Friday, August 29, 2008
home
My first week here has gone by in a blur. A lake-swimming, grocery-shopping, cellphone-procuring, bank-account-opening, friend-making, home-Skyping, crazy blur.
Yesterday, we began our Orientation programme, which involved introductions and the like from 9am until about noon, when we headed off to Highland Lake for a potluck lunch (mostly organic, whole-food, and delicious - in true midwifey style) and a long swim, followed by an afternoon of discussion about what it is that we are embarking on together as midwives.
And today, after a shared breakfast of fruit salad and scones, and a tour of our wonderful library (in which I could see myself living), we started our first class -- History of Midwifery. We covered 3000 years of history in the space of a glorious afternoon, huddled together in the cozy classroom, drinking hazelnut/vanilla tea and enthusiastically interacting with each other, getting to grips with all the main historical and political themes, all the while excitedly referring to books we've read or experiences we've had with birth. Then, a fellow student (she is also a naturopathic physician) took me outside to the garden after class to find some plantain for a poultice to soothe my many mosquito bites from yesterday afternoon in the woods.
Tomorrow I'm going on a road-trip to Bangor, 2 hours north of here, with a new friend and fellow student midwife, to take a look at a sweet car I'm keen to buy. In the evening, there's a New England contradance, complete with folk band, which I've been sternly instructed NOT to miss.
Right now, fresh from a 'goodnight' Skype chat with P, curled up in an armchair with my notebook on my lap and my ever-present cup of ginger tea to the side (can you tell that tea is a theme of this post?), I'm feeling that things are more familiar to me, that I have friends here, that Bridgton is becoming home.
Yesterday, we began our Orientation programme, which involved introductions and the like from 9am until about noon, when we headed off to Highland Lake for a potluck lunch (mostly organic, whole-food, and delicious - in true midwifey style) and a long swim, followed by an afternoon of discussion about what it is that we are embarking on together as midwives.
And today, after a shared breakfast of fruit salad and scones, and a tour of our wonderful library (in which I could see myself living), we started our first class -- History of Midwifery. We covered 3000 years of history in the space of a glorious afternoon, huddled together in the cozy classroom, drinking hazelnut/vanilla tea and enthusiastically interacting with each other, getting to grips with all the main historical and political themes, all the while excitedly referring to books we've read or experiences we've had with birth. Then, a fellow student (she is also a naturopathic physician) took me outside to the garden after class to find some plantain for a poultice to soothe my many mosquito bites from yesterday afternoon in the woods.
Tomorrow I'm going on a road-trip to Bangor, 2 hours north of here, with a new friend and fellow student midwife, to take a look at a sweet car I'm keen to buy. In the evening, there's a New England contradance, complete with folk band, which I've been sternly instructed NOT to miss.
Right now, fresh from a 'goodnight' Skype chat with P, curled up in an armchair with my notebook on my lap and my ever-present cup of ginger tea to the side (can you tell that tea is a theme of this post?), I'm feeling that things are more familiar to me, that I have friends here, that Bridgton is becoming home.
Monday, August 25, 2008
future (part three)
To pick up from where I left the story hanging...
I waited at the appropriate boarding gate, as instructed, until everybody had boarded the flight, to see whether there'd be a seat for me or not. Well, there was -- one precious seat, especially for me (or so I like to think). So I was whisked away, and after a fuss-free flight, arrived in Portland just after 5pm. I went straight to the rental car booth to see what was potting, but all the 'cheap' cars were already out, and what remained was way out of budget. So... I decided on a taxi ride, or rather, a cab ride. The unassuming driver, Abdi, was half Kenyan, half Somalian, incredibly friendly and impeccably educated (he told me he liked to read commentaries on US foreign policy, one of which he pointed to on his passenger seat -- Good Muslim, Bad Muslim: America, The Cold War and The Roots of Terror). Blimey.
One hour, a gas-station stop, a scintillating conversation, about 50 photographs I hurriedly snapped of towns we whizzed by, and $92 (!!) later, I was in Bridgton and looking up at the red brick façade of Birthwise Midwifery School, in the humid summer evening air.
Immediately, student midwives scurried around me, hugging me hello, making herbal tea, asking me questions, and sharing their dinner (of miso soup, avocado maki rolls, crab salad, and Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice-cream -- hardly the New England Clam Chowder I'd been expecting, but who in their right mind would complain?!). It was glorious.
