Father's perspective on Doula-ing

A Father’s Perspective on 'The Doula'…

By Wally Nichols
(cwn4@aol.com)
The birthing experience can assume an entirely different hue from the father’s perspective than it can from the mother’s. We guys rarely dare to openly own the pain or suffering, or confusion or fear or other identifiable (and unidentifiable) emotions that women lay legitimate claim to on the big day, or even during the 9 months prior. Some things are best left unsaid, correct? Which isn’t to say we don’t feel all these things, but we feel them in a thinly comparative way to our partners who are about to push 8 pounds through an orifice.
Modern times have given us many resources to combat the variables of childbirth; birthing classes, drugs, monitors, doctors and technicians, even ‘birthing centers’ which are designed to handle soon to be parents’ every need (and want). If you chose to avail yourself of it, as we did, there’s a dizzying array of compositional resources and people on the team…
Still, we fathers are usually lowest on the totem pole, wandering around in a confused haze before, during and after the birth, which is fine. Above us, and below the doctor, on this totem pole, can sometimes be found a doula. If we squint hard enough and think about definition long enough, those of us with business orientations can rightly consider the doula a consultant to, or advocate for, the laboring mother. And a godsend for the panicky father. She knows the drill and speaks the language. She’s seen it all before. There’s huge relief in that.
But the doula is much more than just a knowledgeable birthing facilitator. At least ours was. A doula can massage the parents’ bodies and minds back into compliance and agreement with the natural order in the weeks before birth as well as at the actual moment. She can translate the kinetics of childbirth back into English. She can arrange a birth plan that dovetails with the couple’s beliefs on pain management, transportation logistics, birth location, post birth responsibilities, etc.
She can also hold the hands of the mother while she’s holding the hands of the father. She can work with the doctors and or the midwives and compliment the team very nicely. Get one who is experienced and calm, and one with long arms, and it’s a beautiful thing…
Gentlemen, get out your wallets for this to the tune of $500-$1000. She’s your ace-in-the-hole and you wont soon regret treating yourself to this peace of mind luxury. Oh, and treating your partner who is actually doing all the work.
Our doula (whom we nicknamed Paula Abdoula behind her back) was one cool customer. We met at the birthing class she led. She is a sturdy Irish woman with 25 years of doulage(?) under her belt. Her sagacious prebirth advice, tendered early on one night at class was, “pack yourself a snack for the birth, dads! Don’t forget that you are in there too and need to take care of and treat yourself.” I took a quick shine to this Mary O’Riley lady!
On hearing this important command, I immediately went out and bought a container of Cheddar Goldfish out of deference to her vast experience. The snacks , however, didn’t make it to the exit of the Stop and Shop Supermarket parking lot. (That was two months before Hattie was actually born yet, curiously, it happened repeatedly each and every time I tried to think ahead to the burdens of being next to someone actually giving birth and get myself a replacement snack. Finally, I gave up thinking about myself).
Mary’s advice for mom? When labor starts, drink a beer. Preferably Guinness, which as hill lore has it, simultaneously activates the calming reflex while poking the milk production button.
A beer?
Seriously?
Now my wife Cori really liked this lady too!
Labor started in the night on Feb 13. The car was packed and ready to go. (It had been packed and ready to go for every bit of the preceding 4 weeks.) I went out in the subzero temperature to get the heat on, literally the only thing this double left footed monkey could do between the fits of labor that appeared to be ripping my wife apart. Then we called Mary and told her the news. I rattled off all the hard stats I had gathered about duration and frequency and amplitude of pain.
“Stay in bed. Get a few more hours of sleep,” advised a calm doula over the phone lines. “You’re not ready yet.”
“But…?”
“Call me in the morning. Trust me. She needs to get her rest. Now back to bed with you both.”
I felt like a scolded kid being sent back up the stairs Christmas morning after having awoken too early. But sure enough, Mary was right. The contractions subsided and a relatively normal day unfolded before us. We avoided a long trip to the birthing center that would have resulted in being sent home anyway.
I knew there was more to the picture, so I was on the phone with Mary throughout the day giving regular updates while my wife insisted on attending to her mares in the barn and getting them a hot bran mash—perhaps a harbinger of good mothering habits to come.
Around noon, I called the doctor’s office to give them a courtesy call about our imminent parenthood (alert the press!!) and left a message with the receptionist describing the landscape.
The flabbergasted nurse from the practice called the farm back and asked where Cori was. “She’s mucking stalls,” I admitted. “I can’t stop her.” I couldn’t lie. It was true. “She’s of German descent,” I offered meekly. “It’s what they do.”
We live on a 20 horse boarding/ lesson facility in New York’s Hudson Valley and the work clock stops for no one or anything we’ve come to learn…
“Get her up here right now,” the nurse demanded.
“You try,” I said and handed the phone to Cori who had come up for some breakfast. She had a big smile on her face and but for the gait-impeding belly, betrayed no signs of distress or discomfort or even pregnancy.
Wishing to avoid a scene similar to that in Monty Python where the overworked farm woman gives birth while sweeping a dirt floor and doesn’t even know it until she looks down, we consulted with Mary and compromised by heading to the hospital in the late afternoon.
The contractions were now regular and intense at this point. Cori took the doula’s advice to heart and popped a beer for the 30 minute (now extremely and regularly painful) drive. There was only one ‘position of comfort’ for Cori in that pickup truck and that was facing backwards, cold Budweiser in hand, rear end against the windshield, no seatbelt (I know this sounds like a line from a country song, but it was our reality at the moment…).
We were a sight. Dee Lite’s ‘Groove is in the Heart’ pumping on the stereo, Cori telling me to step on it, me trying to not hit any deer on the way and unsuccessfully looking for a last minute snack shop because my reserves, alas, were all gone.
We pulled into the hospital parking lot after a stop to the doctor, where her water broke, then Home Depot to pick up some lumber I needed, and then a brief stop to check out our friend Kate’s new kitchen remodel (just kidding on those last two). I opened the passenger door and an empty beer bottle rolled out onto the birthing center’s parking lot!
Nice.
So much for first impressions…
“Don’t prejudge us!” I yelled to the horrified nurses who had gathered at the center's entrance Nosy security cameras tracked us from every angle. I seriously thought we were going to get arrested for endangering a minor before we even officially had one. “What??? Mary said it was ok,” I scolded them back.
The birth turned out to be a bit complicated. The fetal monitor indicated severely reduced cardiac output during contractions.
"Mary," I whispered urgently, "What's that mean???"
Many repositioning attempts were made to reduce the stress but finally we were left with no choice but to do a C section. The doctor was quite jovial and had a long history of working with Mary. He offered us a choice. “Option 1,” he whistled while scrubbing down, “You can have a C section in 15 minutes.”
“What’s option 2?” I cautiously asked.
“Option 2,” he said, “Is you can have a C section in 10 minutes. But hey, your choice!”
Mary chucked a pair of hospital scrubs at me and said, “Get dressed, pal.”
“But…”
With a knowing wink from an experienced doula, off we went, all three of us, hand in hand.
Hattie was born on Feb 14th (without a single snack!) and has stolen our hearts every day since.
We can’t wait to have another baby just so we get to hang out with our doula again!