clearly in what we
call the 'rest and be thankful' stage. The eye of the hurricane. Contractions had
completely ceased, and the house grew quiet. The afternoon sun filtered in around
the blinds, and the lazily spiraling dust motes dancing in the glow were suddenly a
great deal busier than we were.
In spite of this slightly disconcerting fact, Gretchen-- whom I'd learned to read very
well by this point-- was serenely relaxed. So I took my cues from her, and banished
my concerns and impatience. We waited. We laughed and talked, feeding Jill,
encouraging her to rest or putter around as her body guided her. The baby was
happy. Why not enjoy this break?
Perhaps an hour passed, or maybe two. I began to wonder if this had been a dress
rehearsal. Was Jill going to be one of those legendary (mythical?) women who walk
around at 10 cm for days before finally giving birth? As I began to let go of the idea of
seeing a baby born that day, I heard Gretchen quietly ask Jill if anything was
bothering her.
A long silence followed: a prickly, charged silence. My attention snapped to Jill's
face, and I realized she was worriedly frowning. Slowly, she began to explain that
she was concerned about how this baby would affect her and her husband's lifestyle.
She just wasn't sure it was such a good idea to be pregnant now, at thirty-something,
with a fifty-something husband. Nor was she feeling confident that they could handle
a baby at this stage in their lives.
My immediate reaction was startled amusement. Complete dilation at term is a bit
late to have second thoughts! Still, I sat and silently waited to see how Gretchen
would handle these revelations. For a long time, she merely listened and nodded her
head, making quiet sounds of understanding and empathy once in a while. She never
did offer much in the way of reassurance; not verbally, anyway. She just listened
and validated what she heard, her hand gently resting on Jill's arm.
I saw the shift when it happened. It wasn't Gretchen who engineered it, either. It was
Jill, who reached the decision for herself, on her own and in her own time. Gretchen
shot me a Look, capital 'L,' when I tried to pipe in with comforting words at the critical
juncture.
With sudden grace, Jill squared her shoulders and stood up straight. Her stomach
rounded into a taut ball and her uterus rippled powerfully. She went with the urge
and bore down hard. The anxious, frustrated woman of a moment before simply
vanished, and I saw her reach out to claim the mantle of motherhood, however it
might play out in her life. For better or for worse, she'd decided to go forward.
"Too late now," she quipped when the contraction ended. We all laughed.
Relief and delight flooded through me, and perhaps, through us all. Once her
doubts were heard and then laid to rest by her own hand, Jill proceeded to
push out her baby son without any further hesitation.
Kieran was born on my father's birthday, in the late afternoon, and I will never
forget the fierce, ecstatic look on Jill's face when she lifted him up onto her
abdomen. I cried. Gretchen nodded approvingly and stopped me from
surreptitiously trying to wipe the tears away.
I'm still learning from that first experience with birth, and I'm grateful to the women
who taught me so well on that November day. It was sacred. It was joyful. It was
powerful and real.
Our initiations have such a great impact on our lives. Even the difficult ones can
empower us, if we let them.
Years after Jill's birth, I had the honor of being with Gina and her partner while they
labored and birthed their beautiful daughter. We arrived at the hospital with Gina
already 6-7 centimeters and, although the baby was posterior, things seemed to be
going smoothly.
Many hours later, with no change in dilation and the baby still posterior in spite of our
best efforts to turn her, a shift change brought us a different and very aggressive
doctor. Gina was still going strong and the baby was fine, so I was very startled when
she abruptly agreed to the doctor's suggestion of a Cesarean birth.
Two weeks later, at a postpartum visit, I admitted to Gina that I was feeling terrible
about not having been able to protect her from this difficult doctor. She surprised me
once again, suddenly sharing with me that she had been sexually abused as a child,
and that her parents had never been able to say what I had just said.
Hearkening back to Gretchen and Jill, I sat silently and just compassionately listened.
Gina continued, explaining that this doctor had triggered memories of her past
experiences. His manner was spiteful and he hurt her, unnecessarily and without
apology, each time he did an exam.
So she had decided, in the midst of labor and in the midst of concern for herself and
her baby and her husband in the face of this new threat, that this time she was not
going to let a man hurt her vagina. She said no. She took control. This time, she had
won!
She chose the Cesarean. She chose. Her tone of voice was glowing as she said this,
and she was earnest and quite sincere. She wanted me to understand.
She was empowered by her Cesarean birth. In choosing as she had, she protected
herself-- both her adult self, and the hurt little girl part of her she still carried around
inside. Through her birth experience, difficult as it was, she began to heal from her
past.
