The Anthropologist Within

This chapter is from the book I have written called, Stone Age Babies in a Space Age World: Babies and Bonding in the 21st Century. It is pending publication.


By pondering what I have seen within different refugee and immigrant populations over the past 4 decades I have come up with numerous observations. You compare, weigh, grapple with and wonder. One tries to catalogue or list similar groupings of facts. Tick all the boxes. Is there indeed any order here at all? What might be a consistent thread? What can we learn from this? What might I have missed? Do I need to revisit a certain point in time to clarify something … anything? The questions never end. I doubt they ever will.

To listen and learn, to be immersed and become a simple observer of a unique situation among a unique people takes great patience. To go into research with absolutely no proposed hypotheses or even possible conclusions frees one to see what otherwise might not be noticed. By scrolling through all the constructs learned in numerous studies and attempt to apply this particular observation to its assigned ‘box’ misses the point completely. Exactly what should we know/have before delving into the unknown? I believe nothing; curiosity perhaps, but nothing else.

This is why Jane Goodall was able to make the discoveries that she did, and exactly why Dr. Leaky wanted her and not a trained scientist. Jean Liedloff, too, was unencumbered with facts and stores of knowledge by which to assess her findings. I am sure someone somewhere has studied how we learn and what we learn if we have already learned too much previously. Does that alone limit our openness to something new? Can the mind only store so much or is it capable of retaining infinite or unlimited amounts of information? These and other answers elude me. All I know is what I continue to see and ponder.

“Never once in my life did I ask God for success or wisdom or power or fame. I asked for wonder, and he gave it to me.” ~ Abraham Joshua Heschel

At a lecture that I heard in 2011 we were labeled as an ‘unreasonable people’ -- the gathered alumni of a grant program--“who would not take NO! for an answer” but would pursue our individual quests to the end. There’s no money to finish this research? No problem, we will find a way. So it has been with this project on bonding. There is something very wrong here. That has been clear for a very long time. But what is it? Is it getting better or worse? Who exactly does it impact? When did it start? Is it still going on? Will it end? Can we do anything about it? Does it even need fixing? Is it better left untouched? How would we go about that? What other options might be out there? What are others doing about it? Will any of these ‘fixes’ actually work? Will they work for everyone? Or only some people? If it is successful, then how did it work? For whom did it work? And finally, in the end, what would I propose for the future?

So began what has woven together a lifetime of extraordinary experiences. I am grateful for each one. I would not have any taken away, as hard as some lessons have been. Perhaps I will spend my old age with more questions than I can answer in one lifetime. Maybe I will need to request further lifetimes to understand it all, or perhaps I will be allowed to access the Source of All Knowledge and ask to be granted my answers in one nanosecond of Eternity.

Ethnology (from the Greek is the branch of anthropology that compares and analyzes the characteristics of different peoples and the relationship between them. Compared to ethnography, the study of single groups through direct contact with the culture, ethnology takes the research that ethnographers have compiled and then compares and contrasts different cultures.

The term ethnologia (ethnology) is credited to Adam Franz Kollar (1718-1783) who used and defined it in his Historiae ivrisqve pvblici Regni Vngariae amoenitates published in Vienna in 1783 as: “the science of nations and peoples, or, that study of learned men in which they inquire into the origins, languages, customs, and institutions of various nations, and finally into the fatherland and ancient seats, in order to be able better to judge the nations and peoples in their own times.”

One thing I have often wondered about is where exactly did my dear Hmong friends originally come from? There is some speculation that somewhere in Upper Mongolia over 500 years ago some of their clans separated, some moving southward and away from their Hun enemies and others crossing over the then-frozen Bearing Straight and south into the Northwest Territories where the now-called Inuit peoples are. Their features couldn’t look more identical. Their languages though, bear few resemblances however hard I have tried to compare them. What is very surprising however is that the custom of the family bed and even the exact order of persons in bed is identical in the two cultures, even to this day. I wrote about my own experience in the story/chapter called “Primitive Bonding” at this blog under the June listings. Then recently while reading an account* written in 1914 by an ethnologist on the Stefansson expedition, 1913 – 1916, to the Coronation Gulf region on the Arctic coast to study the then-called ‘Eskimos’ he diagrammed the same family bed when he was expected to sleep in their igloo upon his first night with them. Perhaps other cultures have similarly evolved to the same arrangement for convenience’s sake, but these little discoveries only confirm some of my own theories.

Again my curiosity was piqued upon the arrival of Somali refugees in the U.S. over the past several years, the majority settling in Minnesota; so completely different in so very many ways from my Hmong friends that I had gotten to know intimately, even fostering 2 Hmong teens over the years along with our own 5 children. Of course I began observing the Somali families and comparing them to the Hmong and their own early assimilation and problems 30 years ago, my only context in which to ‘box’ what I was seeing. Many things were the same.

The old people in both cultures have very little need to learn to read, write or speak English well. They appear to be useful only for babysitting when the rest of the population goes to work and school, or when their married children are too busy to shop and cook. The elder Somalis hold court daily in the parks and myriad coffee shops dotting Minneapolis, gathering from sun-up to sun-down to solve the world’s problems. English school is another chance to gather (and is free) and often turns into a social event where learning English is shelved along with any other agendas that us “Whites” as we are referred to, may have worked hours to prepare. Most gatherings are quite jolly, though I happened upon a very sober group one night on my way home in my neighborhood from the train station recently. I stopped and asked what was happening. Sadly, the news that was travelling through the Somali telegraph system (word of mouth) was that a 10 month old baby fell from one of the windows in the 28-floor housing project buildings. The place doesn’t have air conditioning and the ‘cages’ as the tenants refer to them, had become stifling in the 90+ degree heat. One family had moved their beds by the one window and the kids had been bouncing on the beds when the baby bounced against the screen and fell out. There are also shootings and drunken stabbings almost weekly in the area. One local pastor raised a peace pole in the neighborhood last year after one such murder, inviting the entire African community to come together, meet one another and have an ethnic meal together.

