Essays and Writings
Little Did I Know
"Kristy, I'm in labor." The phone call came early in the evening, just as we were finishing up with dinner. "I should be having this baby by midnight. Do you want to come over?"
On the other end of the line was a woman who'd graciously invited me to be a part of her birth. She had already lined up a doula -- two, actually -- but knew I was training to be a doula as well. She, quite simply, was giving me a very special opportunity to learn from a very talented group of people. Hers was to be a home birth.
"I'll be right there."
As I got in the car and headed to her house, I thought eagerly of the experience that lay before me. My first birth. A laboring woman. A baby on the way. What I've set out to do is undeniably a selfless task. Caring for a laboring woman, tending to her needs, assuring her, relaxing her -- guiding her through a very intimate, personal experience -- is not at all about me. It is about the mother, the baby, and the family into which that baby is being born. And yet, it is impossible to deny that I will be affected by -- personally and intimately experience -- each and every birth I attend. To fail to do so would be an affront to the very honor it is to be present at a birth. And so, as I drove to my friends' house, I was thinking very much about this first experience and what it would mean to me. Little did I know what the hours before me would have in store.
Little did I know how awe-struck I would be at the power that is a laboring woman. Her contractions, gripping and pulsing, at once both capturing her and captured by her. Moans and cries, not so much a call of despair as a battle cry of strength and force. The slow, sly approach of another contraction caught with resilience; the thankful end accepted with grace. It was awesome to watch all of those powerful forces, each solely possessed by a laboring woman, hard at work in their inspired task.
Little did I know how beautiful it is, a gathering of women, friends, and family, there for one single, unified purpose and each sharing the same respect for the event they are witnessing. A mood of calm and comfort pervaded throughout the room. There was no anxiety, there was no fear, there was no confusion -- only a sense of peace and honor. We told stories, laughed, tucked children into bed, ate when we were hungry, drank when we were thirsty, and slept when we were tired. All of us. Mom, too. Normalcy, in this case, was stunningly beautiful.
Little did I know how graceful a pair of eyes, how artful a pair of hands, how musical a low hum can be. The determined eyes, peering into Mom's as she searched with her own frantic eyes for a place of familiar comfort, gracefully led Mom to a moment of balance. Small hands calmly searched for the right touch that would make Mom let go; a low hum, alone at first, was soon joined by a chorus of thoughtful internal contemplations. Together, the dozens of hands and eyes and voices throughout the room performed a concert that was nothing short of magical.
Little did I know how comfortable it would be, how natural it would be for me to simply touch another person. My hands went instinctively -- to her hands, to her back, to her hips -- with no question or anxiety. I knew what to do. I knew what to say. I found a sense of peace in each touch and word. I found a sense of purpose.
Little did I know how calm I would be when things didn't go exactly as planned. I was composed, both outside and in, when personally emotional touchpoints arose. Seamlessly and effortlessly, I called upon my rising well of empathy, not to make me feel better, but to make Mom feel better. My words were for her, not for me. My one personal concern, alleviated. My only remaining concerns, hers. Little did I know how comfortable I could be while still genuinely burdened with those concerns.
Many, many hours later, after the sun rose and the birds began to sing, I left the house. Although she had many hours to go, my role in my friend's birth, for many reasons, had come to an end. Alone, I was left only to savor the experience -- all that it was and wasn't -- for myself. My role in her experience had ended. Her role in my experience had only just begun. So much learned that night. Little do I know, indeed.