She learned that she could protect herself, and she didn't need me-- or anyone else--
to protect her.
Next time, she said, determination and strength resonant in her voice, she was going
to have a homebirth with a midwife. Because now that she'd learned what she
needed to know, she could do that. And she could protect her daughter, too.
The scales fell from my eyes and I did understand. Initiation. I learned another huge
lesson.
I'm eternally grateful to Gina for giving me a whole new perspective on things I only
thought I understood. And I'm so thankful that, years earlier, Gretchen taught me how
to really listen. When the time came, I knew how to hear Gina, and that allowed me to
fully absorb the gift she gave me.
Each of us who is present at a birth-- family member, laboring mom, caregiver, or
doula-- each receives a gift of wisdom, of knowledge. Each of us receives a sacred
initiation. And this is true, no matter how the birth unfolds.
I invite you to remember, to treasure, and to honor this priceless gift.
for families, birth is a transformative event. It is nothing less than life-changing. We
know this.
What often goes unacknowledged is that we as doulas are also initiated by birth-- and
then reinitiated by each pregnant woman with whom we work, and every birth that
we attend. The American Heritage Dictionary defines initiation as 'a ceremony, ritual,
test, or period of instruction with which a new member is admitted to an organization
or office or to knowledge.' (Italics mine.) To me, initiation is a perfect description of
what we are invited to experience, in our service to women and families.
We bond, we share, we learn about each other. And then we pack our bags, we leave
our families, and we go off to be in sacred space with a laboring woman, her loved
ones, and her caregivers. Each time we are present at a birth, we learn something
new. We are invited deeper into the mystery and the power and the miracle of birth.
My own original initiation as a doula continues to inform me even now, many years
later. Each subsequent gift has built from that foundation.
I was fortunate to receive my doula training from a traditional midwife, and to attend
homebirths with her, as well as the hospital births to which my childbirth students
and friends invited me. My first opportunity to actually witness a birth was a
homebirth, attended by my midwife, my friend, and my mentor, Gretchen.
At the time I began working with Gretchen, we didn't know that she was teaching me
to be a doula. We'd never heard the word. This was 1987, five years before DONA
came into being and eleven years before CAPPA was formed. I had just been
certified through the American Academy of Husband-Coached Childbirth (AAHCC),
and was beginning to teach childbirth education classes. I worked with women
during their prenatal appointments with Gretchen, in both 'doula' and midwifery
assistant capacities, and I had even done some labor assisting on my own. But I had
never attended a birth prior to the November day when Kieran was born.
Jill was in her thirties and her husband was in his fifties. This would be their first and
perhaps only child. On the morning that Jill went into labor, I arrived at their home as
the sun was rising, and it was my job and my privilege to stay with her during the
early process. Jill labored gracefully and powerfully, and she progressed quickly.
Gretchen arrived perhaps two hours later, and very shortly afterward, Jill was in and
then through transition. That's when her labor just seemed to stop.
Although I was a rank amateur as a doula, I'd heard of labor plateaus. I just hadn't
ever seen one at this phase of labor, much less controlled my concern, my
eagerness, and then my admitted impatience through one.
Meanwhile, Jill certainly didn't seem eager or impatient. She was clearly in what we
call the 'rest and be thankful' stage. The eye of the hurricane. Contractions had
completely ceased, and the house grew quiet. The afternoon sun filtered in around
the blinds, and the lazily spiraling dust motes dancing in the glow were suddenly a
great deal busier than we were.
In spite of this slightly disconcerting fact, Gretchen-- whom I'd learned to read very
well by this point-- was serenely relaxed. So I took my cues from her, and banished
my concerns and impatience. We waited. We laughed and talked, feeding Jill,
encouraging her to rest or putter around as her body guided her. The baby was
happy. Why not enjoy this break?
Perhaps an hour passed, or maybe two. I began to wonder if this had been a dress
rehearsal. Was Jill going to be one of those legendary (mythical?) women who walk
around at 10 cm for days before finally giving birth? As I began to let go of the idea of
seeing a baby born that day, I heard Gretchen quietly ask Jill if anything was
bothering her.
A long silence followed: a prickly, charged silence. My attention snapped to Jill's
face, and I realized she was worriedly frowning. Slowly, she began to explain that
she was concerned about how this baby would affect her and her husband's lifestyle.
She just wasn't sure it was such a good idea to be pregnant now, at thirty-something,
with a fifty-something husband. Nor was she feeling confident that they could handle
a baby at this stage in their lives.