But I was tired. Tired isn't the word. At 9pm, after attempting to stay awake long enough to watch a DVD with the lovely women and barely managing to keep my eyes open for the title menu, I retired to my temporary room in the Birth House (attached to the school building but nonetheless a free-standing, midwife-owned birthing centre for the public). I'd forgotten to ask for a blanket and was frankly too tired to go upstairs again and get hold of one, so I pulled my houndstooth winter coat out of my suitcase in the dark, climbed onto the futon, covered myself with the coat, clutched my beloved Scottie-dog toy, Julian, to my chest and shut my weary eyes.
As I fell asleep, I thought, this is the place that will make me a midwife.
I waited at the appropriate boarding gate, as instructed, until everybody had boarded the flight, to see whether there'd be a seat for me or not. Well, there was -- one precious seat, especially for me (or so I like to think). So I was whisked away, and after a fuss-free flight, arrived in Portland just after 5pm. I went straight to the rental car booth to see what was potting, but all the 'cheap' cars were already out, and what remained was way out of budget. So... I decided on a taxi ride, or rather, a cab ride. The unassuming driver, Abdi, was half Kenyan, half Somalian, incredibly friendly and impeccably educated (he told me he liked to read commentaries on US foreign policy, one of which he pointed to on his passenger seat -- Good Muslim, Bad Muslim: America, The Cold War and The Roots of Terror). Blimey.
One hour, a gas-station stop, a scintillating conversation, about 50 photographs I hurriedly snapped of towns we whizzed by, and $92 (!!) later, I was in Bridgton and looking up at the red brick façade of Birthwise Midwifery School, in the humid summer evening air.
Immediately, student midwives scurried around me, hugging me hello, making herbal tea, asking me questions, and sharing their dinner (of miso soup, avocado maki rolls, crab salad, and Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice-cream -- hardly the New England Clam Chowder I'd been expecting, but who in their right mind would complain?!). It was glorious.
But I was tired. Tired isn't the word. At 9pm, after attempting to stay awake long enough to watch a DVD with the lovely women and barely managing to keep my eyes open for the title menu, I retired to my temporary room in the Birth House (attached to the school building but nonetheless a free-standing, midwife-owned birthing centre for the public). I'd forgotten to ask for a blanket and was frankly too tired to go upstairs again and get hold of one, so I pulled my houndstooth winter coat out of my suitcase in the dark, climbed onto the futon, covered myself with the coat, clutched my beloved Scottie-dog toy, Julian, to my chest and shut my weary eyes.
As I fell asleep, I thought, this is the place that will make me a midwife.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
future (part two)
Films I watched on the plane (to kill time, because sleeping upright on a twenty-hour flight was near-impossible even for me -- and those who know me, know very well how unshakably deeply I sleep under all sorts of bizarre circumstances): Definitely, Maybe; Made of Honor; Smart People (partially).
With my mind suitably numbed by the above pop-cult entertainment, and my tummy hesitantly accepting of the fact that an entire day's worth of meals (yes, dinner, lunch AND breakfast) would be served - thousands of feet above the ground - in dinky little portions on plastic trays, I snuggled under my nylon Delta blankie and tried to contemplate my fate.
Didn't actually get to contemplate much before we touched down in Dakar, Senegal, for a brief refuelling session and to drop off a few passengers. The rest of us didn't leave the plane, and after an hour we took off again to head straight across the Atlantic.
It would be another 8 hours or so before the next touchdown, in Atlanta. As we crossed a further four time-zones, my night was punctuated with weird dreamless "sleep", the sounds of babies crying and the occasional sharp elbow-nudge from my equally restless co-passenger.
We landed at 08h07 (US Eastern time, six hours behind South African time) at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. I had a connecting flight to Portland, Maine, 1 1/2 hours after landing, so I was pretty anxious when I stepped off the plane to face a 45-minute queue at customs/immigration. I was photographed, fingerprinted and questioned along with everybody else; all my papers scrupulously examined.
I was set free, only to face another half-hour wait, along with everyone else, at 'Agriculture Inspection'... Still not sure what the point of that was. Perhaps they suspected I was an alien plant? Everybody who had checked in a weapon as part of their luggage -- and there were plenty people like that -- skipped the queue and got 'processed' first. Meanwhile, there were families with several small children (one couple had a three-year-old son and 9-month-old twin girls) who had to wait it out for ages in this paint-fumey lounge with exposed construction beams all around. That's not right, people!
I got out at 09h30, precisely when my connecting flight was due to take off. [Don't panic, I kept saying to myself. But I feared I was in for a lot of money.]
