Ruth Ehrhardt's Blog, page 6

When did Breastfeeding Become Such a big Deal?

I know that I was breastfed until I was almost two and my younger sister Kate was breastfed until she was three. We lived in Switzerland and we went to the creche on the property of the hospital my mother worked at. She would pop down every few hours to breastfeed us. I remember her coming down to do that for my sister. I know that when my sister reached the age of three, my mother had had enough and she left us with our dad while she went with a friend to to France and my sister was left to go cold turkey. I remember her telling us about how when she woke up with rock hard breasts, she squeezed and squirted breastmilk all over the walls.

When I was eight, we moved to South Africa and when I was nine, Gypsy was born. Jasmin’s birth followed 16 months later. Gypsy had to stop feeding while my mother was pregnant because her milk had dried up but as soon as the milk flowed again, both babies were back on the breast suckling away – even whilst driving! That has got to be one of my most prominent breastfeeding memories; my mother driving the bakkie (pick up truck) on the bumpy dirt road in the Bokkeveld near Ceres with a baby straddling each leg and suckling away at a breast each. Unfortunately, I don’t have a photo of this wonderful scene but I do have this one which is the two of them asleep post feed so you can get the idea.

My mother driving with my two younger sisters post a feed

Growing up, breastfeeding was normal. Like giving birth. If you had a baby…that is what you did to feed them until they were old enough to eat other things. The women who lived and worked on the farm also popped out their breasts to feed their children, most of them until their children were two or three, and one woman until her child was seven. When I was eight I saw a white woman cover herself while breastfeeding, she made such a fuss of it and seemed to draw so much attention to herself with this act. I thought it was odd and I wondered if the baby wasn’t hot in there?

I got a fright the first time my baby suckled away at my nipple after giving birth – Ouch! I thought the hard part was over, no had told me that breastfeeding could hurt! It took me about three weeks of engorgement, tears, frustration, mastitis, pain, irritation, beauty, bliss and bonding to get the hang of the whole breastfeeding thing. And one day we got it. But I have to admit, that for me, breastfeeding was like learning to ride a bicycle – I had to fall off a few times before I got it and I got some scrapes and bruises along the way also.

And it wasn’t just the first time I struggled with breastfeeding, it was a struggle every time I gave birth. Four times I struggled. That was my reality. Labour and birth was hard but give me that any time over the first three weeks of breastfeeding. I would feel that little jaw working away at my nipple and I would inwardly grown as I thought, “Oh no…not this again!” I am well aware that there are all sorts of techniques to make all of this much easier. And I tried them. And sometimes they worked. And sometimes they didn’t. There is nothing like exhaustion and engorged breasts in the middle of the night to get the latch all wrong, your nipples become chewed to pieces and before you know it, a fever and a sore breast have erupted.

Such fun.

On day three I would inevitably burst into tears and cry as the milk flowed and the reality of motherhood and the beauty of my baby overwhelmed me. Milk fever and engorgement were a reality I learned to work with with hot water bottles, pumps and homeopathy. My breasts squirted and ached and dripped and leaked and wet more t-shirts than my babies wet nappies. My nippled felt like how chewing gum must feel and I even dreamt one night that my baby had stretched my nipple as though it were a pink piece of chewing gum.

ouch!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boobs hung free as a I ran out of t-shirts, or a forgotten breast would hang from my top because I forgot to pop it back in after a feed.

And then one day, we’d get it and we could venture forth and feed anywhere and anytime we wanted to…looking as though it had always been easy.

But I was never harassed nor had any issues whilst feeding in public. I popped out my breast whenever my baby was hungry. In restaurants, on the train, when visiting, in parks, in shopping centres.

What’s happened? Why are there so many stories now of women in South Africa being harassed while breastfeeding? I breastfed four children over a period of ten years and was never made to feel like what I was doing was strange, unusual, shameful.

