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One Birth by Cheryl Murfin, CD

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

I am sitting in a hospital room at 3:42 a.m. and my client, a first-time mom at 41, has hit the wall every mother hits giving birth — whether she is birthing at home or in the hospital, moaning in a tub or shaking on a surgery table, going for an unmedicated delivery or adamant about her birth plan: “Give me the drugs!”

At some point, in every birth I’ve attended as a doula (upwards of 300 now), the woman I have come to support through this life-changing process questions whether she can go the distance. That is, she begins to doubt that she has the strength, stamina or event the interest to get through the physical, emotional and/or spiritual challenges of bringing a baby into the world.

So, I don’t know how many times I’ve heard this doubt, expressed in words or in a moan or heavy silence. Every time I hear it, I am reminded why I have chosen the sometimes backbreaking, always intense work of being a doula. I am here to remind her that she can do it, and to provide whatever support she and her family need to know she can.

Tonight, my client wants to have her baby naturally and the Group Health Cooperative nurse has skillfully checked in to see if this plan has changed. She does so without actually offering medication. She, too, is committed to this couple’s vision for their birth.

“I don’t know, I really don’t know anymore,” my mama says, honestly.

“Tell me what you are feeling,” I ask her. I am gently, quietly, holding her gaze with my eyes, slowing my breathing so that she can catch the rhythm and slow her own breathing to a more helpful pace.

We have practiced this; in through the nose, slowly, then out through the mouth. At first she starts to draw away when the next contraction starts, her mind racing as she tries to both join my breathing pattern and run away from the intense sensations she is feeling. I remain steady, reflecting the rock that she is back to her. I encourage her to stay in the room, not run away, with a light hand on her cheek, eyes always meeting eyes. I signal to her husband to press harder on her back with a hot, heart-shaped rock I had him pull from my tiny Crock-Pot. I have her mother trace a comb through her hair in one direction, mimicking my breathing. We are opening the gate in her brain, pulling her mind away from her belly and toward these other, more palpable feelings.

“So hard,” she says between breaths, her tears hot. Real. “I’m so tired.”

“I know you are,” I tell her. This is the truth. I always tell my clients the truth. “But I also know you can do this. I know you have the strength.”

This too is the truth. The nurse and her husband and her mother are right there, murmuring, “You can.” The brave woman in front of me describes pinching, knife-like pain in her lower back. She tells me when it comes she feels crazy.

“You’re not crazy, but I understand it feels that way. Your baby may be in a funny position,” I say softly, but with sureness. She wants to know someone has confidence and I will give her that. “How about if we try just a few more contractions, but let’s see if we can find a better position for you both.”

I move out of my position in front of this laboring woman and draw in her husband. He helps her onto her hands and knees and encourages her to lean onto the birth ball the nurse has whisked onto the bed. As the mother rocks her hips back and forth, the father rocks too, pressing firmly on her lower back. Here is a father who was sure he’d forget everything the moment labor started. I smile at them both.

“You are doing so well,” I whisper to him. He smiles, grateful. I massage his shoulders and he presses into his wife. They are beautiful together.

I don’t know how many hours the birth takes. What I remember is the face of this mother and father as their beautiful baby girl slides out into the world and into their arms. Euphoria. Awe. Delight. Overwhelming joy and maybe a little fear about what comes next.

On the way to this moment, the laboring mom did take a short-acting painkiller to get through, but didn’t get the epidural she so wanted to avoid. And in the end, the drugs that she opted for didn’t matter.

“I did it,” she beams, shocked at herself. “I did it!”

She did. He helped her. Her mother helped her. They made informed decisions all along the way. They remember their birth with joy and awe and respect for a mother’s strength. Both of them remember it this way.

And I remember this is why I do it. To remind her that she can, and support her so she does.

Cheryl Murfin is a Seattle-based freelance writer and a certified professional doula.

©Copyright 2010, Caliope Publishing Company