The über-friendly Delta employee at the re-booking counter was the saviour of the day. She said, I wasn't the first person ever to miss my flight (well, it was the first time it'd ever happened to me...), and that "Delta takes care of these things". Well, she provisionally booked me on the next flight, at 14h40. The flight was full, but she said there'd probably be a last-minute cancellation or a no-show. Failing that, the last flight I could board was at 8pm, which would bring me in to Portland around midnight - meaning a 1am arrival in Bridgton at the earliest. Too terrible to contemplate, so I put my faith in the universe that the 2pm flight would 'grow' an extra seat for me meanwhile.
I changed money at a ridiculously unfavourable rate (no time to do it at OR Tambo Airport in Johannesburg), but at least I finally had some greenbacks in hand. Feeling secure in at least a few, small areas helped a great deal, since I was starting to feel vulnerable and a little afraid. I called the school to say not to come and get me, since Ritchie would be waiting for a non-passenger, but she'd already left for Portland to run some errands and she didn't have a mobile phone. Aaargh! So guilt was added to my arm's-length list of emotions to process. I then put some money into a stand-up internet station and tried to chat to P over Gmail, but I couldn't get the simplistic keyboard to work properly. Bloody hell! He suggested a few things to fix the problem, none of which succeeded, so we settled on a few brief e-mail exchanges. I was SO relieved to let him know what was going on, but somehow the interaction with him gave me a shock, made me realise suddenly how much distance I'd stretched out between us in the previous 24 hours. I envisioned the globe in my mind, like those screen-shots you get on the plane of where the tiny little aircraft icon is along the yellow line between departure point and destination. I felt very small.
I locked myself in the loo, upset and screaming inwardly that I must have made some terrible mistake! But the pagan gods (who probably heeded Y's blessing to me at my farewell dinner) conspired to smooth the way for me. And pave it with gold and line it with flowers, even.
Stay tuned, dear friends...
With my mind suitably numbed by the above pop-cult entertainment, and my tummy hesitantly accepting of the fact that an entire day's worth of meals (yes, dinner, lunch AND breakfast) would be served - thousands of feet above the ground - in dinky little portions on plastic trays, I snuggled under my nylon Delta blankie and tried to contemplate my fate.
Didn't actually get to contemplate much before we touched down in Dakar, Senegal, for a brief refuelling session and to drop off a few passengers. The rest of us didn't leave the plane, and after an hour we took off again to head straight across the Atlantic.
It would be another 8 hours or so before the next touchdown, in Atlanta. As we crossed a further four time-zones, my night was punctuated with weird dreamless "sleep", the sounds of babies crying and the occasional sharp elbow-nudge from my equally restless co-passenger.
We landed at 08h07 (US Eastern time, six hours behind South African time) at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. I had a connecting flight to Portland, Maine, 1 1/2 hours after landing, so I was pretty anxious when I stepped off the plane to face a 45-minute queue at customs/immigration. I was photographed, fingerprinted and questioned along with everybody else; all my papers scrupulously examined.
I was set free, only to face another half-hour wait, along with everyone else, at 'Agriculture Inspection'... Still not sure what the point of that was. Perhaps they suspected I was an alien plant? Everybody who had checked in a weapon as part of their luggage -- and there were plenty people like that -- skipped the queue and got 'processed' first. Meanwhile, there were families with several small children (one couple had a three-year-old son and 9-month-old twin girls) who had to wait it out for ages in this paint-fumey lounge with exposed construction beams all around. That's not right, people!
I got out at 09h30, precisely when my connecting flight was due to take off. [Don't panic, I kept saying to myself. But I feared I was in for a lot of money.]
The über-friendly Delta employee at the re-booking counter was the saviour of the day. She said, I wasn't the first person ever to miss my flight (well, it was the first time it'd ever happened to me...), and that "Delta takes care of these things". Well, she provisionally booked me on the next flight, at 14h40. The flight was full, but she said there'd probably be a last-minute cancellation or a no-show. Failing that, the last flight I could board was at 8pm, which would bring me in to Portland around midnight - meaning a 1am arrival in Bridgton at the earliest. Too terrible to contemplate, so I put my faith in the universe that the 2pm flight would 'grow' an extra seat for me meanwhile.