I was once politely offered a Woolworths changing room to feed my baby in but I declined saying I preferred to sit somewhere where I could watch people going by. That was about it.

Happy World Breastfeeding Week everyone!

 

The post When did Breastfeeding Become Such a big Deal? appeared first on True Midwifery.

There is hope…

Two weeks ago I came back home to South Africa after a full and busy tour of teaching and presenting in various countries in Europe.

I don’t think I quite realised what I had signed myself up for when I said yes to all the commitments I had made but for three weeks I ended up either teaching or travelling every single day.

This was my itinerary:

14-15 May, Additional Skills and Information Session Weekend for Doulas at DO-UM in Istanbul, Turkey
17-18 May, Helping Babies Breathe and other obstetric emergencies for home birth at Da a Luz, in the Alpujarras, Spain
20-24 May, An Introductory Course to Midwifery at Vale dos Homens, Portugal
26-31 May, book launch of Italian translation of my book, The Basic Needs of a Woman in Labour, in Rome and various towns on the island of Sardinia.

I flew to Istanbul mid May to teach doulas and student doulas at DO-UM, a space run by Nur (the first ever doula in Turkey) and Sima. These two doulas are pioneering and bearing the torch of birth through education and birth attendance in Turkey. Turkey has a rising caesarian rate which matches our own here in the private sector in South Africa. The majority of births are attended by doctors and most end in caesarans. But DO-UM and other places are trying to shift this by offering doula courses, as well as childbirth classes for expectant couples.

The students of the course in Istanbul

Then I went on to Spain where I spent two days teaching the last workshop of Da a Luz Midwifery School’s second year in operation. The school, is the vision and idea of Vanessa Brooks, a British home birth midwife residing in Spain. It is still a work in progress but what I have seen in visiting the place twice  in the last two years, is that it is coming together very nicely, and growing as a course which supports women in choosing the path to true midwifery. Students sign up for a year’s apprenticeship and have the added challenge of having to provide completely for themselves in terms of accommodation (living in tents, vans, yurts, caravans, and one student even building herself a little cob hut), living off the grid and living communally. The school building, is slowly being built and has gone from being a pile of stones to taking on a majestic presence of its own. I look forward to seeing it when it is done but for now, classes still take place mainly outdoors, on rugs, on the grass, under the olive tree. I am very inspired by what Vanessa is doing at Da a Luz because we all know that there is something lacking in midwifery training nowadays, and that is often a lack of trust of the birthing process. Da a Luz aims to instil a sense of confidence and faith in birth.

The doorway to the school at Da a Luz

Last year I taught the Helping Babies Breathe course to a group of doulas in Portugal. After that course, there were numerous requests to build on that and for me to provide a longer, more detailed course, exploring some of the skills of midwifery.

Hence,An Introductory Course to Midwifery  was born.

At the beautiful venue at Vale dos Homens we spent five days discussing, exploring and mostly laughing our way through basic midwifery skills, sharing birth stories and discussing what birth and midwifery meant to us.

This picture perfectly summarises the essence of the course

You can see more pictures from the course on the True Midwifery FaceBook page.

After the course in Portugal I had to catch a plane to Rome where the Italian translation of my book, The Basic Needs of a Woman in Labour (I Bisogni Di Base Di Una Donna in Travaglio in Italian), was being launched, with special guest Michel Odent in attendance.

Hilda Garst, a Dutch mother and La Leche League leader for twenty years, discovered my book online and after reading and feeling inspired by it, contacted me about translating it into Italian. Not only did she take on this task, but she, along with Rome based mother group Nanay, organised two conferences in Rome and Sardinia with Michel Odent and I as the primary guests and speakers.

Pretty cool hey?

And after two days, Michel left and Hilda and I drove around the Sardinian island, presenting the book, sometimes twice a day, to various mother groups, students at the midwifery school, paediatricians, psychologists, doulas, as well as a gynaecologist who, after hearing that I gave birth to a 5,47 kg baby over in intact perineum, asked me to stand up so that she could check out my hips.