I often wonder what good, if any, is gained by befriending and living in close proximity to marginalized people. Much, I have concluded. It often takes me back to 1971 when I lived with Mother Teresa in New York City when she founded the first U.S. house of the Missionaries of Charity of Calcutta. A quote that she hung in one of her children’s homes in India reads,

People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered;

Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;

Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies;

Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you;

Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight;

Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous;

Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;

Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough;

Give the world the best you've got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God;

It was never between you and them anyway. ~ Kent M. Keith


Another one of her pithy bits of wisdom:

“Every time you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing.”
~ Mother Teresa

So I live here. I work here and visit ‘the cages’ regularly. I shop at the little family groceries. I grab an iced coffee at the Afrik Market next to Have a Happy Day Jewelry store while I wait at the bus stop. I practice my Korean on any poor elderly passerby with straight jet black hair. There is a senior daycare center for Koreans in this neighborhood, too. I recently decided to begin frequenting the local food shelf to ask about picking up some staples for a friend expecting her 6th baby – a complicated situation. The morning at the food shelf is an adventure in itself. I figure that I will go early to procure the necessary number when they open at 9 a.m. There are 300 people ahead of me and it isn’t 9:00 yet! We sit on chairs placed around the perimeter of a gymnasium. I look around me, marveling at all the colors – of the people as well as the array of clothing. There are the Somali women in the solid color hijab head covering which flows down to the elbows in a cape fashion. Underneath that is a colorful caftan, often cotton African batik fabric. Under that is a slip with at least 4 inches of lace at the hem. Some of the older women wear a black caftan with long sleeves covering the wrists. Some of the very most observant also attach a veil right below the eyes, pinned in place above the ears on the hood of the hijab. I commented to a Somali friend last year that in our 90-plus degree weather that must feel absolutely sweltering. His comment was simply, “Well, hell is hotter.” I stopped, aghast at the suggestion. “So, is she somehow doing penance to avoid divine judgment?” He said he thought it was something like that.

Then there are the Ethiopian women in their even more colorful caftans with clashing patterned scarves and shawls, sometimes covered with sequins and glitter. Sandals studded with plastic jewels add to the sparkle of their outfits. There are men, too, some that I know have invalid wives at home. The Africans make up over 90% of the people in the gym this morning. I count perhaps 4 people I would guess are American; two Black women in shorts fanning themselves with newspapers, a man I recognize from the local bar where I pick up surplus organic veggies on Saturdays, and me. The remaining 9 % of the crowd today are Asian. I ask a woman near me if she is Korean. No, dear, we are all Vietnamese she says as she gestures to the circle of people around her chair. More people come in and sit on the empty chairs to my right. One by one people are waved into an office to register for the give-away food box today and leave with a number printed on a blue card. The doors will again open later today for all the lucky card holders.

Every few minutes, as 6 or more chairs become free as people leave, the rest of us get up as if in a giant game of musical chairs without the music and move to the left and again sit down and fill the chairs in line for waiting. I turn to the Asian woman who has now filled the chair to my left and say hello in Korean. I have been studying on my own for over 12 years now, trying to master yet another language while hopefully staving off our family’s possible propensity for early onset Alzheimer’s. She responds with a laugh, and answers, An-yah-ha say-yo! Hello to you! I continue: “I am so glad to meet you! My name is Stephanie: mahn-na-sah pung-kap SOOM-nee-dah! Suh-TEF-ah-nee ir-rah-go hay-yo.”

So, again today I sit patiently with over 300 other folks, watching, looking, wondering. Wondering what I might learn today. Perhaps I will be granted another piece of the puzzle. Perhaps I will fall asleep tonight with more questions than when I first awoke.

*The People of the Twilight by Diamond Jenness, 1928, The Macmillian Company, Chicago.

Stay tuned for my next books, PUSH! The Sequel: 37 more true stories from midwives and doulas and Stone Age Babies in a Space Age World: Babies and Bonding in the 21st Century.

Doulas and the Tooth Fairy

Or

Why Can’t All Babies Be Welcomed Like This?

Renya was expecting her first baby, and she and Chris weren’t sure yet what planet they have landed on. Baby showers, advice from aunts and uncles they haven’t spoken to in years, doctor appointments, urine samples, GBS testing, no more smoking, low-sugar diets, ultrasounds, no more Coca Cola, and definitely no joints, alcohol, or all-night parties. And when did Chris’ mom start hanging out at Baby Gap stores, bringing home all sorts of miniature sports gear? They are left wondering when they stopped being kids fooling around with a little of everything that kids fool around with, at least all the ones they’ve ever known, to becoming Parents-To-Be. This is scary. This is very different. There are a whole lot of “you shoulds” and “you shouldn’ts” that go along with all this. And what is a doula anyway?

In the middle of all this confusion they get a call from me. “Hi. I am your doula.”

“Wassup?”

“Your DOO-la.” I should have said, “Your fairy godmother,” or “The tooth fairy” and they would have understood a bit more, perhaps.

“Yo.”

“I would like to make an appointment to get together and explain a bit about what we do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How ‘bout next Thursday afternoon after your regular clinic appointment?”

I get a grunt that I take for a “Yes.”

“Good. See you then.”

Grunt.

The waiting room looks and sounds more like the waiting room at the tuberculosis sanatorium I once visited in the early 1960s. I guess that the same germs are present here, too, as prolifically as well. People hacking, sneezing, and spewing in all directions; babies screaming, teenagers smoking in huddles by the entrance, a smattering of obviously homeless people lining up at the free coffee pot, and an argument between a clearly drunk client and the receptionist.

The referral I received didn’t tell me too much except that Renya is Native American, has had a healthy pregnancy, and plans to breastfeed. So far so good. There are a few women in the waiting room that could be pregnant. No one is waving me over or anything so I finally asked a nurse if she could check if my client was already in an exam room and it turned out that that is exactly where they were.

At first I didn’t see Renya. All I saw was this gigantic African American man. Almost seven feet tall (6’ 8” to be exact) at 425 pounds, dread locks, cargo shorts and team jersey T-shirt, with ear plugs connected to something in his pocket. When I ask he tells me his shoes are 18EEEE. The only time I ever saw bigger shoes was when I recently toured the Red Wing Shoe Factory Museum in Red Wing, Minnesota with my grandson. They had the original pair of shoes they had made for the biggest man in the U.S., Igor Vovkovinskiy, who wore a size 23EEEEE when he was 16 years old. All I could think of was: “Wow! The BFG!” Chris turned out to be the BFG of Minneapolis. Our kids had loved Roald Dahl's The BFG The Big Friendly Giant book, and I was meeting the man himself!

Renya actually was in the room. Half his height or girth, she was very pregnant which was accentuated by a bright striped sundress. She wasn’t due for another month but looked quite ready to me. I was glad I’d have time to get to know them. We started out with my doula movie, a short documentary made here in Minnesota. Afterwards I asked if they had any questions. Chris actually had a whole list he had been saving up. They were all very insightful, too. I was amazed at how much he already knew about birth and babies. Definitely more than most first-time dads. He was no slouch; he was determined to be a great dad.

