Last year, during a birth, I met a real jerk of an obstetrician.
He was dismissive, condescending, and a bully. Nobody was too happy to have him in the room, and he had not really been properly invited to this birthday party.
Dr. Doom had been called because Dr. Wonderful (so carefully chosen) was unable to make it.
On the bed in front of him was a strong, healthy woman (I’ll call her Lora) having a normal, uncomplicated labor. Birth was imminent–the baby’s hair was peeking and we were all excited–except Dr. Doom.
He had tried, a moment before, to take Lora’s ankles in his hands and place them in stirrups. Lora (heroically, I thought) ignored him, pulling her legs back into a more comfortable position. I smiled, gripped her hands tighter, and whispered, “If this feels good, just stick with it.”
“Well!” huffed the amazed doctor. He looked to the faces of the nurses, who returned nothing but faint smiles. (They were nice. I liked them a lot.)
After muttering, “No epidural, huh? And a previous cesarean…” Dr. Doom sighed deeply, pulled on gloves, and sank heavily into a chair, resigned to dealing with this “uncooperative” patient.
Without any coaching, Lora took a deep breath and pushed.
“Hold it,” demanded Dr. Doom. “You can’t be on your side.”
I think every eye in the room rolled. A tense moment passed, and we all held our breath. Then another heroic thing happened. Stewart, Lora’s husband, smiled and said calmly, “Doc, Lora likes it on her side, so that’s how she’s going to do it.”
It was a good, strong birth. Lora was magnificent and her baby arrived with no trouble at all. As she cuddled her newborn, Lora looked up at me with a little disappointment. Dr. Wonderful had been a caring doctor during her pregnancy, and his absence was unexpected. “Dr. Wonderful wasn’t here!” she said.
“I’m glad,” I replied. “You get to take the credit for this one!”
Birth, of course, is fraught with the unknown, and much of it is beyond the control of us mere mortals. We’ve all heard about the drug-addicted women who don’t even know they are pregnant, but who somehow have perfect, smooth births and miraculously healthy babies. And sadly, we are all also painfully aware of the fact that sometimes, terrible things happen to nice people who do all the right things.
So why am I giving Lisa credit? Here’s where it’s due: she and Stewart had educated and prepared themselves so well that even with the sudden switch of team players, they were able to quickly regroup and remember the things that were important to them.
It had been a long process. It had been hard work. They had read books, attended in-depth childbirth classes, hired support (me), and practiced what they would say in these kinds of situations. Stewart knew that while Lora’s energy was 100 per cent dedicated to pushing her baby out, she would be unable to advocate for herself. So, he stepped in. When his own emotions overwhelmed him and his energy seemed to wane, I nudged him with cues we had practiced ahead of time. If necessary, I would have advocated on behalf of both of them.
Now, Dr. Wonderful has a good reputation for a reason. He’s one of a small handful of obstetricians in Las Vegas who respects women’s choices, and in many ways practices evidence-based care. Lora was wise in choosing him.
But he wasn’t there. It turned out to not matter all that much.
I’ve come to believe that women are the heroines in their own birth stories. And I grow a little weary of the Knight-in-Shining-Armor tales that seem to follow in the wake of these good doctors. In most scenarios, their most noteworthy and appreciated function was doing nothing.
Dr. Doom has a bad reputation for a reason, too. And he is one of hundreds who don’t respect women or practice evidence-based care. Indeed, the hospitals in Las Vegas, filled with tired, disenchanted obstetricians who just want to keep their heads down until retirement, offer dismal prospects to birthing women.
But if there’s a silver lining in this cloud, it’s the strong, capable women who own their births, take a deep breath, and push anyway. My birth memories are filled with Wonder Women.
There was the mother who sat up, took her newborn from her doctor’s hands, and said, “That’s MY baby,” after he had made a move to send the baby to another room. There were the mothers who refused to check in for their unnecessary inductions. There’s the mother who removed her monitors, barred herself in the bathroom, and labored alone while the staff knocked and demanded she come out. There’s the mother who fired her doctor during labor, left the hospital, hired a midwife, and had a breech birth at home. There is the mother who, during her home birth by herself, recognized a life-threatening problem and immediately went to the hospital, where her concerns were dismissed. She loudly persisted until she got the help she and her baby urgently needed.
Let me be clear: choosing a good care provider matters. No woman should have to negotiate for hostages while she is doing the hard, hard work of giving birth. Naked and vulnerable, no woman or baby should be caught up in a power struggle with those who are used to being obeyed.
But take heart.
You get to choose whom you trust, which decisions matter the most to you, and which ones you’re willing to concede. If you find a Dr. Doom at the foot of your bed, reach for those anchors you prepared for yourself: your desires, your team, and your sense of self-ownership.
Now, go own your birth.