It was rather tiring travelling so much and presenting the book every day and having to do it through a translator as well. Also, sometimes debates would become quite heated and I would lose track of what was being discussed but I got the general idea through the expressive hand gesticulations the Italians are known for. I also understood the passion and anger that issues around birth can bring up, those are universal. Although there was so much repetition on the book tour, I was able to remind myself daily of the essence of the work that I do.

Michel summarised it so well when he said, “the keyword is protection.”

That is my job, my role, to protect the basic needs of a woman in labour. And when you look at it like that, then it is, and should be, so very simple.

I came away from this trip tired but hopeful.

In a world where birth seems to becoming a more and more medicalised event, I was privileged enough to meet and work with people who believe and trust and who, in their own way, are beacons of light and hope for birthing women and their babies in this world.

The post There is hope… appeared first on True Midwifery.

My Father Wasn’t at my Birth

My father wasn’t at my birth.

My mother had hoped for and planned a home birth for my entrance into the world, but she was a single mother living in a communal house in Switzerland at the time. She was considered to be an older mother (She was 29 when she fell pregnant with me) and was advised against having a home birth by her doctor. The man of the house she was living in was also dead set against having her birth in his home – there was no way that African girl was going to squat down and birth in his house. My mother then found out about a natural birthing centre in the neighbouring canton of Graubünden, and while she drove to take a look at it and loved the pink rooms and the deep birthing pools and the midwives in attendance, there was no one who was willing and able to drive her there once she was in labour (which I have now worked out via Google maps is only 1 hour and 23 minutes away!). So she settled for the very fancy and exclusive private hospital at Stefanshorn.

My father wasn’t at my birth.

I was a planned pregnancy. Very much so. I was very much hoped for and wanted, but it was an unusual arrangement of sorts.

I’ll let you in on a  little secret.

You see, my father was married to someone else when he met my mother and he stayed married to his first wife (my parents actually never married) while embarking on a relationship with my mother. My mother was a staunch feminist at the time and had all sorts of theories about different ways of having relationships and so they embarked on an ‘open relationship’ – which my father’s wife was actually rather reluctant about. So the plan was for my father to impregnate my mother and that she would be a single mother and that he would be a long distant parent and visit once a month or when time and travel allowed him. My father lived in England and in South Africa at the time.

My father wasn’t at my birth.

He was in England at the time, at home with his wife.

My mother was admitted a week before her due date to be induced for no medical reason other than that her doctor was going to be away on holiday. She was admitted on my father’s wife’s birthday, which his wife always saw as a personal affront to her and made her resent my presence even more.

My father wasn’t at my birth.

A friend drove my mother to the hospital, but my mother was alone when she went into labour with me. I know that she laboured for twelve hours and that she had the latest in foetal heart monitoring technology strapped to her while she laboured. I know she laboured on her back.

I also know that she held on to a little green Verdite statue.

A little bust of an African woman. It had been given to her by a grateful woman my mother had counselled when my mother had volunteered as a rape counsellor in South Africa. I know that this little statue was a lifeline back to South Africa for my mother while she laboured.

My father wasn’t at my birth.

He was in England at the time, at home with his wife and while she hung out a load of wet laundry he snuck a call to my mother and shouted instructions on how to breathe through the heavy black phone. I know he irritated my mother and that she was relieved when he had to go and she could return to her own rhythm. She had found a way to relieve her pain by breathing out for as long as possible and making her lips loose while she did that.

After twelve hours, she gave birth to me. A girl. I weighed five kilogrammes and I took to the breast easily apparently.

My father wasn’t at my birth.

But he arrived the following day and examined me thoroughly. He was concerned that my toes would be bent and gnarled like his and he was comforted to find that this was not the case.

He then announced with relief that I was only slightly pigmented.