I changed money at a ridiculously unfavourable rate (no time to do it at OR Tambo Airport in Johannesburg), but at least I finally had some greenbacks in hand. Feeling secure in at least a few, small areas helped a great deal, since I was starting to feel vulnerable and a little afraid. I called the school to say not to come and get me, since Ritchie would be waiting for a non-passenger, but she'd already left for Portland to run some errands and she didn't have a mobile phone. Aaargh! So guilt was added to my arm's-length list of emotions to process. I then put some money into a stand-up internet station and tried to chat to P over Gmail, but I couldn't get the simplistic keyboard to work properly. Bloody hell! He suggested a few things to fix the problem, none of which succeeded, so we settled on a few brief e-mail exchanges. I was SO relieved to let him know what was going on, but somehow the interaction with him gave me a shock, made me realise suddenly how much distance I'd stretched out between us in the previous 24 hours. I envisioned the globe in my mind, like those screen-shots you get on the plane of where the tiny little aircraft icon is along the yellow line between departure point and destination. I felt very small.
I locked myself in the loo, upset and screaming inwardly that I must have made some terrible mistake! But the pagan gods (who probably heeded Y's blessing to me at my farewell dinner) conspired to smooth the way for me. And pave it with gold and line it with flowers, even.
Stay tuned, dear friends...
Friday, August 22, 2008
future (part one)
Yesterday morning, P and I woke up as early as we could to make the last half-day seem longer. I opened my eyes a few minutes before he did, and lay watching him sleep for a blissful, surreal few moments. We had breakfast at our usual hangout spot; a grilled veg omelette with rye toast and a cappuccino for me -- what I always have. I said a sad goodbye to our waiter friend, appropriately named Future, who'd been taking care of us at that coffee shop for ages, and who sometimes got the barista to put a personalised message in the froth of my cappuccinos (like, "Welcome Back, We Missed You" after I'd been away for a while, or "Good Morning, C and P" on one of our frequent brunch runs). Heart-breaking. But yesterday, there was no froth-text, which was appropriate... blank space to write my own story, I guess.
After some time-wasting vexation (all my fault, for a change!) at the bank to get my money out, and then -- as if to chase the despair that was creeping up on me -- a touching message on my phone from a friend to wish me well and to say she thought P and I were truly meant to be together, we came home. I'd finished all my packing the day before, and there were boxes all around waiting to be picked up and taken into storage at my folks' house, so it was like returning expectantly to my beloved home and finding it had already been vacated. Even my long-suffering basil plant had finally given up, perhaps in sympathy with my impending departure. Strange thing, to anthropomorphise my potplant. Indeed, it was a strange day.
P and I sat together threading cord through my final stack of 200 drawstring bags for P's menstrual-cup business, because it was a job that needed doing and also because it gave a much-needed sense of normality to my day. Without that, I would simply have had more opportunities for freaking out. Having said that, I took breaks from the cord-threading to cry and be held.
At 3pm, leaving my half-eaten Greek Salad lunch in the fridge, and with a churning belly and irresolute heart, I got into the car and we headed for the airport. We plodded through a long queue, punctuated with a frenzied instruction to P to get some baggage tags from the airport stationary shop, and all the while N and C were waiting nearby with their toddler son to see me off, and my Mum and Papa were anxiously twiddling their thumbs at the airport coffee shop. Checking in was slow and frustrating, and even though we arrived there three hours before my flight was due to leave, I ended up with so much less time for goodbyes than I had planned and hoped for. A lesson in making do with what we have...
N gave me a magnificent gyroscopic crystal, glistening with hope and happy sentiment, to hang in my new window and admire. We both cried, having tried hard to hold it in until then. After a rushed goodbye to my sweet friends, I chatted to my Mum and Papa for a few minutes, hugging and being grateful for their love and trust in me, trying to make amends for getting them to come all the way to the airport and yet being unable to sit down longer and relax with them over a last coffee as I had promised.
P and I then walked back into the main terminal together, where we found a (relatively) quiet spot near a huge window with a view of all these dormant aircraft. We sat cross-legged, facing each other, on the floor. His quiet eyes were shining with love and sadness, and it must have taken all the strength he could muster to encourage me, to stay excited for me, to talk me through my tears and vaccilation and remind me why I had chosen this. Then it was time to go. I walked through the boarding gate, and his handsome bearded face, his azure blue shirt, blurred among the luggage-laden crowd.
And then... I was in the sky.
From N's farewell card to me: "Remember that what you have now was once among the things you only hoped for." - Epicurus
After some time-wasting vexation (all my fault, for a change!) at the bank to get my money out, and then -- as if to chase the despair that was creeping up on me -- a touching message on my phone from a friend to wish me well and to say she thought P and I were truly meant to be together, we came home. I'd finished all my packing the day before, and there were boxes all around waiting to be picked up and taken into storage at my folks' house, so it was like returning expectantly to my beloved home and finding it had already been vacated. Even my long-suffering basil plant had finally given up, perhaps in sympathy with my impending departure. Strange thing, to anthropomorphise my potplant. Indeed, it was a strange day.
