Tag Archives: water birth

The new normal? Maybe.

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OK, Colin (you know who you are). I’m back on the midwifery soapbox. Sort of. I got asked to write a blog about water birth for a hospital site. I kept the property rights, so it’s posted below in all its restrained glory.

Yes, I looked for a picture of lemmings leaping to their deaths, but never once mentioned that women in their thousands do not jump into the Bering Sea in the throes of active labor.

Except for those really staunch Russian women who do so in their threes (they were featured on a website years ago). They can probably be  seen across the Bering Strait by that gal who knows how to field dress a moose. She has a bunch of kids–wonder if she’s got “giving birth in the Bering Sea” on her resume.

I’ve been known to remind people (especially people with a medical reason for not being able to have one) that water birth ain’t natural. We haven’t done it for thousands of years and we’re not going back to our roots when we do them. An epidural can be more natural than water birth. (Especially those where they let the baby float around under water for minutes and minutes and hours. Forgive me. I’m just not that groovy.)

But boy oh boy, a tub full of warm water is a great thing for relieving pain if you’re not having an epidural, and when a baby comes out without much fuss (either way) there’s nothing better. Housekeeping thinks so too, as they wash the evidence down the drain. Epidural births happen on the bed, so housekeeping hopes the midwife’s good at mopping up all that stuff.

I’ll never forget the first days of trying to provide a “birth pool” in any of the hospital rooms where women wanted them. A doula (bless her long-suffering heart) would bring in this huge, inflatable tub and start it filling. Hopefully before the baby came or the water heater gave up.

There were plenty of times the water wasn’t ready, or the woman wasn’t ready, or the fitted top didn’t fit and the water got cold. And I’ll never forget the time a woman had a death grip on my hands, her feet braced against the tub, and super-human strength that was going to pull me head-first to my death. Yep, just like a lemming.

To save myself, I sat my butt on the floor, braced my feet against hers through the side of that squishy, ridiculous tub, and congratulated myself on cheating death. Next thing I knew, my pull exceeded her pull, and she and all those hundreds of gallons of water landed in my lap. Nobody drowned, and we were laughing SO hard that the baby flew out. Also into my lap.

I don’t have any kids, but am considered a mother many times over in the Biblical sense because of events like these. If you don’t believe me, just see Genesis 30:3. In the Tanakh Translation the barren Rachel says: “…that she may bear on my knees and that through her I too may have children.” Lovely.

And neither Rachel, her maidservant Bilhah, nor the benighted Leah were concerned with whether or not their babies were born in water. They just wanted them. And wanted them safe. Which is what my blog for the hospital tries to get across in “Waterbirth and Plan C“:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/htjui7t4ue1zkv7/Waterbirthand….pdf

If the stoopid link doesn’t work, go down to the Blogroll at the bottom. It does. Sometimes.

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to…

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So I spent the last two days trying to take a friend’s advice. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself and write something interesting.” He was a little more tactful than that, but I got the message.

I did try, honest. He even gave me a good jumping-off point: my original mission statement for the Situational Midwifery blog–a soapbox about things encountered as a midwife. The things that piss me off about women’s health care. About how nothing has changed much under the sun. How women and their problems are often blamed for, well, women and their problems.

I’ve got half a lifetime’s worth of subject matter, but right now that’s not not exactly what’s rising to the top. Go ahead and look forward to future harangues, but for now they’ll be about my own stuff.

Participation is optional. Nobody is required to read a blog. I haven’t been a professional writer for more than half a lifetime now, so for all I know, it’s crap. Or it’s crap to men, or it’s crap to folks who haven’t faced something similar. I’m ashamed to say I’m one of those. I got so tired of my mother’s crying jags and worries and photos of grotesque surgeries that I was nowhere near as sympathetic as I might have been. At 15 years old. So I understand that point of view, too.

So read on, or not. Part of what I’m learning these days is to stand up for myself. My friend has given me yet another opportunity to do so, even though I’m afraid he’ll take this the wrong way. If I never hear from him again my husband (who loves this guy), will be really pissed. Then I’ve got two problems.

Now we are Amazon (look it up).

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Guess I had my meltdown earlier this week, before any actual diagnosis. Am just kind of dull right now. Stayed home from work Tuesday and nursed the biopsied breast. Like any good patient ignored medical advice and got in the bathtub–what the hell, right? Dripped pissed-off tears into my lavender bubblebath and sort of got over it, but really wished I didn’t know what I knew. In a fit of solidarity the radiologist showed me the films. It was patently obvious with fancier imaging that what couldn’t be seen on mammogram was right where they thought it would be. Dunno how he found it in the first place. The regular mammogram looked pretty regular to me.