(My mother was classified Coloured, my father was classified White – their relationship had begun in South Africa and the fact that they were a mixed race couple now with a child made it difficult, if not impossible, for them to continue their relationship in South Africa and was one of the reasons I was born and raised in Switzerland. We only moved back to South Africa after the Immorality Act was repealed in 1987 ).

My father wasn’t at my birth.

I did not grow up with him in the way most children grow up with their fathers. I never lived with him except for a short stint when I was seven and the Apartheid government had changed its laws and my parents came to South Africa and rented a house  and tried living together – this did not last long. 

He was always a regular part of my life though and he visited and sent gifts and we visited him and he phoned on birthdays and Christmas and I know he prayed for me.

Twenty-six years later my father was dying of cancer. It had spread to his bones and his blood. I found out two weeks before he died and I spoke to him on the phone. He was jolly as ever and told me he loved me. I was pregnant with my third child at the time and I could not fly to be with him. I had not seen him for six years and he had never met any of my children.

My father wasn’t at my birth.

And I wasn’t there when he died.

That was ten years ago today. The day before his 80th birthday.

My father wasn’t at my birth.

But he was very much part of my life

And he always will be.

The post My Father Wasn’t at my Birth appeared first on True Midwifery.

The First Time I Ever Witnessed a Fetus Ejection Reflex

The first time I ever witnessed a fetus ejection reflex was one summer’s night when I was attending a home birth as a doula.

The first time mother was ten days past her estimated due date and there had been some pressure to induce. She had declined this intervention and made it clear that she would wait for her baby to come. She was a very petite woman and had already been warned by both her obstetrician and her midwife that more than likely, she would require a caesarean and that she should prepare herself mentally and emotionally for that eventuality. The baby hadn’t dropped into her pelvis at all, let alone engaged, her hips were tiny she was told, and she was already very much past her due date.

Instead of these remarks squashing her plans and her confidence, they fueled her instinct to birth at home even more and she made it quite clear that she would prefer to be left alone until she went into labour.

So, ten days after her due date, she let me know that her waters had broken but that she wasn’t yet experiencing any labour pains. She would let me know once things were happening but for now, she was just going to stay at home and wait and see. She would be in touch. Even though we only lived ten minutes from one another, we were separated by the Argus Cycle tour taking place that day, so even if I had wanted to get to her, I couldn’t have, and neither could anyone else, so she really could just be left undisturbed at home.

At around 3 pm in the afternoon, once the roads were open and clear again, I made my way to her home at her request. She and her partner were sitting on the sofa when I got there and after greeting them I sat down on the sofa opposite them.

I felt on the spot, they were looking expectantly at me, as if they were waiting for me to do something. She was experiencing the occasional contraction but it was definitely still very early labour and there was certainly not much that I could do!

I excused myself and went to the loo, and once I was done, I ducked into the garden thinking,

What do I do with myself now?

I spotted a cat lying lazily in a spot of afternoon sun on the grass and I remembered Michel Odent saying something along the lines of:

“If you are unsure of what to do with yourself at a birth, find a cat and copy what they do. Cats are the ideal birth attendants.”

So yeah, I went and sat with the cat.

She didn’t seem to mind too much that I was infringing on her bit of sunlight. At first, I sat a little stiffly, I felt awkward. But soon, her laziness rubbed off on me and eventually, I too was stretched out enjoying the last rays of afternoon sun.

The mother came out into the garden and asked my advice on what she should do.

I asked her what it was that she felt like doing. She said that she was tired and felt like resting and sleeping, so I said,

“Well, why don’t you go and try to do that.”

So off she went. And I stayed with the cat until the sun set.

I snuck back inside the house (like a cat) and saw out of the corner of my eye the mother sitting cross-legged on the sofa, propped up by pillows, resting in between surges – which now seemed to be coming at a more regular pace.

I lay down on the bed in the spare room and fell asleep.

The father woke me to let me know that the mother’s waters had properly broken and so I got up and quietly helped her change her panties and leggings and fetched her a pad.

