When a baby dies, a mother dies or a
uterus is lost in a life-saving attempt—all becomes fragmented. Shattered.
For all those mothers, fathers, families, nurses, doctors, midwives and
yes, doulas—we all must pick up the pieces.
Those jagged remnants of reality become a new paradigm for all those
involved. I have watched marriages fail
under the stress and strain. I have seen
fabulous practitioners move on to other areas of practice or leave the field entirely. I have heard of other doulas, myself included,
deal with secondary post-traumatic stress.
No one is ever prepared for this—no one.
As a doula, I have personally
witnessed the devastation of many, many miscarriages and the heartbreaking loss
of four cherished and much wanted babies.
Those experiences alone, coupled with my own losses brought me to the
brink of desolation, despair and depression.
Pregnancy and birth are supposed to be joyful; children are supposed to
outlive their parents. Why, after my own
personal hell, am I subjected to the pain and grief of someone else’s? Because it is my job—one of the hardest, most
demanding roles in antepartum and labor support. For some women it is not about the “birth” experience
at all, it is about bringing a baby home. For every woman I serve, I never promise that
everything will be alright, as you just never know, but I continue in my hope
and faith that all avenues will somehow meet and a happy outcome will be
achieved. It’s the only way I can do
this job and stay sane. I have walked
that lonely terrifying road personally—I get it, I really do.
What makes being a doula so cathartic
for me is the request to serve those women and families again should they make
the decision to try for another pregnancy. I have been asked back by all those families,
plus many others going through their first pregnancy after a loss. Courageous does not accurately describe these women. I am in constant awe of the resiliency of the
human spirit, the will, the drive, the bravery and the dignity these women have
shown. I am honored that they see my
presence not as a hex or a curse, but of value.
At any point, I could have been the scapegoat for the previous situation
and had all their anger, resentment, hate and bitterness directed at me. Believe me, it happens.
Unfortunately loss for me as a
doula doesn’t just end with the little ones.
Thankfully I have only been in this situation once, but losing a mother
was one of the hardest roads back I have ever traveled. Yes, women can and do die in childbirth in
this day and age. The saddest part of
this, aside from a husband left with two little boys to raise alone, was this
mother talked with me at length about having a vaginal birth after a cesarean. We met and bonded over the course of several
weeks. She ended up choosing a repeat caesarean
and declining my service for the birth, but requested me for postpartum
help. I read her obituary in the
newspaper four days after our last conversation and her decision. I became unhinged. The floodgate of questions and tears have
never really stopped, not even eight years after the fact. I still wonder if things would have been
different if she tried for a vaginal birth.
I will never know. It is a heavy
burden to carry even though I know realistically nothing was my fault. I wasn’t even there.
Now most people associate loss with
mothers or babies during childbirth, but there is another type of loss. The loss of fertility. I’m not talking about choosing to end
reproduction by tubal ligation, rather I am talking about going in for a life-saving
emergency surgery and waking up with a hysterectomy. This, like the other losses, has a resounding
bang of finality. The shock and horror,
the grief and heartbreak is just as profound.
I’ve held together a few women through this and while I am very good at
hiding my emotions, each and every time I see a severe postpartum hemorrhage after
childbirth, I cringe. The saddest part
is all of these women were first time mothers.
Never would they feel the bounce and kick of a baby, watch the waves of
hiccups ripple over a swollen belly or gripe about morning sickness again. That had been stolen from them. They are grateful to be alive and knew the
possibilities of the reality before going under anesthesia, but it still hurts.
These journeys I have taken with
these families have left a deep and significant impact on me in my work. If there is one thing I can share with other
doulas who may have gone through these similar situations, or may face them in
the future is: Don’t grieve in silence. You don’t have to share the confidential
particulars, but share the stories with others you trust. It will impact you in ways you never thought
about, learned about or know. Each and every
loss is unique. I battled with “compassion
fatigue” for years before I sought help.
I teach about my experiences now, as I find it another way to heal. Plus, as most of these mothers will tell you—education
about the scary side of birth needs to be told.
It is not always love, peace and harmony; sometimes it grabs you by the
throat, chokes the air from your lungs and leaves you in a puddle of tears.