At our next appointment we covered the childbirth ed breastfeeding class. They weren’t able to make it for the one at their hospital, so we piggy-backed onto her regular clinic appointment once again and used the clinic’s room and DVD player. Half way through the two Why-To and How-To Breastfeeding videos Chris’s phone rang. He answered it as I put the film on pause. Before I knew what was happening, he yelled into the phone one giant: “DAMN!” and ran out of the room ducking through the doorway to finish the call. He returned a few minutes later to tell us that his brother had just been shot in the hip at close range in Chicago and was being wheeled into surgery at that moment. I was stunned. Then they speculated about what kind of gun it could have been. I gathered that they were hoping it wasn’t a .22 rifle which they explained to me could have shot him in the hip, with the bullet ricocheting upward, further damaging other areas and organs, with the possibility of being fatal. I didn’t know what to think. This was so awful. I began to pack up the video then, but Chris said we should finish it up. I told him we could do it next time but he insisted, so we watched the rest of the video, while they continued to wonder what their brother’s chances of survival could be. I marveled that they acted like this happened every day. Were their lives so precarious? Did they live with this kind of violent drama on a daily basis? I hugged them both goodbye when their taxi came, though I had to go up on tippy-toe and Chris had to bend way down to reach my 5’ 4” height for my hug, assuring Chris I would be praying for his brother.

The next day I got a text from Renya inviting me to her baby shower the following Sunday. I have grappled with this over time. Should I attend my clients’ baby parties or should I maintain a strictly professional relationship with them? I decided to simply see, case by case, what felt right to do, and Renya and Chris both added that they really hoped I could make it, so I seriously considered going to this one. Afterwards, I realized that I had just been to a once-in-a-lifetime event. Whatever told me I should go was right, this time at least.

The shower started out like any other baby shower I have been to with silly games and fruit punch, the house draped in pink crepe paper streamers and It’s A Girl! balloons. Renya was wearing a sash over one shoulder and draped over her beautiful belly that said, “Mother-to-Be.” A tiny flannel diaper with a miniature clothes pin attached to it was pinned to each guest as we came in with instructions not to open either up until told to do so.

I looked into my punch as I sat down with the other ladies and then did a double-take. There was a tiny plastic pink baby frozen into an ice cube bobbing around in my cup. Now this was a new one for me. The MC of the afternoon announced the rules of the first game: The lady with the first baby to come out of the ice cube all on its own without any help has to stand up and shout, “My water broke!” and will get a prize. Groan. What am I in for? I wondered.

The diaper was explained next. You will be told when all the guests have arrived what to do with it. As far as the tiny clothes pin, if you see anyone crossing their legs throughout the party, you can take their clothes pin and add it to yours on your little diaper and the lady with the most clothes pins at the end of the afternoon will win a prize.

I wandered around the house, refilling my punch, mingling with all the other ladies, meeting Chris’s mom and Renya’s Dad and uncles who were busy grilling an amazing lunch out in the garage. The only clue I had so far that Renya’s family were interested in their roots and Native tradition was that she had mentioned some of the names they were considering for their baby girl and the Indian meanings for them. And it seemed to me that a lot of the guests had elaborate medallion and intricate, beautiful feather tattoos with symbols I didn’t recognize. 

Several people checked on me periodically, asking if I had enough to eat and drink and was I having a good time. The food was spectacular: spicy steak tortillas, red rice, refried beans, and other very amazing dishes. I was too full in the end to eat the cake. Everything was so good.

Then the MC stood up and asked everyone to look inside the little diaper that they had received at the beginning of the party. The one with poop (mustard, actually) would win the grand prize. No one in the room had one that had mustard poop in it. The MC finally announced that it must have been with the friend who came earlier to drop off a gift but wasn’t able to stay the whole time and had left already.

The next game was explained to us: The MC would walk around the circle with a roll of toilet paper from which you had to unwind as much as you thought would be the equivalent of Renya’s bump or waist line. The MC already knew the correct measurement. We all did it and then our MC measured each one until someone had the exact length. Renya’s grandmother got the prize for this one. I wasn’t anywhere close.

Finally it was time to open the gifts. People had been very generous here, too. Renya and Chris’s baby could not possibly wear all the beautiful things she got. Her grandma, this baby’s great-grandma (bisabuela in Aztec) figured out that this baby would have to wear most items only once to make the rounds of all the stuff within the first year, by which time she would have outgrown every single one of them. Little did we know she would actually be too big at birth and only be able to wear the clothes that were intended for ten-pound, six month old babies and bigger.

At the party Chris sat down next to me at one point to fill me in on how his brother in Chicago was doing. It was a sawed-off .22 rifle as they had feared, but because it was discharged at close range it went straight through his hip and out the other side, sparing any further damage. He was quite relieved that his brother would be OK. This time.

Then the dancers arrived and we were all ushered out to the expansive back yard. About eight Native dancers, all decked out in exquisite regalia formed two lines and Renya was escorted and deposited into a central lawn chair. These dancers were not dressed in “costumes” as some of us less informed gringos might imagine. Native or First Nation people’s original dress is called “regalia” and expresses their deepest connections to the past generations.

A drummer was stationed to Renaya’s left, along with the drummer’s little son who could not have been more than three years old, who had an exact replica of his daddy’s large drum. With a nod from his dad, the drumming began. The dancers, too, were accompanied by two child dancers who followed the intricate steps of their parents as best they could and didn’t seem to be embarrassed when they couldn’t keep up but just forged ahead. Incense was lit and joined the dance until it was presented to Renya where she sat and left on the ground before her. At intervals the drumming changed to a different rhythm and a new dance began. It was stunning. Feathered headdresses waving with the dancers, rattles tied on the dancers’ ankles shaking with the beating of the drums, twirling, stamping, and leaping. I had never seen anything like it. Why can’t all babies be welcomed like this? I thought to myself.

Less than a week later Chris called to tell me they are on their way to the hospital. It was a false alarm. We had two others that week, which is fine with me. I would rather be there to tell them not to be discouraged, that this is perfectly normal, especially with a first baby, and assured them that they can call me again any time. The next day I received a cryptic text: “We r guna go 2 hosp.” That turned out to be another false alarm. Finally when they called the third time we realized it was the real thing. The contractions were pretty intense and building. The nurse announced that Renya was three centimeters and already 100% effaced, so we weren’t going anywhere this time. High fives all around. YES! Let’s do this!

By eight centimeters, Renya had changed her mind and asked if we couldn’t postpone this for another date. I said, “No, that isn’t happening. Your baby had gotten the official eviction notice. The more you walk and stay up on the birth ball, the sooner you will be holding her in your arms. You can do this, sweetheart.” I told her that this labor reminded me of the dancing at her baby shower. If she could imagine the drumming, that labor is actually very similar: the intense beat rising and falling, growing stronger and receding. The dancers coming closer with each new dance until she is presented with the incense and their prayers for this next journey we are now on.

Ten centimeters and the urge to push. After an hour of pushing, the midwives become concerned. Baby has not moved down at all. She should be at least halfway down the birth canal by now. The waters break and they are clear; the monitors tell them that their baby is still doing OK, too, all good signs, but this labor is going on so long now that they are concerned that her uterus might tucker out and cause too much bleeding eventually. Another hour goes by and the midwives consult with the OB doctor on that night who comes to talk to Chris and Renya about her concerns and they agree to a C-section. I know they are relieved and I don’t want to second guess their birth team. This baby really might be too big for her to birth vaginally. I am not the midwife this time, and I haven’t felt in there. I assure Renya that she has done everything possible and could not have worked harder, and my guess is that we will probably know what all was really going on inside once we see her baby. Which is exactly what happens. Though the ultra sounds told us it was a big baby, probably around nine pounds, she turns out to be closer to 11—Yes, as in pounds. And she even looks like her daddy who is on cloud nine by now as he literally dances her from the warmer back to her mommy at the head of the OR table.

