Room seven delivered, no complications
One of my classes this semester is “Autoethnographic Research Methods.” I’d never heard of autoethnography before, and I’m still delving into what it is, what it can be, and what it might be for my work. What I do know so far: autoethnography could be a transformational space in midwifery. I think it’s what I’ve been looking for in writing, while ethics is what I’ve been looking for in midwifery and feminism. Here is an example of an autoethnography for others also new to the concept (written by my professor for this course):
Confessions of a Video Vixen: My Autocritography of Sexuality, Desire, and Memory by Amber Johnson, PhD
Abstract
The video vixen holds a special place in American society's underbelly. Good hair, firm breasts, round ass, slim waist, and pouty mouth, she is beautiful according to European and African American standards. She personifies sex. After seeing Case serenade and propose to Beyoncé in his music video “Happily Ever After,” I wanted to be the video vixen. I wanted my desirability memorialized in a video. Nelly was my chance, or so I thought. In this autocritography, I use performative writing to confess my short-lived career as a video vixen. My intention is to trouble boundaries of gender and sexuality by telling and re-telling my experience on the set of Nelly's “Country Grammar (Hot Shit)” music video shoot alongside my anthem at the time, Jay-Z and Pharell's “I Just Wanna Love You (Give It 2 Me).” I illuminate how bodies move between and beyond boundaries established by language due to the intersectional properties of our experiences, counter-memory, and re-membering.
As I’ve mentioned in a few spaces, I’m starting to pull together a book centered around the title, “When A Survivor Becomes A Provider.” For this class, I’ll be writing my own essay for that project. I’ve never written about my sexual assault, and I’m not quite sure how exactly I’ll write about it, but I will. It’s time. I’m hoping it can be a starting-off point for others to submit writing for that anthology. I’ve already started working with a graphic designer so I can put a front-cover image to the intention. Excited to really have that underway this summer.
In class last night, we started sharing our previous writings with one another. I wracked my brain about what I should offer, given I’ve been writing the blog for two years and now this newsletter and the reflections for over two. For some reason, this post from 2014 immediately came to mind. Is it perfect? No, but that’s never been my goal on the blog. Is it everything I needed to say at the time? Yes, and it means the world to me to go back and read it again now. Is it still heartbreaking to read? Yes, yes it is.
…
Room seven delivered, no complications.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
Those clinical, medical words would be used to describe and sign out the birth after I left.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
Such an easy thing to say about an incredibly complex moment.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
Her partner let us know she wanted to start pushing. The Intern and I were the only providers on the floor or not in surgery, so we went in together. I realized that since her admission, no one had spoken with the laboring woman in her own language. I asked a quick history since I had never met her before, assured her of how beautiful the baby's heart sounded and how great she was doing, and encouraged her to listen to her body.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
As the Intern began to dress, I whispered to her how we would manage the birth slightly differently than she had seen with the doctors: no need to break the bag, baby straight to mom, and wait for the cord to stop pulsing to clamp and cut. She nodded, and took my lead.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
The woman told me in a shaky voice that she was nervous, but didn't know why. Her other babies were born without complications, and this pregnancy had been an easy one. Her partner echoed the same sentiments, that he was also nervous but did not know why. He came to her side and they held hands, both their faces tense with worry. I continued to show her how calm I was and assure her everything was going beautifully. I validated that it was normal to feel nervous, but we were all there with her to help. After a few contractions in silence, she began pushing.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
The nurse asked, flatly, loudly, and in English, why we weren't breaking her bag of water. I responded, cheerfully, that she was doing great and there was no need, in English and then in Spanish so everyone could understand.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
The bag broke, the baby came easily but tangled in her own cord and yelling about it as she rode out on a wave. Baby went straight to mom and dad, the tension fading from their faces. I said ¡feliz cumpleaños!, congratulated the beautiful family, complimented the baby's bottom lip that quivered with its first breaths, and turned my attention back to helping the intern with logistics of clamps and scissors. Intact perineum. Placenta quick. Family bonding and smiling. Room calm, quiet, and happy.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
For a few moments, I felt like a midwife. Specifically, like the best midwife I can be where I work. I felt great, and proud, and thrilled to have been a part of the family's birth experience. My midwife heart soared.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
As we begin to clean up, I hear the door open. A doctor walks in and immediately yells at me that I do not have insurance coverage to deliver this patient. She then throws up her arms and walks out of the room. Not only was the statement incorrect, but she did not acknowledge the family, the process, nor see anything other than herself and her intentions. She did not consider that there was a better time or place to discuss the concern, with the woman's gown up and baby in her arms. Had the patient been English-speaking, I have no idea how I would have explained what had just happened.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
I shook it off, continued to compliment the family, guide the Resident, and assure beauty and normalcy and love. The room felt broken. I felt broken. Such a beautiful birth experience in the face of what could have been a difficult one, with any other provider on the floor that day. In one second I was reminded of where I work, and with whom I work, and the institutionalized culture that pervades even the most calm, quiet, and happy rooms. I can only hope that the family felt the experience was a positive one, and that they were unaware that we were all giving it our all to make it everything that any of us could, in that moment, in that room, on that day.I made it to the call room before breaking down. And then I went home.
Room seven delivered, no complications.