P and I sat together threading cord through my final stack of 200 drawstring bags for P's menstrual-cup business, because it was a job that needed doing and also because it gave a much-needed sense of normality to my day. Without that, I would simply have had more opportunities for freaking out. Having said that, I took breaks from the cord-threading to cry and be held.
At 3pm, leaving my half-eaten Greek Salad lunch in the fridge, and with a churning belly and irresolute heart, I got into the car and we headed for the airport. We plodded through a long queue, punctuated with a frenzied instruction to P to get some baggage tags from the airport stationary shop, and all the while N and C were waiting nearby with their toddler son to see me off, and my Mum and Papa were anxiously twiddling their thumbs at the airport coffee shop. Checking in was slow and frustrating, and even though we arrived there three hours before my flight was due to leave, I ended up with so much less time for goodbyes than I had planned and hoped for. A lesson in making do with what we have...
N gave me a magnificent gyroscopic crystal, glistening with hope and happy sentiment, to hang in my new window and admire. We both cried, having tried hard to hold it in until then. After a rushed goodbye to my sweet friends, I chatted to my Mum and Papa for a few minutes, hugging and being grateful for their love and trust in me, trying to make amends for getting them to come all the way to the airport and yet being unable to sit down longer and relax with them over a last coffee as I had promised.
P and I then walked back into the main terminal together, where we found a (relatively) quiet spot near a huge window with a view of all these dormant aircraft. We sat cross-legged, facing each other, on the floor. His quiet eyes were shining with love and sadness, and it must have taken all the strength he could muster to encourage me, to stay excited for me, to talk me through my tears and vaccilation and remind me why I had chosen this. Then it was time to go. I walked through the boarding gate, and his handsome bearded face, his azure blue shirt, blurred among the luggage-laden crowd.
And then... I was in the sky.
From N's farewell card to me: "Remember that what you have now was once among the things you only hoped for." - Epicurus
Monday, August 18, 2008
grey limbo
It feels like I've just condensed a short lifetime into a single weekend. I've got two days to go (leaving for Maine this Wednesday), and I'm still reeling after my farewell party with friends on Saturday night (which was absolutely wonderful, but painful too), then another farewell lunch (with P's family) yesterday. Then, my own family was hit by some really bad news.
Last night, P and I were chatting about nothing in particular (I seem to recall it had something to do with the postal service) and suddenly I felt very 'off'. I went into the bedroom, sat down on the duvet and had a really good cry on P's shoulder -- I just felt overwhelmed by everything. Happily, I was a transformed person afterward. My first response when I'm upset is to cry, and I'd really rather be wired this way (i.e. ease of emotional release) than be the sort to bottle things up.
The bad news is that my beloved, sprightly, handsome, prankster German uncle has inoperable lung cancer, and P and I went over to my parents' house yesterday evening to comfort my Papa, who is devastated. His brother is as close to him as his own heart, even though the two men live thousands of miles apart. My heart breaks for all of us, especially my uncle's daughter, my beautiful cousin, H.
Du bist in unseren Gebeten, süßer Onkel.
Last night, P and I were chatting about nothing in particular (I seem to recall it had something to do with the postal service) and suddenly I felt very 'off'. I went into the bedroom, sat down on the duvet and had a really good cry on P's shoulder -- I just felt overwhelmed by everything. Happily, I was a transformed person afterward. My first response when I'm upset is to cry, and I'd really rather be wired this way (i.e. ease of emotional release) than be the sort to bottle things up.
The bad news is that my beloved, sprightly, handsome, prankster German uncle has inoperable lung cancer, and P and I went over to my parents' house yesterday evening to comfort my Papa, who is devastated. His brother is as close to him as his own heart, even though the two men live thousands of miles apart. My heart breaks for all of us, especially my uncle's daughter, my beautiful cousin, H.
Du bist in unseren Gebeten, süßer Onkel.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
one week to go
I spent the morning with P and my dad, chatting over a glorious breakfast outside in the sun, before we returned home and packed some of my things (bookshelf, chest of drawers, desk, etc) into my dad's panel van to take back to my parents' house. This afternoon I did a trial packing of my suitcase, to see how many clothes I could cram in for my 23kg's worth on Delta Airlines. Well, I put in pretty much everything I wanted, barring a few items that I put into the 'disputed necessity' box in my cupboard, and the total weight was 18,6kg. Bliss... This gives me some room to play, and it means the hiking boots will probably come along to Maine after all.