I come back the next day and to find a ravenous baby girl nursing non-stop during my whole visit. Her sugars are normal so Renya can stop worrying about that and just enjoy their beautiful baby girl. They have already fallen in love with her. So have I. Her name is Xochaitl, a Native name pronounced, SO-chee. Again I think, Why can’t all babies be welcomed like this one?

“No one who has ever brought up a child can doubt for a moment that love is literally the life-giving fluid of human existence.” ~ Smiley Blanton

STAY TUNED FOR MORE CHAPTERS FROM THE NEXT BOOK: 

PUSH! THE SEQUEL

A chapter from the next book: Раиса Рождение - Raïssa’s Birth

I received a call very early one morning from one of the midwives that I had occasionally worked with. She asked if I was still doing postpartum jobs and I said that yes, absolutely I am. She went on to explain the situation she was in. One of her clients had delivered the day before and was ready to discharge from the hospital but was having some pretty hard issues to deal with and she had recommended that they hire a postpartum doula to help at home while they resolve what was going on.

She explained that Raïssa had been adopted from Russia as a toddler. Her adoptive parents lived nearby in Minnesota but were older and couldn’t move in to help her because of their own health problems. Apparently while she was little, sometime before she the adoption, she had been treated with what they figure was too large of a dose of antibiotics for a minor complaint. An entire course of meds at the elevated levels had affected the nerve endings in her mucus tissues, making them hypersensitive and painful. As an adult it made intercourse virtually impossible, without first numbing the area with xylocaine jelly. At times even that was not effective enough.

When they married Raïssa and Serge agreed that they would find a way that they were both happy with. Both graduate students at the University of Minnesota, they were looking at three to four more years of research and study before graduating. They had agreed to talk about starting a family after that, so when Raïssa discovered she was pregnant, it changed all their plans. Though she continued going to school right up to the end of her ninth month, she decided to take six months off to be with their baby at home after the birth. She could always make up the classes later, but babies just don’t stay little forever.

She was extremely suspicious of any medications since that one course of antibiotics had wrecked such havoc with her system so long ago, so when they started talking about birth with their midwife, Raïssa was determined to have her baby naturally, no matter how painful that might prove to be.

Some facts about vulvodynia:

Recent studies place the occurrence of vulvodynia somewhere between 9.2 % - 16% of women in the U.S. The term is also used to refer to vestibulitis or Vulvar Vestibulitis Syndrome (VVS), which is an inflammation of the vestibule, or opening into the vagina and the tissues immediately around the vaginal opening. This condition is sometimes also called 'vestibular adenitis'. Often the edges of the inner vaginal lips are very sensitive and the pain so severe that it makes walking difficult. Some cases of vulvodynia (pronounced vul-vo-DY-nia) may be due to compression or disease of the pudendal nerve, one of the main nerves that relays sensation to and from the genitals. Symptoms can range in severity from mild to severe. Burning, itching and pain are experienced in the skin of the vaginal entryway and sometimes the labia or clitoris.

Dr. St. Amand, MD, specializing in fibromyalgia and author of What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Fibromyalgia believes that all women with chronic vulvodynia have a form of fibromyalgia. He discovered that at least 11% of his female patients with fibromyalgia also have vulvodynia (painful genitals). The guaifenesin therapy for chronic fatigue enhances oxalate crystal excretion which has been shown to be beneficial in vulvodynia also. Reducing the amount of oxalate in your diet may be helpful. Things to avoid include tea, spinach, beer, berry juices, baked beans in tomato sauce, peanuts, peanut butter creams, pecans, soybean curd, Concord grapes. In addition, do not take more than 250 mg of vitamin C per day as it may contribute to oxalate formation. Restrict or limit milk or dairy products to reduce the amount of calcium oxalate in the body. Calcium citrate may prescribed to neutralize high blood or urine levels of oxalate.

Soothing relief may be obtained by applying warm soaked tea bags to the area. This can be done by placing the tea bags on menstrual pads to hold them in place or you can take a sitz bath in which tea bags have been soaked. To relieve pressure on thevulvar area when sitting you may use a pressure relief cushion, sometimes called a “donut” pillow. Biofeedback and pelvic muscle exercises involving relaxation and muscle strengthening may be helpful. Surgical treatment may include removal of painful areas such as the vulvar (Bartholin's) glands, decompression surgery of the pudendal nerve to free the nerve and its branches (from compressions due to blood vessels and veins, damaged tissue, and ligamental grip), and/or laser therapy to destroy underlying vulvar blood vessels.

            Their midwife was ecstatic that the birth went so well, but she became concerned, afterwards when most moms feel like they could tackle the world, Raïssa’s pain level continued to go up, instead of down. They had tried everything they could think of including herbal baths, sizt baths, heat, ice, lidocaine injections, and xylocaine jelly applications, but nothing worked as the pain level continued to escalate. Raïssa finally agreed to try non-prescription muscle relaxants which took enough of an edge off the pain to let her sleep for an hour or so at a time, but then the pain came roaring back. Her midwife wanted her to return home where she hoped that her husband could support her and that I could somehow re-introduce her baby back into the picture.

            The ride home alone was torture. I started the tub as soon as we got there. It seemed to give Raïssa the most relief, though she couldn’t stay in the tub forever. I brewed up a gallon of our own postpartum bath herbs in a large soup pot to add to the water. It contained lavender comfrey, rose petals, calendula, plantain, yarrow, uva ursi, and sheperd’s purse. Other blends on the market also include sea salt, peppermint or red raspberry leaves and other ingredients. It is safe for babies, too, so often that will be baby’s first bath with mom even before they leave the birthing center to go home. I like to put the herbs in a large jelly bag before I brew them and then hang the bag over the pot to finish draining before I pour it in. I also poured a few tablespoons of the tea onto maternity size sanitary pads and put each one into its own new Ziplock freezer bag to apply during the night.

            Before Raïssa got out of the tub an hour later I asked if I could come into the bathroom. I scrubbed her arms and legs and back, and then massaged over each part again with warm olive oil. Then I helped her out and pat her dry. She still could not bend or walk without pain. I got her into bed and surrounded her with pillows, hoping to work on relaxing first. Then we got Baby arranged next to her where he could nurse. At least that didn’t hurt her. When he stopped sucking and fell asleep I moved him to a place I had made for him at the head of the bed so he was still nearby, but she could move if she needed to.

