An Open Letter To…..

An Open Letter To…..

Dear Natural Birth Movement,

In June this year I gave birth to a beautiful bouncing baby boy. He was born 2 weeks and 3 days over his due date. The 36 hour journey he and I took together was in parts both the highest and the lowest, the lightest and the darkest hours I remember living. The nearly 16 weeks I have spent with him since have been pink, fluffy, warm, fuzzy and heart explodingly incredible. There have been moments where I have had to pinch myself, to check if this new life is really real and even now as I write my heart is full and my body enjoys another flood of Oxytocin just thinking of him.

But then I remember why I write to you, and my heart hurts a little as I access again the grief, the shame, the guilt and the confusion you have caused me. This is a cocktail of emotions I never thought you’d inflict on anyone, let alone me, and yet I see you inflicting it unwittingly on others too. Perpetuating the same self important, frequently impossible standards, the same standards I feel you have measured me up against, and against which I feel I have measured short. I want to write about and share my full birth story – sing it from the rooftops!!!! But before I do, I need to lighten my load and create some more space inside by getting something off my chest.

We need to talk.

I’m leaving you.

I’m moving in with the Empowered Birth Movement. She and I, well we’re better together than you and I ever were. Let’s face it – there were a few moments we stood high on that soap box together weren’t there? My getting together with the Empowered Birth Movement is better for the people around us; our female peers, their partners and birthing companions, the care professionals nurturing new mothers and their babies; and it’s certainly better for me and those I am privileged to assist as a birth coach and doula.

I notice you’re shocked.

When I came to the realisation that I have to break up with you – I was too.

It all started about 14 hours into my birth story. The first sign I was in labour was that upon waking I noticed my waters had broken and I had “menstruation pain”. As Thursday wore on my labour intensified and I was happily astounded by the amniotic fluid which intermittently gushed out around the house (Note to self: I must remember to thank my best friend and doula again for following me around with towels) Then I saw a pale greenish colour appear. The fear kicked in: would this mean that we would have to go to hospital – that dreaded place of unnatural and intervention riddled deliveries?

It did – neither my midwife nor I wanted to stack risks with me being a first time mum, carrying a big baby and being already 42w2d. I felt disappointed. As if I had failed at the first hurdle somehow. My contractions, which I had enjoyed riding at home in the shower chanting Ong Namo with Snatam Kaur, felt painful for the first time as I had to navigate the short 5 minute journey to hospital. The bright fluorescent light seemed to embody all that was unnatural; all that went against what you had promised me when I prepared for this day, told me to believe in myself and in my body, and since I chose to birth at home. I could almost hear you say “I told you so”. I rallied back and forth with the question “Is it really meconium? Do I really need to be here?”

Well there we were in the hospital; you and I and our strongly worded birth preferences which I had negotiated fiercely with the hospital at 42 weeks, then again at 42+1 to gain more clarity in the “grey areas” which had appeared in the conversation you, me and my midwife had had with the senior midwife and the gynaecologist at the hospital. I was fearful. Despite the fear, I drew on the oxytocin my body was saturated with and opened up to the midwife who was on duty. I asked her to stay present with me, to maintain eye contact with me whilst doing internals – to speak to me about the interior of my vagina and cervix and no one else. Hour by hour in doing so with such consideration and tenderness she gained my trust and I in turn hers, and she let me labour on unassisted. You seemed surprised, but I didn’t linger on the growing ill feeling between us, as my son and I had work to do.

Fortunately you stuck around and set up the birthing pool in the labour suite bathroom, you nodded approvingly at the various essential oil compresses, the crystals, the yoga postures, the homeopathy kit, the relaxing music and the affirmations.

Cut to 30 hours into our birth story following a couple of interventions, a journey back and forth and back again between 6cm and 8cm (YES that can happen!); I had an IV dripping synthetic Oxytocin into my veins and my uterus was leading my body in an almighty fight against the invading chemicals. And that’s the moment when you really flaunted your true colours: I felt like a failure asking for pain relief. I asked however, and my wish was granted. I avoided your gaze. During the three hours I spent floating away on the magic carpet of Remifentanil, intermittently glimmers of conversation came through;

“You’re nearly there! 9cm – great!”

“Your contractions are really effective now….”

