My First Doula Experience and How Far We Have to Go

Trigger Warning: Infant Loss

As you can imagine, the first birth a birth worker attends is memorable. My first time serving as birth aide provided a shift in perspective on what my role in birth truly is. I believe the biggest catalyst for me becoming a certified doula were the realities discovered while serving my cousin Jessica during her time of need. When she went into labor, I already knew the process extensively because I was 5 months off my own birth bed and had spent my entire pregnancy deep in research. I’ve been enamored with pregnancy since childhood and after birthing peacefully (ecstatically) I knew I was obligated to somehow share my freaky joy to enhance the experience of others. When I got called to help, I was giddy. Birth was a mystical marshmallow unicorn of a thing and I couldn’t wait to share it with family.

I had one foot in the car when I received the news that Jessica’s baby was coming into the world sleeping. The color drained instantly from the joyful images I’d imagined for her. Jessica had come into the hospital with excitement and it all changed when the doctors were unable to find a heartbeat for her baby boy. I couldn’t imagine her pain. I still can’t these many years later. However, I remember my stride never slowing. I knew even though I’d never encountered anything this intense Jessica needed me now more than ever. I couldn’t entertain doubt because I knew my trust of birth could only add a level of peace to her experience.

I have to pause to control my anger as I describe the treatment

Jessica received in the hospital as she birthed her baby that day. It is from perspectives like these that the birth culture should be discussed so we can take a hard look at what it says about our society and humanity as a whole. I would love to have any doubt that the neglect she endured was for reasons other than that at the time of her son’s birth she was black and poor.

I had no idea that when they hadn’t found the baby’s heartbeat with a handheld doppler, instead of calling for an emergency c-section as she plead for, Jessica waited in fear and confusion for an hour for the ultrasound that confirmed his death. All I knew was that when I walked into her room, she had spent hours alone, curled around her belly from the pain of induced labor, heavily drugged. I remember the room being cold! The nurses in charge of her care only came in to check vitals and to continually increase her dosage of pitocin, which strengthened her contractions and pain. They did not smile and seemed to refuse to make eye contact with either of us. They treated Jessica as if her tragic delivery was a burden. How dare she require them to show unique levels of compassion and authenticity! Her doctor, a black middle-aged woman, walked in only once to announce in a flat tone that the baby may have died days before, that he was likely at advanced stages of decomposition and that she needed to get the baby out of her as quickly as possible. Then she left to sleep only to return bleary eyed at the last minute before baby came.

My sole role was to offset the blatant disregard the hospital staff had for my cousin as a birthing mother in a difficult position of loss. I was simply there for each contraction. I was a hand to hold, a warm smile, a reminder to relax, breathe and release pain and sadness. I was guardian and a witness to her sacred transition to motherhood. We rode the relentless rhythm of induced labor until my cousin was complete and ready (or not) to hold her baby. The hospital staff came in droves with every inch of their bodies layered with what seemed like battle gear, presumably to avoid contact with Jessica and her stillborn child.

Nurses roughly re-positioned my cousin into stirrups and barked orders at her to push to their terse count. I remember leaning into her ear and begging her to block out their prompts and to follow her natural urges to push. At one point, frustrated at the pace, the OB said that if she didn’t hurry up and push my cousin would die right along with her baby. I whispered calm reassurance to Jessica that she was in fact moving her baby down (his tiny head was visible at this point, and waiting to push was benefiting her perineum). I whispered excited reminders that she was almost ready to meet her baby. I felt pride as I witnessed her bravery and a simple joy in seeing her loving struggle to bring him earth-side gently despite harsh surroundings.

When Isaiah finally came it was a quiet and somber moment. It was so different from the birth I’d experienced myself, but it was no less sacred or beautiful. I felt a rush of gratitude for Isaiah and the lesson he was teaching all of us. He was so beautiful in his stillness. My skin crawled when the other attendees recoiled as if he was refuse from a gutter and never said his name. As Jessica's aide, I concentrated on holding their meeting with love and to create sanctuary while she loved on her baby boy. That was my role.

That is my job as a doula, to hold sacred all birth spaces I enter, especially those of under-served women in inconsiderate or hostile environments. My purpose is to help mothers trade uncertainty for joy in all facets of the birth process because the beauty is so clear to me no matter the circumstance. To start my service to women with the darkest of birth outcomes has blessed me to see light in all experiences.

I love and thank both Jessica and baby Isaiah Elijah (who would be eight, the same age as my son, had he been born breathing) for allowing me to be a part of their birth passage. Because Jessica allowed me in I am planted firmly on my life path. I, Zuri Sabir, pledge to fight for the most beautiful transitions to motherhood possible for all women.

Much Love Always,

Zuri, CD-B/P

#Bereavement #Infantloss #birthworker #birthblog #hospitalbirth #inequality #birthactivism #doula