            I picked up around the bedroom and noted the time. I wasn’t going to let her sleep all night in one position, that wouldn’t help anyone. I suggested she try the bathroom about an hour later. She did not want to get up but I explained that she needed her bladder empty to help her uterus to continue to contract. She slowly got up. I tried to talk her through each step and reminded her to breathe. She was holding her breath with each step, anticipating the pain and barely moving anything, including her arms. Her shoulders were contracted, frozen, along with her arms and neck. I had her just stand by the bed and suggested we relax there before going any further. I took one hand and slowly massaged it while I talked to her: “Relax your jaw first. Good, that’s it… now your shoulders… yes, more….” Then we breathed slowly for a couple of minutes. Next I had her do a few Tai Chi arm sweeps. Now we could walk to the bathroom. I had made up another gallon of my postpartum brew and filled a pitcher with it for her to pour over herself as she peed. It worked wonderfully, minimizing the pain.

            During the night I helped her arrange herself and Damian so he could nurse. Then I would change and burb him, get her to the bathroom once more and help her back to bed. Serge manned the kitchen bringing in juices and snacks whenever Raïssa was awake. 
            On day two their midwife stopped by to see how everything was going. She felt that Damian seemed slightly jaundiced and suggested waking him up every two to three hours to nurse which would help clear out his liver and resolve the problem. She also suggested putting him near a sunny window throughout the day, preferably without any clothes on if the house was warm enough. Before she left she told me she thought Raïssa should try walking around and insisted that she not stay in bed all day, maybe getting up in a chair with the donut pillow in the living room for a while.

            Before breakfast I drew another bath with herbs for her. While she was in the bath, Serge spent time with Damian while I made us pancakes for breakfast. Later in the day her sister came by. She was amazing, helping Raïssa walk around the house, then washing her hair for her, doing laundry and changing the sheets. I think I managed to talk her into consider becoming a doula.

            We had a few setbacks as Raïssa tried to stop the medications she had finally agreed to back on day one, but we gained back that ground and more over the next few days. Our midwife called in to touch base once a day. When she called later in the day on day three I told her Raïssa was doing great. I said we were doing jumping jacks now! (We weren’t.) Her sister and I continued using massage and guided breathing before, during and after Raïssa got out of bed or transitioned from the chair. I never felt at any time that she was over-reacting or playing the drama queen. I was glad I could help her that first week. She is really one amazing mama!

  

 "Relax, nothing is under control" ~ Adi Da Samraj


Stay tuned for more chapters from the next book!

Even MORE chapters from the next book PUSH! The Sequel

It Wasn’t Supposed to Be This Way!

                                                                   Doula

We dance when all the world is asleep

Down long corridors,

Hallways lit by moonlight.

The full moon our only witness

To this soundless dance.

The waves* the metronome we dance to,

Calling him to come

To be with us here.

We love you so

Come dance with us little one.

Come see moon and stars

Waiting, too

Silently waiting

For this Night of nights

This Night chosen from all eternity for your birth.

for Wyatt, November 4, 2012 written the day after his birth. - ss

It started around 6 p.m. on an otherwise quiet Sunday afternoon. I didn’t have anyone due for a whole month, so when my cell phone went off, I didn’t think it had anything to do with any of my clients. It was my supervisor, Mary. A family from North Carolina was up here for a funeral and she had gone into labor, though she wasn’t due for almost four more weeks. It was clear that this baby had other ideas, however, and the mom had gone online to try to find a doula, or a midwife or someone to help her and give her some choices as far as hospitals in the area or birthing centers. I was so excited that Mary had called me. She'd had dozens of others she could have gotten to jump in.

I got the information from Mary and called mom. Between pretty heavy-duty rushes Yvette explained what she had hoped for this birth. She had done her homework: She knew she wanted to have her first baby as naturally as possible and was in great shape to do that. Her father had died unexpectedly, though he was only in his early 50s, so Yvette and Kojo had driven up from North Carolina to support her mom who lived outside of Minneapolis.

I listened and then offered a plan. The closest hospital to them did have a very friendly midwifery group and I had only had good experiences there with their nurses. I told her that I could come to her mom’s house and hang out with them until it was time to go to the hospital. Her rushes were only about every 10 minutes, but enough to take her breath away. I said that she could certainly go to the hospital to be assessed but would most likely be sent home again if she had not begun dilating. I suggested that she at least call the hospital and see if they would let her register over the phone and alert them that she might be coming in tonight. She agreed with this plan and ended our conversation by saying, “It wasn’t supposed to be this way! I am so sorry.” I assured her that she shouldn’t be sorry, that I was honored to be asked to help them, and that we would be seeing her baby very soon. Then she added, “I am just glad this is all working out, finding you and all.” The last thing she needs is to have to get to know someone during the next few hours that she has never met before who will be sharing one of her most intimate experiences with, in a city she doesn’t even know.

During the past year, different hospitals in the Twin Cities have been experimenting with different ways of employing doulas. Some work better than others, but I think we are all trying to be more available to women, no matter what their circumstances. One hospital has a pool of doulas on call, each for a minimum of 12 hours per month. It is a large public hospital with a very diverse client base. They see everything from homeless women with no prior prenatal care, to immigrant women who don’t speak English, to women from the local prison. So, when you sign up for your 12 hours a month or more, you are on-call, and need to respond immediately should they identify a woman in labor who asks for a doula or have offered that to her. You are paid a minimum amount for the hours you are on-call whether you work or not. You are paid more when you do work, though.

Another hospital works with doulas who are introduced to moms during their prenatal clinic visits, so, though you cannot ask for a particular doula, you have at least met most of them by the time you deliver and aren’t completely unfamiliar. Many women hire doulas early in their pregnancy so that they really know each other well by the time they reach 40 weeks. Many doulas work with two or three other doulas in a group so that they can cover and back each other up should one get more calls than expected at any one time. I usually don’t take so many clients per month that I have to call for backup, though I have needed one only once in the past six months. I have committed to each mom that I am with and try to avoid ever having to “dump” someone totally new on them without warning. Early on in our relationship I always make sure to mention the possibility that we support each other and can ask other doulas to jump in for us during particularly busy seasons. If there is any reason to think that I might have two clients who are due close to each other, then I try to introduce them to my backup lady(ies) at least once while she is visiting the clinic. Where I work we ask moms to come for a minimum of four visits before their guess or due dates. That way we can suggest childbirth classes and have plenty of time to get to know them and prepare them for labor and delivery, especially if this is their first baby.

I got to Yvette’s mom’s house about eight o’clock. They had just finished eating so I sat down with them and got to know them over coffee and dessert. They knew they were having a boy and still couldn’t believe that babies could make one’s life so exciting. I simply said, “Well, sweetheart, welcome to parenthood.” Yvette’s mom nodded knowingly.