My immediate reaction was startled amusement. Complete dilation at term is a bit
late to have second thoughts! Still, I sat and silently waited to see how Gretchen
would handle these revelations. For a long time, she merely listened and nodded her
head, making quiet sounds of understanding and empathy once in a while. She never
did offer much in the way of reassurance; not verbally, anyway. She just listened
and validated what she heard, her hand gently resting on Jill's arm.
I saw the shift when it happened. It wasn't Gretchen who engineered it, either. It was
Jill, who reached the decision for herself, on her own and in her own time. Gretchen
shot me a Look, capital 'L,' when I tried to pipe in with comforting words at the critical
juncture.
With sudden grace, Jill squared her shoulders and stood up straight. Her stomach
rounded into a taut ball and her uterus rippled powerfully. She went with the urge
and bore down hard. The anxious, frustrated woman of a moment before simply
vanished, and I saw her reach out to claim the mantle of motherhood, however it
might play out in her life. For better or for worse, she'd decided to go forward.
"Too late now," she quipped when the contraction ended. We all laughed.
Relief and delight flooded through me, and perhaps, through us all. Once her
doubts were heard and then laid to rest by her own hand, Jill proceeded to
push out her baby son without any further hesitation.
Kieran was born on my father's birthday, in the late afternoon, and I will never
forget the fierce, ecstatic look on Jill's face when she lifted him up onto her
abdomen. I cried. Gretchen nodded approvingly and stopped me from
surreptitiously trying to wipe the tears away.
I'm still learning from that first experience with birth, and I'm grateful to the women
who taught me so well on that November day. It was sacred. It was joyful. It was
powerful and real.
Our initiations have such a great impact on our lives. Even the difficult ones can
empower us, if we let them.
Years after Jill's birth, I had the honor of being with Gina and her partner while they
labored and birthed their beautiful daughter. We arrived at the hospital with Gina
already 6-7 centimeters and, although the baby was posterior, things seemed to be
going smoothly.
Many hours later, with no change in dilation and the baby still posterior in spite of our
best efforts to turn her, a shift change brought us a different and very aggressive
doctor. Gina was still going strong and the baby was fine, so I was very startled when
she abruptly agreed to the doctor's suggestion of a Cesarean birth.
Two weeks later, at a postpartum visit, I admitted to Gina that I was feeling terrible
about not having been able to protect her from this difficult doctor. She surprised me
once again, suddenly sharing with me that she had been sexually abused as a child,
and that her parents had never been able to say what I had just said.
Hearkening back to Gretchen and Jill, I sat silently and just compassionately listened.
Gina continued, explaining that this doctor had triggered memories of her past
experiences. His manner was spiteful and he hurt her, unnecessarily and without
apology, each time he did an exam.
So she had decided, in the midst of labor and in the midst of concern for herself and
her baby and her husband in the face of this new threat, that this time she was not
going to let a man hurt her vagina. She said no. She took control. This time, she had
won!
She chose the Cesarean. She chose. Her tone of voice was glowing as she said this,
and she was earnest and quite sincere. She wanted me to understand.
She was empowered by her Cesarean birth. In choosing as she had, she protected
herself-- both her adult self, and the hurt little girl part of her she still carried around
inside. Through her birth experience, difficult as it was, she began to heal from her
past.
She learned that she could protect herself, and she didn't need me-- or anyone else--
to protect her.
Next time, she said, determination and strength resonant in her voice, she was going
to have a homebirth with a midwife. Because now that she'd learned what she
needed to know, she could do that. And she could protect her daughter, too.
The scales fell from my eyes and I did understand. Initiation. I learned another huge
lesson.
I'm eternally grateful to Gina for giving me a whole new perspective on things I only
thought I understood. And I'm so thankful that, years earlier, Gretchen taught me how
to really listen. When the time came, I knew how to hear Gina, and that allowed me to
fully absorb the gift she gave me.
Each of us who is present at a birth-- family member, laboring mom, caregiver, or
doula-- each receives a gift of wisdom, of knowledge. Each of us receives a sacred
initiation. And this is true, no matter how the birth unfolds.
I invite you to remember, to treasure, and to honor this priceless gift.
| Birth Initiates Us All by Eileen Sullivan from the Journal of the Childbirth and Postpartum Professional Association (CAPPA), Summer 2003 |
| Birth Tear by Judy Chicago |
| Promoting Quantum Midwifery and Undisturbed Birth in the Global Village since 2001 |
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The Matrona 2010
Artwork copyright: Dana Leggett; all rights reserved
Website Design and Maintenance: Shekinah Web Services
Artwork copyright: Dana Leggett; all rights reserved
Website Design and Maintenance: Shekinah Web Services
| thematrona (AT) yahoo (DOT) com 828-242-2188 |