I’d been hoping, lately, for a birth that began in the evening (or rather a labour that began in the evening, as these things often seem to occur in tandem, no?) so that I wouldn’t have to wake up in the middle of the night. No real reason – please understand that I wouldn’t know an uninterrupted night of sleep if it hit me in the face, and that’s just fine with my physiology. Nevertheless, when I was at the last (unexpected) visit of the day I was quite pleased to be interrupted by a call on my cell from another preceptor midwife letting me know our definitely ready client was making her way into town.

I went home, enjoyed the dinner that was waiting for me on the table & had a cup of tea with my preceptor & my other preceptor (in case you’re wondering – I presently have 3, and yes, it is a logistical challenge). It was a slow, crusising beginning to a slow, not-that-cruising night. As we left, the midwife said to the LD – “we should be home by midnight!”. The neccessary famous last words and all that. . .

Lately the universe has been trying to teach me a lesson about subsequent births- a lesson I am slightly irritated with, and yet, coming to accept. Sometimes, second babies come slower, harder, more heart-wrenchingly difficult. Darn.
It is, however, all part of the larger lesson in not making rules about birth. Or; go ahead and make them if you enjoy watching them be shredded into humbling little fragments of meaninglessness about 3 seconds later.

Suffice to say, in the grand tradition of the mysteries of baby & pelvis, this particular boy decided to rotate the long way around from LOL to ROA. L as in left, as in, could have just turned slightly more left and been out with it. In true midwifery art & craft though, we observed the subtle signs of progress more than the opening of the cervix and expulsion of the baby. Gradually, steadily, we observed the head turn and shift and position itself just right. With patience that bordered on breath-holding we supported and cajoled the process along, once or twice stopping to re-examine the path, and make sure we weren’t too far out into the fragile land of needing intervention.

It’s a hard call to make, and one that I’m glad I’m not doing on my own (quite yet) – rubbing up on the border of do-we-need-to-help-more? beyond-supportive-midwifery-more? It pushes you to examine your beliefs, your ethics and duty, your responsibility and the enormity of one woman’s birth experience – all this against a backdrop of exhaustion, intense emotions, and of course – pain. Do we hold the space steadfast so that the woman can claim her own victory? Or is this one of those times the cavalry really might be needed? And furthermore, how can we know what the woman will reflectively determine she wanted?

In the end, with vast sums of trust and love we carried on being midwives; being with her, using our midwifery skills quietly through the long night. And for the very first time I felt the strange and intoxicating sensation of bones, creasing and overlapping under my fingers as a head slid past the rim of cervix I held back for a very exhausted mama.

Over 9 pounds of soft, moulded head over an intact perineum. And relief that washed over us all – relaxing at last; my shoulders that would ache all the next day from the tension. Washing us all clean and honoured, like the deluge of tears running down his father’s nose.

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