But I was exhausted; from chanting, swaying and squatting, from the fight for intervention free plateaus and progression, from the 32+ hours with only 2 light meals, from being my own advocate throughout as a solo parent, from you and me fighting about our conflicting expectations of eachother. And despite all that fighting, during those hours floating away I found my truth: that my son had brought me healing enough throughout pregnancy without having to make the passage through my cervix and vagina and heal that trauma too. (I am a [sexual] abuse survivor)

“Don’t worry” I heard, “You’re 9.5cm and in minutes you’ll be at 10 – if you can’t find enough energy to push we have everything we need to help you achieve a vaginal birth.”

‘No. Thank. You.’ I thought. ‘Stay away from my vagina.’

“I want a Csection” I heard myself say with conviction, clarity and absolute certainty.

Whilst my relief at finding the surrender I had been looking for was almost palpable, I couldn’t make eye contact with you.

In the four months since little JT was born, we have come head to head at many crossroads. I have found you tutting in the sympathetic “Oh what a shames” which I receive when I explain he made his way earthside via his own stargate; my Caesarean wound. I have found you lurking self righteously in the Facebook comments of an “informative natural parenting piece” on how epidurals do indeed pass through the placenta and babies’ alertness is adversely affected; callously telling a woman who said she shouldn’t be shamed for giving birth to a dead foetus with the help of an epidural that in her case “it didn’t matter that the epidural crossed the placenta”. I have found you in the form of a prenatal yoga teacher withholding the happy stories of babies born by Csection to clients in my new friends’ post natal meet up class; the insinuation being that these stories weren’t the optimal outcome that the teacher had been encouraging her students to strive for. I found your influence in the story of my brave warrior friend who gave birth to her beautiful daughter at 27 weeks – where she defends the fact she had a Csection by explaining how dangerous it would have been for baby to have become at all distressed during a “natural delivery”.

I hear you dripping all over the expression “normal birth” – for what is a “normal birth” these days anyway??? I hear you in my final doula course training – a fellow student defending a brutal sounding gynaecologist she had witnessed manually dilating a woman from 8cm to 10cm to keep her in the proper timeframe and avoid being transferred to an inferior public hospital (I verbally winced at that idea); and your final defence? “Well at least she didn’t have to have a Csection.”

I read you as I come across a quote stating that it is a women’s right of passage to give birth naturally and vaginally; and I am left once again wondering if somehow my own experience (which is that the right of passage is in fact becoming a mother: a journey which started from the moment I was conscious my body was housing an embryo and not from the moment I felt the ejection reflex and started to push) is somehow invalid?

So no; I’m afraid these militant ideas you keep don’t ring true for me. I’ve opened my eyes to the countless women who also feel they have to apologetically explain their choosing an epidural or outside intervention – through myself having felt that need to defend; and now I’m starting to understand and realise why so many women unquestioningly hand over their power to medical care providers completely in the face of your dogmatic alternative. They’re frightened they won’t make your grade.

There is good news for me, and my fellow sisters who think along the same lines as I do though!

The Empowered Birth Movement is working hard to inform women about their rights, the possible choices and the protocols and side effects of the choices available to us in birth. The Empowered Birth Movement is exploring and inhabiting that vast expansive space between your natural birthing utopia and the carefully scheduled medical approach to delivering babies. The Empowered Birth Movement is bringing information about all options – judgement free – to the public sphere, bringing candid new images from all types of birth stories so that women can visualise for themselves what will feel safest for them.

When we talk about healthiest birth experiences we have to look at “health” holistically; physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. And I have you to thank for bringing me to that perspective. Speaking as a mother, as a doula and as a birth coach though, I can tell you first hand that there are many reasons why the “healthiest birth” choices for a woman may well include comprehensive pain relief and or surgical assistance. Those reasons range from having a phobia of blood, to being a survivor of sexual abuse and being keen to avoid a trigger, to simply not wanting to experience the pain of vaginal childbirth…all of these are valid reasons.

Whatever the reason – we are entitled to make our own choices. As female peers, as mothers, as birth workers, and as birth activists we have to STOP pushing preferences and shaming women’s choices. Birth activism and reclaiming birth is about informed consent and empowered birthing experiences – not a natural birth at all costs. And it’s certainly not about attributing shame to any mother’s birth story because she fell short of the latest soft focus home water birth video on Instagram or Youtube.

So here we are.

My bags are packed.

I’m ready to go.

Shall I leave my keys on the shelf in the hall on my way out?

In Loving Memory of Margaret Standring 14.03.1931 – 19.08.2014

In Loving Memory of Margaret Standring 14.03.1931 – 19.08.2014

It seems befitting that my first post be my goodbye to this woman who meant to much to me, and inspired so much in me, particularly through her death this year.

