Chapter One: I, Doula

My boss is a bitch.  I can be called to work at any hour of the day, any day of the week and on any day of the year.  I pray her rhythm is smooth and steady but know that it can be erratic and brutal.  I am breathless with anticipation, cold from battered emotions or exhausted from sheer effort trying to figure out her personality.  She makes me wait endlessly for some, tests how fast I can jump with others but more often than not, she decides I can do more than I thought I could in a 24 hour period.  She is a fickle creature and if you try to rush her, she may humor you, or she might turn as vicious as a trapped animal.  She may even quit.  She is physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually and socially exhausting—always.  My heart is expanded every time we meet, but I wish sometimes the images seared into my brain would disappear.  I love her and I hate her.  She is Mother Nature—and she’s about to give birth.

I like to believe I chose this career path; but in all honesty, I think it chose me.  I’ve always had a nurturing spirit—give me something to love and I will give it my whole heart.  Being a doula has been both a gift and a curse, but I wouldn’t trade this job for anything.  I cherish every woman and couple I have met on this journey, each baby I have seen take its first breath, and the heartache that can and will happen inevitably in this profession.  The constant state of ambiguity, contingency plans, and spontaneity may be overwhelming for some, but for me it is my life’s blood.  I thrive in this chaotic lifestyle as it challenges my brain, stretches my compassion, pushes my endurance, and simply because nothing compares to it.

I do question my rationale once in a while; especially if I am weaving on my feet after being up a few days in a row, recovering from a bladder infection because I didn’t void for hours on end or am having digestive problems because the only thing available to eat came out of a gas station or a vending machine.  I have powered through births with pneumonia, raging headaches, and muscles screaming from abuse.  I have drunk enough caffeine to overcome outrageous fatigue, so that I think some days I bleed brown instead of red.  I have perfected the art of sleeping standing up with my eyes open and sounding totally coherent on the telephone after waking in the dead of night.  I know every speed trap on a myriad of Alberta and Saskatchewan highways and back roads; I know when to go for broke and when to ease off the gas.  I have been bitten, spit on, punched, and had my hair pulled out—usually not with intent but in the heat of the moment.  I have been hugged, kissed, and praised; celebrating the trials and triumphs with new parents.  I have waded through puke, blood, amniotic fluid, mucous, fecal matter, and urine.  I get excited at body fluids during the process as it usually means change is happening—who does that?  I have tried to quit, but this calling is too strong.  I was made to be the silent observer, the gentle guide, or the voice of reason during birth.  Why, out of all the things in the world to do, am I good at this?

Seriously, who in their right mind signs up for this shit?  The hours suck, the money crappy, the disrespect rampant, and the job unknown.  If you don’t know what a doula is then please look it up—I’d be a millionaire if I was paid a dollar for every time I heard, “You’re a what?”  I have invested my time, my heart, and my existence to helping women and their partners welcome new life into the world.  And while it sounds all roses and rainbows, it is not, so please open your eyes.  There is a cost—be it emotional, physical, familial or financial.  I have been berated by medical professionals for simply existing; not for something I said or did outside my scope of practice, but rather to confirm an egotistical megalomaniac’s hierarchy of power.  I have contorted my body into positions that would rival a yoga master, a mechanic, and Houdini himself all in the effort to make a mother feel more comfortable.  I have missed huge events in my children’s lives which they remind me of constantly, and it makes my heart bleed with thoughts of failure as a parent. I barely break even most of the time from the effort and expenses I put into the venture, even though money is often the last thing I think about.  I have pushed the envelope of sound body and mind and paid dearly for it.  I have cracked, gone over the edge, burned out, and fought my way back too many times to count.  This profession may be valued by some or ridiculed by others so I am constantly dodging a minefield—good, bad or ugly—daily.

If I take this back to the very beginning, I can either blame or thank my mother.  After having a terrifying, unsatisfying, and demoralizing first birth experience, I found myself pregnant again almost five years later.  I remember thinking “Isn’t there a better way to do this?”  Now, never ask fate a question and be unprepared for the answer.  Mine came in the form of a newspaper article about the benefits of doulas that my mom found when I was seven months along.  “What the hell is a doula?” and then “Where do I find one!”  My mom’s greatest gift to me aside from giving me life was the gift of another woman’s support. 

I ended up with the most amazing birth experience because of one woman’s help and knowledge.  It was my missing piece of the puzzle.  I rode the glory of that birth for months!  Because of this life-changing experience, I wanted to be the bearer of wisdom, kindness, and support to others.  God, I was so sweet and terribly naïve back then.  That is not to say that I am cranky and mean now!  I was taught by some of the best in the birth field; however, I have since learned that not every birth experience was going to be as fabulous as my own, but my presence can make a difference on how that experience was perceived. 

The stories of these journeys are priceless—accomplishment, empowerment, strength, disappointment, rage and heartache.  It is often said that when a person’s inhibitions are lowered they reveal who they really are.  I see that time and time again, medications help it along sometimes too.  Pain is the great leveler—it has no equal.  Some memories of my current and past couples have me breaking out in uncontrollable laughter, or spilling a waterfall of tears.  These emotions are raw, true, and a beautiful dictation of the human spirit. 

When I decided to connect the dots of my life, to weave these moments of time together, I knew this is not just my history; it is the history of over a thousand children’s welcome to the world.  These tidbits are needed in today’s birth world—a world where fear, disconnection and medicalization overrules dignity, trust and respect.  Some simply are just too hilarious not to share while others need to be shared to gain insight and wisdom.  And because…I spent years trying to create a legacy only to realize I needed to leave one.