The Story Matters
They say that your life changes the day your child is born. I never doubted that to be true but I don’t think I ever could have known how true that would be. It was the early morning hours of November 17th and I was 10 days past my due date with my first child. Labor started the night before after a long walk. My back was achy, my stomach felt a little off, and I was so tired. After soaking in a tub for a bit I managed to fall asleep around midnight. At 6am I woke up with up with stronger cramping and by 6:30 we were calling the midwife to join us in our home where we planned to deliver. The day had finally come! We were going to meet our baby!
I remember being in the bathroom leaning over the counter while my husband rubbed my back when we heard a knock on the door. We opened the door and a lovely woman who we had never met before in khakis and a long sleeved black shirt with the kindest smile was standing there. All she said was “Hi, my name is Bobbi and I am your midwife’s assistant. I will be right out here if you need anything at all.” And over the next 15 hours she was there at every turn.
Labor unfolded like a textbook delivery. Active labor progressed, transition came on like a freight train, and the urge to push was real! By 1pm I began pushing and she was making progress. We knew she would be in our arms so very soon! One hour went by, then another, then another, and still no baby. She was stuck. After 3 hours of pushing at home, the midwife felt like we should transport to the hospital. It seemed the baby had moved into a bad position for delivery and home was no longer the safest place to deliver. So the ambulance was called, the hospital alerted, and my dream of an uncomplicated home delivery disappeared in an instant.
We were whisked away to the nearest hospital and 2 hours later our baby girl was finally born. Perfectly healthy. Beautiful. But different. I had been dreaming of a cozy low key home delivery and she chose an emergency transport and a hospital bed. Truth be told, the only part of my birth plan I cared about aside from a healthy baby, was that I did not want to be in the hospital. She came in the one place I did not want to be.
That night as I lay awake retelling myself the story of the day I was surprised to discover that even though our story had not gone as I had imagined, I really loved it. I didn’t have any disappointment about how it had all played out. As I continued to think about why that was, one consistent thing kept coming to my mind. Rather one consistent name. Bobbi. The stranger who knocked on my bathroom door that morning. At each and every turn she was encouraging us, feeding us, giving my husband a break when he needed it. When we needed to call the ambulance and every other voice began to escalate, her voice became quieter and closer to us. She told us what was going on, encouraged us to ask questions, and translated the language of the hospital to us so we knew what was going on. She still believed my voice was the most important in the room, and when I was starving after delivery, but had already eaten all of my burger and fries, she gave me hers and said she wasn’t hungry.
Three days later at a postpartum visit Bobbi said she was training as a doula. We had no idea what that word meant. She explained a little about how doulas offer non medical support to birthing families. How they stay by your side throughout the process and help you navigate the twists and turns of labor. How they make sure your questions are answered and your voice is heard. It all made sense. I didn’t love my birth story because of what happened. I was able to love my story because of how it happened. And Bobbi had been the guardian of the how.
Three years later I sat in the upstairs room of a yoga center waiting for my own doula training to start. A mom of two at that point, and oh how that fact alone had changed me. Nineteen years later and I am still discovering the depth of change that happened on that November day.
But another change happened that day as well. In the hours spent in that upstairs room training to be a doula I changed again. The realization of just how important it is to be the author of our own story has taken me into the stories of hundreds of families. Each birth with different hopes and challenges, but I hope the women I have worked with, regardless of how their baby chose to be born, can say the same thing about me that I say about Bobbi.
Your story matters. Your voice is the most important in the room. The how of your story matters as much as the what.