“I confess I’d started to jot down some memories of Granny before she passed away. Partly because it was clear from the first doctor’s call in July that we were approaching the end, and mostly because in spending these beautiful last weeks with her and recalling happy times together, one memory sparked another, that in turn another, and I became anxious to make sure I got all these precious gems down on paper.

It was difficult however to know where to start in writing these words to say to you today, as knowing where to start; what best depicts the very best of our magnificent Granny is a tough job as there is such a wealth of memories to choose from. Such profound love, such generosity of spirit, so many valuable lessons taught, so much laughter, such delicious recipes, so many skills, so many gifts (and I mean both gifts of character as well as material, and we all know she loved to shop!); she brought so much to our family and no doubt to you her many friends.

I decided to share one of my first memories of Granny by way of a beginning. Being sat alone as a little girl of three on the stairs at Windsor Road watching a terrific storm brewing. The sky darkened and I ventured out in my thick Yorkshire accent which tickled Granny no end, “Granny?” No reply. No doubt she was busying about the garden or garage in her usual whirlwind way. The lightning struck, the thunder growled. I burst into tears. Seconds later Granny swooped in, her lovely face soft with concern, her wide open arms my very own port in a storm. She encompassed me in a tight cuddle, reassuring me that she would never be far away, and certainly would never leave me alone. My heroine. Unbeknownst to me at that moment she continued to be my unwavering port throughout various childhood and adolescent storms.

During one of these evenings we spent supporting eachother as a family recently, we laughed at the memory of an eight year old me flinging myself on my bed wailing “Granny! I want my Granny – she’s the only one who understands me….” Only two years before I had been the only one who could understand her in her hospital bed following her stroke. Perhaps the lack of fear and projection and the curiosity of a six year old meant that I was simply able to focus on the sounds she was making and was able to work it out, but it felt like, and I still believe it was mostly to do with our strong connection and bond we shared.

She made an incredible recovery from her stroke. Relearning almost all of that which had been lost or impaired in order to continue to pass it on; a teacher through and through. She taught me SO much. I remember getting to reception class and being confused why not everyone could recite the alphabet and write their name already. She taught me how to draw, how to paint, how to formulate perspective in a piece of artwork. She taught me the pleasure of playing a musical instrument, fondly encouraging my sometimes rather tortuous practicing of the violin, the piano and the flute. She taught me how to press tongue(!!!), how to make lemon cheese as soft as butter. She taught me that as women we must nurture ourselves, with good food on the inside and with luxurious products on the outside! She taught me the pleasure of having beautiful things in my home environment, the pleasure in buying, wrapping and giving gifts – she always so kindly poured over our gifts and their wrapping as we gave them to her; she was beyond question my favourite person to buy a present for. Thoughtfully she always wore one of the presents we’d bought her whenever we visited – some I even forgot I’d bought once or twice, she obviously never did.

In recent years her brain was affected by dementia. Sometimes this was difficult to see, and painfully was very difficult for her in her more lucid moments as she knew she wasn’t “quite right”. To be honest though we had some terrific laughs at the expense of dementia, like the Christmas day when I went in to give her a good morning cuddle and a cup of tea and sang “Happy Christmas Granny!!!” to which she replied not skipping a beat “Happy New Year!!!” Another beautiful gift of dementia was that it slowed her down. On my fridge I have a few cheerful pastel coloured photos from a couple of years ago when my sister and I enjoyed some warm sunny summer afternoons with her in Carwood Nursing Home’s garden. There we were – not “doing” much, not saying anything of any real consequence – just basking in our reflected pleasure in eachother’s company. Despite the illness; the twinkle in her eyes, the interest in her eyes, the kindness and the sheer love in her eyes all almost palpable, never lost.

Her last weeks, intense weeks of both incredible light and terrifying darkness as she progressed toward her transition, feel too fresh and too intimate to share today, so I’ll finish by sharing the words a close friend and confidante shared with me. “We live as we live, and then we die in just the same way we have lived.” In being beside Granny this last month I can confirm this is true. She died with tremendous strength, determination, courage and grace.

I believe that she also learnt an important lesson in the final steps of her journey however; how to really let go. And so it is with a mixture of strength, determination, courage, grace, and the vulnerability and the surrender required to really let go sometimes, that I will continue along my journey as a woman, a daughter, a sister and a mother. Grateful to the core for all she was, all she brought and taught me, grateful for the privilege of being at her side in her last weeks on earth and for this illuminating experience of death. Promising to share what I can of her legacy with my own family and friends.

Thankyou Granny.”