Yvette was Sonja’s last baby. Yvette’s husband was a merchant marine stationed on the East Coast. When her dad died suddenly of heart failure, the family rallied from all over the U.S. The funeral was over and most of the guests had returned to their homes across the country when Mary called me to have me step in as their doula. Yvette and Kojo decided to spend a few extra days with her mom to support her before leaving her all alone here in Minnesota. Yvette had preregistered at the hospital during the evening and was told to come in if her water broke or the rushes started coming around five minutes apart. I was glad they didn’t insist on her coming in right away because I knew that this was really early labor which, with a first baby, could go on for another day or more. If anything didn’t look right, I knew I could suggest we go into the hospital, but for now it was all good.

Yvette was sure things were progressing, but when the rushes seemed to space out even more I suggested they try to sleep, or just rest. Like most first-timers, they think if they keep walking until they are exhausted, it will somehow “turn it on,” though the opposite can be true. I explained that, like a car, if you run out of fuel—rest and food—your body will send out signals that it is too tired to perform on demand. It is better to rest and keep eating in early labor and then have the energy for when things do really pick up. Real labor will not somehow vanish if the time has come. Nothing can stop it then.

For the next eight hours we tried breathing together, Yvette bounced on a birth ball for a while—always a good way to help baby move down—and I suggested a hot shower. As she was stepping out of the shower we all heard a pop! It was her bag of water. We gave high-fives all around. Now we were in business. The rushes picked up quite a bit then, which they often do. I tried breathing with Yvette and reminding her that she was doing so well, that this is the longest part of labor, becoming fully dilated, and that if she was this relaxed for the rest of her labor she would do just fine.

When we got to the hospital, we realized we were the only people on the maternity floor. It was so quiet, perfect actually. We checked in and were given a beautifully decorated birthing suite. Yvette relaxed at this point. It wasn’t going to be so terrible not being back home to have her baby. We got along just fine, her mother was happy with the arrangements too, and we had the place to ourselves, literally.

So we rested, walked, checked out the birthing tub, and had her bloodwork drawn while Kojo drove around the neighborhood looking for a grocery store to get some snacks. He came back a little while later with bags of organic juices and snacks for all of us. We settled in, turned on a movie and all dozed for the next couple of hours. Toward morning the nurse announced that Yvette was almost nine centimeters! She was really amazing, so relaxed and just going with whatever she had to do. She could tell me what felt ok, what massage did or didn’t help, what she wanted to try next. Though she didn’t have an urge to push when she reached ten centimeters, the midwife suggested a few little nudges. The baby had been quite high up in her pelvis, but the midwife reassured Yvette that he would start moving down. But he didn’t.

She pushed while squatting, while on her hands and knees, while holding her knees, and while standing. After pushing for almost three hours, she asked for an epidural. In the mean time the midwife had consulted with the doctor on call and explained what her own concerns were. Yvette asked me what she could do and I answered that she certainly had tried everything and I wasn’t really sure what was going on. As a doula I can’t do pelvic exams (which as a midwife I had and would have now) which might tell us how the baby’s head was positioned, but I was pretty sure the midwife would have said something if she had a concern.

At this point, Sonja suggest we pray, good Baptist granny that she is. I was fine with this, though I have never suggested this for others. So we prayed for baby to come, that everything would be OK, that the midwife and the doctor would know what is best. After that Yvette sat up and announced that she was done. She said her baby hadn’t move at all, that this wasn’t working and that she was finished trying it this way. The doctor came in and suggested a C-section, which Yvette agree to. But Sonja and Kojo were decidedly not OK with this and began to loudly argue about what they should do. Yvette said she had already decided. They both begged her to try a little while longer and she answered that it simply was not going to work this way. Then Sonja got them to stop arguing and said, “Well, let’s ask Stephanie what we should do.” I was glad she trusted my judgment by then, but I couldn’t agree that I knew what was best for Yvette and I said so.

“Actually, I trust Yvette’s gut feeling on this one. She knows better than any of us what is going on.” I could tell Sonja was hoping I was going to be on her side, but I knew Yvette’s decision was final. I could tell that she meant it. I could not tell what was wrong or what might help, but I had to honor her decision.

While she was prepped for surgery and then taken to the operating room for the epidural, Kojo and I put on our scrubs and got ready to go. We waited and waited and began to wonder what the delay was about. Finally a nurse came down and said that they’d run into some complications with the epidural and that the doctor was using a general anesthesia instead, which I knew would automatically put the kibosh on any of us going into the delivery room.

We changed back into our clothes and waited some more. Then, all of sudden, a nurse came down to our room pushing Baby in his crib. He was fat! We only realized then that he was over nine pounds. And then I noticed a bump on his head. It was bruised and raised, just over his left ear—a classic hematoma; even is his swaddling, I could see his head tilted to the right so that his right ear was almost touching his right shoulder. I wondered to myself how long he had been in that position in utero—could it be days or even weeks? No wonder he wasn’t moving down. The overall circumference of the presenting part of his head was too big to descend, obviously. Maybe if we had known this earlier, he could have been re-adjusted, either with external version methods or with certain positions like lunges during labor, though we had tried that, I now remembered. We'd done lunges, even on the stairs, which should have helped. Too bad we didn’t have time to see the “spinning baby lady” here in Minneapolis before this birth, who has perfected the art. I did give Kojo the name and number of another amazing woman, a pediatric cranial-sacral therapist in Minneapolis who I suggested could work with their baby and help strengthen his neck and any other mal-positioning that might still be going on. Even when we got him to nurse in the recovery room, he preferred Yvette’s left breast and wouldn’t latch well on her right side, further convincing me that he did have something going on on that side.

I went back to visit the next day. Yvette was happy that it was over. She was feeling quite well already and was enjoying getting to know Wyatt, who was named after the grandpa who had so looked forward to meeting him. Wyatt was beautiful. It was important for her to talk about what had happened and why certain interventions were used. It can be difficult to process when a birth appears to have a mind of its own. By going over the chain of events, a new mom can work through her feelings—possibly disappointment or a feeling of failure—though I could assure Yvette she did absolutely everything she could have. We don’t always have the control over our births that we wish we had.

Even though Yvette and Kojo came up to Minnesota for a sad occasion, it turned into an amazing time, complete with a new little life. Sonja could also celebrate her first grandchild. Birth and death seem to be connected somehow; they were this time, at least.

I heard from Yvette every few days after that until they finally flew home to North Carolina. Nursing him was challenging. I was able to put them in touch with the La Leche League in their hometown. I still think of them. Another one of “my” babies.

 

“Fatherhood is the most creative, complicated, fulfilling, frustrating, engrossing, enriching, depleting endeavor of a man’s adult life.” ~ Kyle D. Pruett

Stay tuned for more chapters from the next book!

more chapters from PUSH! The Sequel

PUSH! The Sequel

If you missed Ma Doula: A Story Tour of Birth, you can still order it from North Star Press/ bookstore/2015 titles, or Barnes & Noble, or Amazon.

