Last term, I had my Maternal/Infant Nursing class, which had clinical requirements. I was very anxious to go into this particular class, given the whole societal pressure to procreate thing--honestly, I wasn't sure how much the course was going to be reinforcing a value system that doesn't apply to me and that has actively hurt me on a number of occasions.
So, yes, I wasn't sure how this was actually going to go. The professor, though, was unabashedly passionate about what she does and that was certainly catching. The material was vast, and I was greatly excited to learn something new, particularly comparing it to what colloquial wisdom was already out there with what was backed by data.
I think it's fair to say that the bulk of the class wanted to see a birth--even members of the group that already had children were sometimes still interested in a different perspective. I was hoping to see one, but simultaneously I didn't want to take it away from anyone else.
It so happened that I saw three.
Birth A: a C-section for someone that had had one previously. The mood with the patient was calm acceptance, the group understanding that there would be a quiet anxiousness and then everything would happen at once. I filled the time while we waited for the patient by asking many, many questions. We moved into the procedure room, the patient walking up to the table and, from epidural to birth, a whirlwind of thirty minutes. There was a required sterility in procedure which lent itself to an interesting sterility of emotion, in some ways. Gloves, gown, more gloves, untouchable tables and untouchable pieces, precise body movements to prevent accidental infringement of sterile places. The father was present but quietly off to the side until they were given a cue that they could interact, visible to their spouse and a drape between him and the surgical elements. What was going to happen was understood but still astounding in certain ways. The care team was divided between mother and child, persons designated toward both and hands ready. I was relegated to the latter, helping to wipe down and measure the squalling new life at our heated bassinette. We had our tools and area ready to receive, watching and waiting for our time to act. Wiping clean new limbs, passing the child to their family, offering to take a picture of the three of them together--so much anticipation for a thirty minute act resulting in a complete and total life-change. The room was cold and active.
Birth B: the first child. There were a number of unknowns in the situation, firstly the general anticipation of all the new firsts--first pregnancy, first child, and all the uncertainty that implies--as well as some significant complication risks that required additional monitoring. The anxiety, therefore, was high, but it was more excitement than it was worry. The spouse stood behind our mother, feeling rather useless. Myself and a peer held her legs up while we cheered and coached her on, counting her push times during her contractions--when the nurse I was following moved to a different step, I took over counting and prompting in her stead. The atmosphere alternated between relaxed chatting about how they organized the nursery and what meal the mother was most looking forward to having over to strictly business when it was time to push and cheer. The excitement and wonder in those new parents, particularly with the bond we had created over those hours of pushing, that was a special moment to be a part of. The room was warm and wondrous.
Birth C: the second child. The family already had had a vaginal birth before--they knew what they were doing, what to expect, and moved with that kind of confidence. Starting to push from birth was about half an hour later. There was not as much chatter between contractions--all business. This is not to say that there wasn't joy, but it was comparatively quieter in a few ways. There was less connection with the family, but they were connected in themselves, focused on their own experience. We checked in with them and talked to them, but otherwise allowed them to connect with each other and got out of the way. The room was businesslike.
Each event was special--from the cold sterility of surgery to the first child in a family to the child in a family that already knew the ropes. Each event felt vastly different from the others. No one birth event was "better" than the others, merely a reflection on their particular family and the needs of the group there. I'm grateful to have been a part of them, and especially to have had such a variety of experiences. Seeing one birth was exciting, but to be able to stretch the basis for comparison by such stark differences, I saw greater beauty still. Different patients, different needs, but all needing their own personal touch. The true delight in serving is only possible when I tune in to these different needs, when I address what is important to the patient rather than what my preferences might be.
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