Essays and Writings
Every Birth is Different
She didn't speak English. Or, only very little. Having babies was nothing new to her. She was experienced; this would surely go quickly.
"But," she said wisely and prophetically, "Every birth is different."
I was at her bedside as a volunteer. A little nervous, unsure if I could surmount the language barrier, concerned about having just met her. How could I share with her so intimately when we'd only said hello less than an hour ago?
She was quiet. Intense. Funny. Stoic. Warm. I spent so much time looking at her, trying to read her, trying, the only way I knew how, to get to know her. We chatted, a little, when she felt like it. Teenagers. New Dads. Good Food. Light conversational fare, most of it. But then there were the illuminating stories, the ones that surprised me, the ones that let me in -- just a little bit.
"You probably won't believe this. You probably will think I'm silly," she said in a quiet moment when her companions had left her. "I dreamed last night that you would be with me today. You were there, in my dreams. Not a nurse. Not a doctor. You."
I believed every word she said.
Eventually, though, the conversation subsided. Words were traded for touches. Gentle nods let me know: "I trust you. I'm glad you're here." All the strangeness between us, completely erased in a moment of primal need and empathetic response. The language now being spoken was universal. It was all that was needed. The day marched on in a silence of touch.
And a wee one was born.
Then, this mom of so many, who'd birthed her child so victoriously, turned and said to me: "I've had many babies. I've always been alone. This was the first time, in all of my births, I had someone with me. It really helped. It was nice. Thank you."
All that experience, and, yet, still room for more. Every birth is different. This time -- for her -- I made the difference. I am honored beyond words.