This afternoon, I also went along with C and N to their appointment with the midwives at the maternity clinic where N is planning to give birth in the water (for the second time). C and N invited me along because they thought it'd be fun for me to see this particular midwifery practice from the inside, and perhaps imagine how my own practice might look and feel in a few years' time. The midwives, one of whom will not be at N's birth because she herself is 38 weeks pregnant, were fabulously down-to-earth and friendly, and I instantly liked them both. They had a little trouble finding little E's heartbeat in the womb, although there was no worry for his well-being because he was kicking like mad all the while. Then one midwife went out of the room to fetch a different Doptone, and when she returned and applied it, the heartbeat magically appeared within seconds! There was joy all round as the whump-whump sound echoed across the room.
The midwives spent most of the visit having a heart-to-heart chat with N about her stress levels and job commitments, and in truth I had no idea that she'd been taking things this hard until today. I love her to bits and she's such a close friend of mine, and yet she's been hiding her anxiety so well that even I thought she was somehow coping miraculously well in spite of her current troubles. We women can do an incredible job of hiding our pain and fear and stress under a façade of efficient capability. (Although, having said that, so can men.)
Well, I'm leaving in a week, and there's no danger here of covering up my (sometimes) disquietude with a happy-go-lucky mask. I'm scared, and sad to leave so many things behind, and yet so freakin' excited about midwifery school that I can hardly think straight. Watching those midwives today just added more fuel to the fire. Thank you, N, for letting me tag along. And thank you, P, for calling me "Super Midwife" so often when I walk in the front door.
This afternoon, I also went along with C and N to their appointment with the midwives at the maternity clinic where N is planning to give birth in the water (for the second time). C and N invited me along because they thought it'd be fun for me to see this particular midwifery practice from the inside, and perhaps imagine how my own practice might look and feel in a few years' time. The midwives, one of whom will not be at N's birth because she herself is 38 weeks pregnant, were fabulously down-to-earth and friendly, and I instantly liked them both. They had a little trouble finding little E's heartbeat in the womb, although there was no worry for his well-being because he was kicking like mad all the while. Then one midwife went out of the room to fetch a different Doptone, and when she returned and applied it, the heartbeat magically appeared within seconds! There was joy all round as the whump-whump sound echoed across the room.
The midwives spent most of the visit having a heart-to-heart chat with N about her stress levels and job commitments, and in truth I had no idea that she'd been taking things this hard until today. I love her to bits and she's such a close friend of mine, and yet she's been hiding her anxiety so well that even I thought she was somehow coping miraculously well in spite of her current troubles. We women can do an incredible job of hiding our pain and fear and stress under a façade of efficient capability. (Although, having said that, so can men.)
Well, I'm leaving in a week, and there's no danger here of covering up my (sometimes) disquietude with a happy-go-lucky mask. I'm scared, and sad to leave so many things behind, and yet so freakin' excited about midwifery school that I can hardly think straight. Watching those midwives today just added more fuel to the fire. Thank you, N, for letting me tag along. And thank you, P, for calling me "Super Midwife" so often when I walk in the front door.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
bountiful babyness
I came back this afternoon from N's beautiful baby shower (a champagne brunch that turned into lunch), dazzled by the experience of so many women friends pouring love all over a baby whom we haven't even met yet, and the celebration of our bloomingly pregnant friend, who has one son and is expecting her second eight weeks from now. There was a hullaballoo of chatting and cheerfulness - the unique sound of women laughing and clinking champagne glasses and cooing over pint-sized baby jumpers and onesies.
The baby shower is a tradition that has suffered something of an identity crisis in recent years, stumbling over its awkward past (mired in crass, anachronistic and rather insensitive 'games' that in no way honour the sacredness of childbirth and motherhood) and, at the same time, getting caught up in too much self-reflection and seriousness (in the form of very dour 'Blessingway' ceremonies that force a sometimes discordant element of Navajo/Pagan rite into what should be a fun, celebratory party).
Where do I stand on these matters? Somewhere in the middle. A baby shower should honour the enormous transformation that is pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood, without getting sombre or silly. And indeed, there should be plenty of presents (though, I would argue -- some to-die-for gifts for the mother herself, not just the ever-pragmatic white baby vests and jars of bum cream).