So yesterday one of my partners gave me the news. I’m so sorry to have burdened her with that (she looked more miserable than I felt), but I decided to have the breast center CC the report to our office. Through long experience I know the much-vaunted primary care system isn’t going to call me any time soon. No word from that quarter until last night. A sotto-vocce reading of the report by a minion who wasn’t comfortable doing it. Wonder how she’d have handled it if I was a layperson and she thought I didn’t know the words?

“Invasive ductal carcinoma…features of LCIS and DCIS.”

I’d be more optimistic about what they didn’t find (a really “aggressive” cancer) if there hadn’t been a another biopsy yesterday. This one, sampling calcifications further out, was also positive. So my fantasy of joining Angelina Jolie for a subcutaneous mastectomy and immediate reconstruction flutters to the floor. Sorta like the three-page birth plan. If I’m smart, I’ll take my patient Jamie’s advice (she’s nearly due with her first baby), and “just show up” for the event, leaving the rest to the professionals. Well, I’ll try, anyhow.

Not what I thought it would be…

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So I thought I’d be posting about midwife stuff.

Instead, I’m bawling into a wad of Kleenex after the second of what’s going to be a whole series of breast biopsies. Not that this is anything new. I’ve had cysts aspirated and densities sampled, and ultrasounds and mammograms–all in excess of the usual surveillance undertaken by good girls. Hey, I’m in the business. I don’t believe in the talismanic properties of medical tests, but I do them anyway.

This time seems different. Had the mammogram and got called back for more. Nothing unusual about that; it happens every time. I don’t even bring my husband these days. Then I was told I needed a fine needle aspiration. Still not alarming. But it must not be too fine a needle, as the radiologist left behind a titanium marker shaped like the stupid pink breast cancer bow. I didn’t get a vote, he just showed me the pictures and there it was: bow marks the spot.

Sitting with a cold pack on biopsy site. You can see how upset my dog, Buddy, is. There are angels among us, I tell you.

Sitting with a cold pack on biopsy site. You can see how upset my dog, Buddy, is. There are angels among us, I tell you.

Only it didn’t. Missed it by an inch. The Area Of Interest is deep, so I get invited to do a stereotactic biopsy. This one’s like being in a weird sex film–I’m face down, utterly helpless, boob dangling though a hole with people I can’t see sticking needles in it. And my husband’s in the next room (ok, I chickened out and brought him this time). There’s nobody to hold my hand. The technologist presses on my back, but I get the feeling it’s more about keeping me still than for comfort. It’s embarrassing because because I can’t breathe when I’m on my stomach. I’m snuffling and snorting, trying to keep the table dry, and they think I’m losing it–which I mostly only do in private.

So this time the marker’s in the right place. I don’t notice if it’s shaped like a bow or a bunny or what, because I’m riveted to the screen. Dunno why we bother with mammograms when there’s this kind of imaging. It clearly shows a mass. Not the “density” they’ve been whispering about, but a real mass. The radiologist calls it “very concerning.” It has spiky edges. The crablike kind that gives cancer its name.

Nobody says cancer yet (and if they keep not saying cancer I’m gonna be really embarrassed about this meltdown), but they want me back for another stereotactic hoo-haw the day after tomorrow. This time to sample smaller bright spots around the big spot. Everybody’s being very kind, very attentive, very professional. And I’d sooner stick my head in a toilet than step through their doors again. But guess what? I’ll be there Thursday morning, bright and early. Leaving the bells at home.

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I’m a midwife who’s been up all night for most of the last 30 years. Before that, I was editor of a small town newspaper. I left that job swearing I’d never face another 3 am deadline. Now I’m thinking what I really needed was a good night’s sleep. (And they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.)

But I miss writing, so I’ve decided to launch a blog to record some of the brain activity that occurs between naps. I’m a little worried about exposing my tender underbelly to the pointy public, but have decided to dive in and see how we all get along.

This page will be where I get on my soapbox about things I encounter as a midwife and women’s health nurse practitioner.

Some ideas:

  • HPV vaccine & parents who disapprove
  • Waterbirth. I do it, but it ain’t natural.
  • Birth plans. And staying flexible.