She then silently slipped off to her bedroom where she stayed for the rest of her labour.

It was interesting because, during her pregnancy, she had envisioned herself spiralling in her great white open plan sitting room. The birth pool was set up there and it had been deemed the official birth space.

But intuitively, as a mammalian, labouring woman, she found the smallest, darkest, cosiest room to labour in. The space she had chosen made it quite clear that she needed and wanted to be left alone.

And so we did.

I stayed in touch with her midwife who was very aware of the labouring mother needing as much space as possible during her labour and that the midwife would head through only once labour was well established.

The father and I read books in the sitting room. At one point he got up and made a stir fry.

I peeked at the mother on my way to the loo once or twice and saw that she was well and truly in her zone, kneeling, leaning on a birth ball, a soft blanket over her shoulders, a sleepy look on her face.

A gentle pink glow from the Himalayan salt lamp giving the room a womb-like quality.

She made soft sighing sounds.

And sang quietly.

Then suddenly, the quiet was broken. She came out of the room looking wild-eyed.

She gave a big grunt and it was as though her entire body contracted into one expulsive peristaltic movement.

“I can feel the head,” she said.

And so we helped her to take off her leggings. We had to cut off her panties, she couldn’t lift her legs.

Three more spontaneous pushes and the baby was out.

A first-time mother.

Giving birth.

A GENUINE fetus ejection reflex!

Wow!

It is possible!

The post The First Time I Ever Witnessed a Fetus Ejection Reflex appeared first on True Midwifery.

No Matter How Tired You are, Remember to Stay Mindful

Words echoed over and over again by stressed and exhausted 4th-year medical students yesterday during their Obstetric rotation OSCEs.

A good reminder for a midwife who had had 3 hours sleep after a long labour and who had to sit through 4 hours of 50 students being examined on ‘Compassion.’

No Matter How Tired You are, Remember to Stay Mindful…

That was the message that echoed over and over again and what kept me going through yesterday.

 

 

The post No Matter How Tired You are, Remember to Stay Mindful appeared first on True Midwifery.

Sexual Abuse Triggers During Labour and Birth

I have started writing a book on creating a safe space for pregnant, labouring and birthing women who have been sexually abused.

I don’t claim to be an expert on this very sensitive subject matter. Nor do I claim to have covered every aspect of it in this book.

For a very comprehensive and thorough analysis on this subject matter please read When Survivors Give Birth: Understanding and Healing the Effects of Early Sexual Abuse in Childbearing Women by Penny Simkin and Phyllis Klaus.

I am putting this book for numerous reasons. I am putting this book together because I live in a country where women are more likely to be raped than literate. A country where, according to the Medical Reasearch Council, one in three girls under the age of 18 has been sexually abused.The MRC’s study also states that by 2009, 40% of all victims who reported rape to the police were under 18 and 15% were under 12 years old.I am putting this book together because of my own personal experience. I am putting this book together because abuse is so prevalent in our birthing facilities. I am putting this book together because I see what a difference knowledge, skills and the correct language can make. I am putting this book together because of my mother. I am putting this book together for all the women out there who have, or will still some day, give birth.

This book springs forth from a series of tutorials called Compassion tutorials started by midwife Robyn Sheldon. They are a series given to the 4th and 5th-year medical students at the University of Cape Town during their Obstetric and Gynaecology rotation. I teach these tutorials along with Robyn, Caitlyn Collins and Alexia van der Velde. We teach at Groote Schuur hospital, Mowbray Maternity hospital and New Somerset hospital. These tutorials were started to address the high incidents of abuse from caregivers towards women birthing in the labour wards.

With the  4th years, we focus primarily on the concept of compassion in the context of the labour ward. Often students are rather traumatised from attending births and how women are treated and this is very much the focus discussion amongst meditation, learning skills when attending women in labour and understanding better the emotional and psychological aspects of labour and birth. These tutorials are usually well received and have been deemed a success.