This shower was wonderful, and our self-named 'pregnant fairy' was celebrated as a pregnant goddess for the day. And rightly so. All love and blessings to you, my precious friend, N.
The baby shower is a tradition that has suffered something of an identity crisis in recent years, stumbling over its awkward past (mired in crass, anachronistic and rather insensitive 'games' that in no way honour the sacredness of childbirth and motherhood) and, at the same time, getting caught up in too much self-reflection and seriousness (in the form of very dour 'Blessingway' ceremonies that force a sometimes discordant element of Navajo/Pagan rite into what should be a fun, celebratory party).
Where do I stand on these matters? Somewhere in the middle. A baby shower should honour the enormous transformation that is pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood, without getting sombre or silly. And indeed, there should be plenty of presents (though, I would argue -- some to-die-for gifts for the mother herself, not just the ever-pragmatic white baby vests and jars of bum cream).
This shower was wonderful, and our self-named 'pregnant fairy' was celebrated as a pregnant goddess for the day. And rightly so. All love and blessings to you, my precious friend, N.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
awe
I couldn't resist posting this quotation from Sam Keen, the American philosopher:
"Call it 'womb awe' or even 'womb worship', but it's not simple envy. I don't remember even wanting to be a woman. But each of the three times I have been present at the birth of my children, I have been overwhelmed by a sense of reverence... It was, quite suddenly, the first day of creation; the Goddess giving birth to a world. Like men since the beginning of time, I wondered: What can I ever create that will equal the magnificence of this new life?"
As a midwife one day, I hope that I will keep on being struck by this same sense of reverence.
To lose that capacity for awe would be to lose my love for midwifery.
"Call it 'womb awe' or even 'womb worship', but it's not simple envy. I don't remember even wanting to be a woman. But each of the three times I have been present at the birth of my children, I have been overwhelmed by a sense of reverence... It was, quite suddenly, the first day of creation; the Goddess giving birth to a world. Like men since the beginning of time, I wondered: What can I ever create that will equal the magnificence of this new life?"
As a midwife one day, I hope that I will keep on being struck by this same sense of reverence.
To lose that capacity for awe would be to lose my love for midwifery.
the scotland post
I mentioned a while back that I might post in the future about the more positive experiences of my year of postgraduate studies in Scotland. I think it'll be helpful for me now to post about this, given all the anxiety that memories of Scotland have provoked in me lately - now that I'm just about to move overseas (again) to study. I'm not feeling particularly gifted at narration right now, so I'll make a bullet-list.
Some things I liked about St Andrews:
1) Arriving in the city for the very first time, taking a walk down to the Castle and seeing the sunset flickering behind the mediaeval ruins. The scene was so beautiful that I daresay my neck-hairs prickled and my eyes smarted.
2) The Old Course, which I admit really is a beautiful place to play golf, even though I am otherwise leery of such an elitist, sexist and environmentally reckless 'sport' (I'm thinking, noxious herbicides and fertilisers, excessive water consumption, and wetlands encroachment for starters). Anyway, until I considered studying at St Andrews, golf was the only thing I'd ever associated with the place, as a result of my father's keen interest in watching plaid-clad country-club types on TV, thwacking their way out of bunkers during the British Open.
3) My friends D, C, J, and L. D (from Iran) and C (from Germany) made me a very special dinner for my 23rd birthday, which I will always remember. And L introduced me to the sublime indie pop of Belle & Sebastian, for which I will be forever grateful.
4) My thesis supervisor (and friend), JC, a dapper, handsome Canadian environmental historian with a razor-sharp brain, who always treated me as a colleague rather than a student. His most significant gift to me was the 'permission' to start over and go to midwifery school, when I was facing a career in academia with desperate reluctance and panic. In other words, he put it into my head (one afternoon over lunch in a Scottish pub) that I could, in fact, hot-foot it out of Scotland, and out of a soulless job in environmental policy, and follow my real passion. I had told him that I was thinking of changing my academic specialty to medical/obstetrical history instead of environmental policy (the two are obliquely connected, if you can believe). He said, you know, I've been hearing you drop all these hints to yourself for a while now, and I think that what you'd really like to do is to become a midwife. And now you're thinking, I'm stuck in academia, so perhaps the only thing to do is write books about the history of childbirth. But that's just being a midwife by proxy... so go be a midwife, for real! What the hell is stopping you?
5) Taking the train from St Andrews to Edinburgh every so often, and familiarising myself with the city of punky youths, gothic spires, oddly-placed public staircases, ghosts, and expansive tulipped parks.
