First births

I remember the first birth I saw: shoulder dystocia in the pool, released by the woman standing up and raising a foot up onto the side of the pool. The quite frankly larger than life baby was purple when he came out, and his first pictures were in black and white because his face was like a blueberry. I remember the first birth I helped to facilitate as a student: I was a trembling first year and the support worker inadvertently directed the taxi driver into the birth room, having mistaken him for the woman’s birth partner. I remember the little boy’s name, and I remember his mum scooping him up, latching him to her breast, and reaching out to cut the umbilical cord, all seemingly in one movement. I remember the fear and the giddiness, and the nerves. I remember the midwife with whom I worked, I remember how strong yet gentle her hands felt on top of mine, guiding me to unite him and his mum. I remember the first birth I facilitated as a qualified midwife. It was my very first day on shift and I was being supported by my sassy and sparkly midwife colleague and friend. We watched in awe as the little girl sped out in an OP position, and the woman plopped her placenta (unassisted) onto the bed quickly afterwards.

What I shall remember from this weekend is this: the look on a couple’s faces as they clapped eyes on their first baby for the first time; the look on T’s face as she witnessed birth for the first time. I got to watch and listen as her baby rotated himself from ROT/ROP to LOA, I looked her in the eye as she felt the initial surges and we breathed through contractions together, I emptied her catheter and helped her wash after birth, I laid her baby on her skin. This first birth was the end of T’s very first placement as a student midwife. The midwife in charge of the ward was there for the birth and when I saw her later, she bubbled over with affirmations that the woman and her birth had made her shift. T and the dad stood with huge grins on their faces and went over the birth. They marvelled at how incredible the woman was, at her instinct and superhuman power, at how she’d birthed like a goddess.

I want to tell T to bottle those feelings and to revisit them and bask in the glow of how that birth made her feel. In the occasional hard times of training, and the sometimes lows of life as a qualified midwife, these moments of perfection, and the euphoria of oxytocin reinvigorate you. T was bouncing off the walls, sky high on happiness as she realised that she’d made a good choice: this is where she’s meant to be. Towards the end of the shift, when my eyes were bleary and tired, and my mascara was halfway down my face, T asked me “Do you like your job?”.

Oh my gosh, I bloody love it.