By the time the 5th years are in their gynaecology rotation, the students have hardened from their experiences, sometimes the Compassion tutorials fell a bit flat because they seemed not to deal with the real issues the students were faced with.

One day, I decided to tackle the subject of compassion from the perspective of working with women who had been sexually abused.

Something shifted.

The feedback was very positive from the students.

I have now been regularly speaking on the subject matter for the nearly two years.

Over and over again I hear the words, “I wish I had had this information sooner – it will certainly change the way I work with women in the future.”

That feedback is enough to make me want to spread this message far and wide.

I will touch on two aspects of what I share with them here today:

I emphasise the prevalence of sexual abuse in South African society. As mentioned previously, 1 in 3 girls will have experienced some form of sexual coercion before the age of 18.

Let that sink in.

These statistics made me think that we needed some sort of sexual abuse universal precautions in place around working with pregnant and labouring women.

As caregivers, we ensure our own safety, by having universal precautions in place. We assume that all bodily fluids we come into contact with, may potentially carry some form of bloodborne pathogen. And therefore, we protect ourselves from them.

These statistics around sexual abuse made me think that we needed to have universal precautions in place for pregnant women also and almost assume that every pregnant woman who comes to see us, or who we care for in labour, may possibly have been sexually abused.

This is not to say that she should be treated as a victim, or assumptions made but that we need to be aware of the care we provide and the language we use, because we as caregivers during this time, could potentially be part of either the healing from or the perpetuating of, the abuse.

This leads me  on to the next thing.

2. Possible triggers in labour and birth

Sometimes sexual abuse memories can be triggered by the uncontrollable sensations of labour and could be linked to previous experiences of sexual abuse in the same parts of the body.
The lack of control over the process could also be a trigger.
The sensation of the baby moving through the birth canal and vagina.
How we touch a woman speaks volumes and we must always ask permission to touch, even touch that is meant to be caring and calming could be a trigger.
The feeling of the baby on her chest. There is such an emphasis on the benefits of skin to skin contact immediately after birth and yet, all too often, I have seen, especially young teenage mothers, put their hands up, or have a very strong negative reaction when the baby is thrust onto their chests without permission. Waiting a few minutes until the mother is ready to receive her baby, will be a more gentle transition and less likely to trigger the mother if she has been previously sexually abused.
Some birthing positions, especially lithotomy, with its accompanying feelings of disempowerment. Also, hands and knees, squatting and pulling a woman’s legs apart.
The environment she is birthing in could also be a trigger.
The lack of privacy.
Lack of respect for her modesty.
Being left alone.
Vaginal exams.
Any medical procedure, like being monitored or having blood taken.
Being watched and questioned by strangers
Language is a big one. Saying things like, ” Open your legs,” “Relax your bottom,” “This will only hurt a little,” and “Relax and it won’t hurt so much,” may make sense in the context of a labour ward but these words could also have been used by her abuser.

Remember, that many women do not remember that they have been abused. They may have been too young when it happened to remember, or they may have blocked out these memories.

Just because she does not remember having been abused, her body may.

The post Sexual Abuse Triggers During Labour and Birth appeared first on True Midwifery.

A Story of Surrogacy

I met her when she was pregnant with her fourth child and was planning her first home birth. I got to attend that birth as her doula – after three hospital births, this was a very different and empowering experience for her.

She loved being pregnant and she loved giving birth but four children were enough for her and her family.

She decided to take on being a surrogate mother – A woman who agrees to give birth to a child resulting from artificial insemination or the implantation of an already fertilised egg and who surrenders any parental rights to a third party. A big thing to decide to do but she felt very strongly that she wanted to do this for someone else.

She met and carried the child for a single man. They became good friends and as she had trained as a doula as well, she was able to educate him on the options available in bringing his baby into the world. He went from wanting an elective caesarean for his child to attending hypnobirthing classes with her and planning a water birth in a hospital with midwives! I attended as her doula.