6) Being so astonishingly well cared-for by the NHS (the joys of socialised medicine!) after tearing my ulnar collateral ligament (a common thumb injury). My doctor, radiographer and nurse were all South Africans working in the UK (yikes). I got a purple thermal plastic thumb splint made especially for me, and saw an occupational therapist who specialised in hands, who taught me exercises to rehabilitate my metacarpophalangeal joint (can you say that three times, really quickly?). My thumb is still creaky to this day (especially when it's cold or I lift dumbbells above my head), but during that episode I received by far the best health care I've ever had, in any country. And it was totally free.
7) Walking in the rain along the Fife Coastal Path, between Tayport and Pittenweem, with the freezing ocean crashing on the rocks below and seagulls squawking overhead.
8) Being part of the One World Society (the local chapter of People & Planet) at the university, and participating in a colourful, 200-strong ethical investment demonstration in the streets of St Andrews in late 2005.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
placentophagia
I just received a whole information pack from the school, with an orientation guide and one syllabus each for Anatomy and Physiology, and History and Politics of Midwifery. Have I mentioned that I'm excited?! (2 weeks to go...)
Just because it absolutely thrilled me, I thought I'd insert a little blurb from my info pack for the elective courses, which are short (usually one- or two-day) workshops to supplement our formal programme. This is one such workshop:
Placenta Medicine
Instructor: Robin Doolittle, CPM
Learn about “placentophagia”, Traditional Chinese Medicine “placenta capsules,” and other uses for the placenta. This is a practical, hands-on class, and we will be working with placentas. You will leave with a skill and a recipe to be able to do this in your apprenticeships or practice. Other ways of preparing placentas for nourishment/medicine will be discussed.Sunday, August 3, 2008
sparrows
This morning, P's beloved granddad died. We went to the flat soon after we heard, to say goodbye to him before the funeral home sent a car to take his body away. His wife (P's magnificent grandma) said he'd been drinking a coffee and eating a slice of cake; she left the room for a few moments and when she returned, the mug and plate had slipped out of his hands and he was gone. Other family members arrived soon after we did, including P's sister and brother-in-law, who brought along P's beautiful little niece. She is 17 months old, all blonde curls and self-possession, and she lightened the mood so beautifully with her giggles and games. When P and I got back to our own place, we really just wanted to spend time with each other, contemplating life and enjoying the few days we have left together in Jo'burg.
Just over two weeks before I leave for Maine, and at times like these I'm struck by an extraordinary sense of the circle of life, of death and birth and death and birth. I said to P yesterday, we're all sparrows who fly in one window and out the other, it's as brief and ecstatic as that. And the purpose? To me, life's purpose is life itself, wanting more life, hungering after the experience of life, never getting enough of it, and perhaps making peace with the brevity of it.
Just over two weeks before I leave for Maine, and at times like these I'm struck by an extraordinary sense of the circle of life, of death and birth and death and birth. I said to P yesterday, we're all sparrows who fly in one window and out the other, it's as brief and ecstatic as that. And the purpose? To me, life's purpose is life itself, wanting more life, hungering after the experience of life, never getting enough of it, and perhaps making peace with the brevity of it.
Friday, August 1, 2008
2 weeks, 5 days to go
Found this article on Midwifery Today this morning:
http://www.midwiferytoday.com/articles/SavingLives.asp
It discusses the use of Yunnan Paiyao (a Chinese herb) to treat third-stage postpartum haemorrhage (PPH), maternal sepsis, and shock. Of course, there is more to midwifery than knowledge of herbs, but this remedy seems to be incredibly powerful and useful in otherwise frightening circumstances (like PPH, which is universally dreaded by midwives and obstetricians, although studies show that a midwife's handling of birth is less likely to lead to PPH than an obstetricians' management -- the later being, usually, non-physiological).
But the reason why I'm posting about this article on Yunnan Paiyao is not because of the herb itself (though I'd also like to have it here on my blog as a reminder to myself to investigate this herb further, perhaps as a research project in my third year). What I liked especially is the following neat synopsis of what differentiates postpartum care under a midwife, from - implicitly - postpartum care under a physician. The author writes: "Long-lasting maternal health is dependent on more than urgent life-saving measures, techniques or single remedies. It has so much to do with full postpartum support through nutrition, adequate rest, 24-hour home care, childcare for older siblings, holistic supplements and remedies, well-established breastfeeding, mother-baby bonding, psychological ease, spiritual integration of the birth experience and a will to live."
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