 PUSH! The Sequel is actually a compilation of all the stories--37 more to be exact--that literally just didn’t fit into the first book. The stories here are just as random and outrageous and amazing as are the stories in the first book, exactly like birth actually is. Ma Doula won as a finalist in the 2016 Midwest Book Awards.  

 "Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.” ~ Pema ChÖdrom

Shoshi

Another referral. Another homeless lady. Another not-too-sure-what-just-hit-him father-to-be who is deciding if this is something he can try to do or just another hit-and-run accident that he could/should run from. Like right now. Another baby on the way. Drama, drama, and more drama. Not an ideal way to start a family, but it appears to be more and more common. At least here in Minnesota, and I suspect elsewhere, too.

How many young men and women end up being adults by default only, thrown to destiny without a lot of thought going into the process? Is this preordained? Is it all supposed to be so random? My philosopher-self wonders about such things. Then they puzzle how come life has become so complicated. I would wager they either grow up real fast, give up the kid stuff and take responsibility, probably much like their own parents did, or else they cling to the kid stuff, try to make a go of it in spite of all the odds stacked against them, and fall further and further down the rabbit hole with few resources on board to get them out of it and back on a path that even resembles normal.

We meet and talk about birth plans and housing options, where to get maternity clothes cheaply or free, and her relationship with her parents and whether they can help out at all. Baby will take a back seat in most of this. The priorities right now are finding a safe place to stay that will allow her to bring her baby back to after he or she is born, and after that, connecting with the services that will help her find more permanent housing and childcare so that she can finish school.

The services are all out there, but I have found that it takes an advanced degree in law to wade through the system and the myriad hoops that are in place. I often wonder while I attempt to help someone with the paperwork if there isn’t someone sitting at a big oak desk somewhere at the top of some government building whose sole job is to calculate how to make the process as intimidating as possible in order to discourage the vast mass of humanity living below the poverty level from accessing their services and overwhelming the system which has already experienced their own budget cuts for the year. They have to keep a ceiling on the hordes that might otherwise stampede the system should it prove not such an obstacle course. A certain portion of those applying will give up frustrated and rather join the ranks of the homeless than sift through the unintelligible verbiage, submission deadlines, and required unobtainable accompanying paperwork. Even I don’t have records from my first job 45 years ago.

What I have seen in the past decade only confirms my hunch: that the welfare system does not make it easy to get help—on purpose. I bet they even have a pie chart with the statistics on how many people give up at each step or point of application. Put another wrench in the works come the next fiscal year and they can manage to (barely) run the department with the same number of social workers as they had the year before without having to cough up any more money. Won’t the governor love them then? That is how we end up having families living in tents under the Mendota Bridge in the middle of winter in St. Paul. With their baby. We brought them to a Catholic Worker house where they stayed for a week before disappearing again, determined to avoid child protection services at all costs.

Shoshi was born in the Middle East and came to Minnesota as a child when her family immigrated. She went through the public school system, and like many children of immigrant parents, rejected the “old ways” of doing things and adopted the status quo of their new country. In her case, Shoshi rejected all of the “old ways” en masse, including her family’s religion and values. The proscribed women’s dress code was the first thing to go once she reached high school, traded in for skinny jeans and designer T-shirts. She liberated her hair next, throwing away the entire drawer of color-coordinated hijab. Dating was forbidden in the old country; instead parents arranged marriages for their children with like-minded friends and relatives from their own strata in society. What Shoshi couldn’t get away with out in the open, she found alternative ways of accomplishing.

I have watched Shoshi’s generation over the past twenty years as they assimilate in their new country. Many have the attitude, “Now that we are in an educated country, we can throw out the superstitions and make this a new time. All the things that were forbidden before and are allowed here, well, we don’t see the Americans suffering for doing these things.” And before long, drinking, birth control, movies—the list is endless—all the forbidden fruits of this new land find a way in and a whole culture feels it is being threatened. This occurs over and over again with each culture around the world, every wave of new immigrants coming in contact with a more modern, opposing culture that puts their very existence at risk. My own Russian and German grandparents went to their graves shaking their heads, watching their own children and then us grandchildren embracing a world they would and could never understand. My wise old father once told me before he died, “Just remember, you can’t live their lives for them” when my own teenagers were writing their own declarations of independence.

And so, it was no surprise that her parents disapproved when she brought home American boyfriends. The lectures and warnings went unheeded. Like me, when I was her age, I did what I wanted, ignoring my parents’ wisdom and threats alike. And she became pregnant.

We met at the shelter every week to hash out the list of needs and priorities. One by one we ticked off  items on the list and life started having a pattern and not feeling completely random. We applied for programs that could offer her housing, child care, and a high school diploma. We hit the thrift stores on senior discount days (I am a senior) and found enough items that could pass as maternity clothes. We collected used baby clothes and even found time to enjoy a trip to the mall together.

Christmas was quickly approaching, and several churches asked our group of doulas if they couldn’t gift some of our moms this year. We wrote down their sizes and wishes and submitted them anonymously. That was an interesting discussion.

Me: “Well, dearie, there is this church that wants to buy gifts for some of our moms. Can you tell me anything you’d like to ask for?”

Shoshi: “YES! What I want more than anything in the whole world is a Princess Tiana blanket for my baby girl.”

Did I hear her right? Is she 18 going on 12 or what? OK, I think I get this. She is still a teenager, and she wants what all the other girls have, or something like that.

Me: “What is that?”

Shoshi: “Well, she is Disney’s first Black princess and I just love her!”

Me: “OK. Do you need a crib or maybe a snow suit for the baby? Or do you have a flannel nightie for yourself?”

Shoshi: “No, but I really want anything with Princess Tiana on it.”

Me: “OK. I will see what I can do.”

I called all of the fabric stores within a 50-mile radius and found out that the Disney designer fabric is not even out online yet. I will have to call back in a week. Which I did and found out that I could get it in a fleece for under $10. Now Princess Tiana was on the top of my wish list too! Yikes!

The next order of business was a belly cast. We scheduled it for the following week when I could get the room to ourselves where we do them. She was tickled with the results. It is one way of zeroing back in on baby, which is what this is supposed to be all about anyway. Between our modern, materialistic society’s expectations for our babies to have all the latest designer clothes, gear, and equipment and our unspoken wish to keep up with the Jones’, we forget the most elementary, basic, amazing, truly awesome fact that we have created a living baby! who most likely never existed before, and will now soon grace the earth with its being on an unforeseen day and hour. It will be the most important event at that moment in the entire cosmos. And yet most of the world will slog on with their mundane consumerist lives, without a thought.