She laboured well, but sadly, due to various circumstances, a cesarean became necessary. This mother who had birthed her babies (one of them breech) with no issues was suddenly wheeled to the theatre where for the first time, she underwent this operation.

There was obviously a lot of emotional (and physical) recovery after this but she did say at one point that she felt that she felt that in order to be able to give the baby away, to not bond or attach herself to the baby, him being born via caesarean was necessary.

A few years later, she chose to walk this road again with another couple, a couple who had lost their son in an accident. They were quite clear that they were taking no risks  that their baby was to be born via elective caesarean.

Again, I walked this path with her as her doula, and there was much processing about the previous birth and preparation for the imminent caesarean birth. One of the things she was able to request and implement was a ‘natural caesarean’. 

On the day of the caesarean, I fetched her from home. It was strange to be attending a birth that was scheduled – for both of us I think.

We had planned to go for a walk together first.

I took her to The Company’s Gardens and we walked and talked until we reached St.George’s Cathedral where we sat quietly for a while. Then we lit a candle each.

Then we went to the hospital.

I have to admit to it being one of the most beautiful, and dare I say, ‘holy’ caesarean births I have ever experienced. There was no idle chatter, everyone felt fully focused on this event – there was a real reverence for this gift that was being given.

She even admitted that although she had been terrified of this second caesarean, it was actually a healing experience for her.

She is now pregnant again for another couple. This time, it is twins! Again I will be attending as her doula and an obstetrician has agreed to assisting at a VBA2C (Vaginal Birth After 2 Caesareans) for twins. The parents are in agreement.

We wait and see…

Shared with permission.

The post A Story of Surrogacy appeared first on True Midwifery.

A Little Drop in the Ocean

This last Saturday, after weeks and months of discussion and deliberation, the board members of The Compassionate Birth Project, were finally able to meet and discuss their ideas and to receive valuable feedback from the midwives working at some of Cape Town’s busiest and highly stressed MOUs (Midwife Obstetric Units) – Mitchells Plain and Hanover Park.

It was a very informal meeting and we all sat in a circle and introduced ourselves. We spoke about our passions and why we were there. We spoke about our children.

Robyn introduced the project and the proposed modules for The Compassionate Care Training Course for Midwives and MOU staff.

We wondered about how these would be received. What would the feedback be? And for us, more than anything, it was of utmost importance that we were not telling these midwives, who work so hard and who have done so for so many years, relentlessly, under conditions, which are far from ideal, what it was that they needed.

We wanted to hear from them what their needs were.

The feedback was amazing. I don’t think anyone of us ever thought it would be received with such open arms.

And such a sense of relief.

Finally!

Finally something for the midwives! Something to take care of and nurture and support the midwives!

These bastions of strength who, day in and day out, make sure, that mothers and babies are alive and safe.

It was a small meeting. A small circle of women in a room in Rondebosch.

But I think to everyone present, the power held in that little drop in the ocean, was tangible.

The post A Little Drop in the Ocean appeared first on True Midwifery.

and remember what peace there may be in silence…

“Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.”

– Max Ehrmann, “Desiderata“

With every birth I walk away with something new.

or what I know to be true is reiterated or reconfirmed.

What peace there is in silence…

How those words resonate as I sit behind the young mother gently pressing on the part of her back that she has indicated is needing a gentle touch as she lies on her side labouring.

Her friend…who has been with her all night sleeps behind me.

We don’t speak.  We convey everything purely through our bodies and through touch.

Our communication is through the silence and respect and reverence we have for this process.

The wind howls and the windows rattle.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

The post and remember what peace there may be in silence… appeared first on True Midwifery.

Embracing Traditional Midwifery

Here is the video from my talk at the 2015 Cape Town Midwifery and Birth Conference where I shared my journey and path to midwifery.

 

 

The post Embracing Traditional Midwifery appeared first on True Midwifery.