When she was barely at 34 weeks Shoshi called me one night after midnight. She was having contractions. We met at the hospital and watched as the monitors confirmed our worst fears: she was indeed going into preterm labor. Babies’ lungs are not mature enough yet to survive without a respirator at 34 weeks, which often cause adverse side effects. This was just too risky for our liking. We really wanted to keep this baby in as long as possible. The doctors suggested some IV medications which miraculously worked to slow the contractions. By morning they were gone. This pattern was to repeat itself every two or three days until her due date. The meds continued to postpone a premature birth until week 40. Then we got no rushes or contractions. Week 41 was approaching, and this baby was making no attempt whatsoever to be born. Neither of us could believe it when the doctors scheduled an induction. For this baby?

We settled into a birthing suite on the appointed day. We were excited that finally we were going to meet her baby. I teased that she was going to be just as stubborn as her mama. My own mother had once tried to curse me in a similar way: “I hope your kids are just as obedient as you were!” (To tell the truth, they were… and more!)

The OB tried one medication after another over the next twelve hours. Nothing worked. No contractions. We rested then for a few hours, me in a lounge chair and Shoshi zonked out in bed. Six hours later she woke up to mild but regular rushes. Yay! At one point Shoshi asked about pain meds and started on an IV medication. It didn’t do anything at all. I wasn’t surprised since the earlier doses also had not worked to induce labor for her.

Then Shoshi’s boyfriend, her baby’s father, arrived, followed by one of his home boys. I realized immediately that Dad’s eyes were red, that he smelled of something stronger than 7Up and headed right for the lounge chair without even asking her how she was doing before flopping down in it and closing his eyes. The homie sat in the only other chair in the room and commenced to nervously tap out a percussion piece on the bedside table with both hands.

Ignoring them she and I breathed, and walked up and down the halls, stopping during the rushes and then walking some more. Finally, she wanted to go back to bed and rest a bit. Homie had gone home by now and Daddy was sawing wood, passed out on the futon in the corner where the nurse had brought it in during the night.

The nurse asked if they could check her and shocked us by announcing that she was seven centimeters! We were going places now. Shoshi again asked for more IV meds but I explained that she seemed to be nearing the end of the first stage, possibly near transition, and that they would hesitate to give her anything that might make the baby sleepy, and we probably didn’t have time to get the meds and have them wear off before her baby would come. The last thing you want is a sleepy baby at birth, drugged so much that he might forget to breathe and need resuscitating. She asked the nurse anyway, if she could have something—an epidural, anything—but the nurse repeated what I had just told her. I told Shoshi that I was confident she could do this and that the nurse was going to get the anesthesiologist to discuss an epidural, but that if she continued to dilate quickly she could be holding her baby very soon.

So, we breathed, and tried groaning low cow-like sounds, tried the tub again, then the birth ball, and before she could be checked again, started pushing. The nurse became a bit panicky at this and called the doctor who I realized had been sound asleep in the doctor’s lounge all night. She gowned up and sat down at the foot of the bed on an exam stool and promptly closed her eyes. I took that as my cue that I would be directing her breathing and pushing which we had pretty well down pat by now. As the nurse tucked sterile sheets around and under her, Shoshi asked the nurse to please try again and wake up lover boy who was still snoring to beat the band in the corner of the room. She tried her best, calling his name, yelling at him to wake up, even knocking his sneakers with her clogs several times. We didn’t get even a glint of recognition from him. He was out cold. I went over just to check he was breathing. He was.

Five minutes later, Shoshi again asked me to try to wake him up. I knelt by the body on the floor stretched out on the futon and pushing the dreadlocks out of the way, called his name. Nothing. I alternatively patted his cheeks with both hands, sort of like the old Laurel and Hardy films did it and got nothing. I patted harder, slapping him by now, incredulous that even that didn’t wake him up. Damn it, you! Wake up! Nothing. I gave up and went back to the head of the bed.

On the next push her baby’s head was born (and the doctor opened her eyes in time to check for a cord around the baby’s neck.) Shoshi reached out as the doctor passed her beautiful big baby girl to her. The nurse brought over blankets to cover her with. I was amazed and pointed out to Shoshi that her baby was already lifting up her head and rooting.

Shoshi was crying and kissing her baby, telling her how much she loved her, and then begging me to try to wake up what’s-his-name again. I was giving him plenty of my own names by now--Turkey, Looser, SOB--so I knelt down again by the futon and slapped him a bit. I was afraid I’d get punched if I did it any harder, so I stopped. I grabbed his shirt collar in both hands and hauled him up to a sitting position. His cargo pants had migrated down to his knees while he slept. I yelled in his ear, “Hey, dude! Wake UP! I want you to see your baby!” That worked. He shook his head, blinking a few times, and I said, “You have to see this amazing super Mama here” to which he replied as he stood up, towering over me, “Oh, there really aren’t any super mamas, only super Papas!” (Gag!)

He walked over to the bed and took his daughter as Shoshi handed her to him. He sheepishly smiled at me and the nurse, gave back the baby to Shoshi, and headed for the door as he hitched up his pants and took out a pack of cigarettes from his leather jacket pocket. Then he was gone.

When I went back to the hospital the next day they were busy packing up and getting ready to be discharged. “Meat head” as I was now referring to him--to myself only, of course--was hauling suitcases, knapsacks, and IT’S A GIRL! balloons out to Shoshi’s car. She had driven herself to the hospital the day before. She handed me baby Ife as she put her coat on. Dad came back to the room at that point. I thought to myself, It’s either now or never. I had been awake most of the night wondering what I could say to this guy. Could I say anything that might possibly turn him around? What future would Shoshi and Ife have with him? Was there any hope at all?

Well,  I tried. I was still holding baby who was snuggling into my shoulder. I loved this baby. I love all of my babies. And I had fallen in love with Shoshi, too. I saw so many similarities in her that I could see in myself at her age. I cleared my throat.

“Can I talk to you guys?” I ventured.

“Sure” she said. He looked up.

“I am not your doula now. More like a grandma, really. I love this baby, and I love Shoshi. I really care about what happens now. I don’t want your baby growing up without a dad. I don’t want her to have a totally absent father. You have one more chance. Are you listening?”

I got a grunt from him as he stood there, rather petrified, with his eyes wide open, wider than I had ever seen them.

“Look,” I said. “You have one year to turn this around, OK? No more dope… no more drinking. You need to clean up your s&@#. You need to get a job. This is it. You have a family now. Do you get it?” He nodded. This was not what he expected. I meant it, though. Every word of it.

I tucked Ife into her car seat and hugged Shoshi good bye as he slinked out of the room. My oldest daughter, Ruth was shocked that I had even attempted The Talk. She said I was lucky I didn’t get a broken nose out it. That had not occurred to me as a possibility. If only they could live happily ever after now, like Princess Tiana and her Prince Charming.

“There is no other organ quite like the uterus. If men had such an organ they would brag about it. So should we.” ~ Ina May Gaskin

Stay tuned for more chapters from PUSH! The Sequel