(Page 178) A Hospital birth (cont...) I engage her eyes and smile. I say calmly, “You’re doing great Sylvie. You’re absolutely fine. Now just do what your body tells you to do.” With the next breath her son slides easily into my waiting hands. I say, “Hi Little Man! Nice job!” I wipe his face off a little bit with a towel, visually check him out, then place him up on Sylvie’s chest. Then I cover them both with the bed blankets. I can hear the nurse paging for a doctor STAT. I am getting Sylvie a glass of water when the nurse and a male medical student rush back in. The medical student says loudly, “It’s OK, hon, you can push now!” Sylvie and I look at them in disbelief. I point to the bundle at Sylvie’s breast. The nurse writes up yet another “incident report” and I am summoned to speak to the Head of Obstetrical Nursing, which always makes me feel like I’m being called to the Principal’s office. Unfortunately, by this time old Mrs. Malice has retired and her replacement is a hip young professional nurse with a plethora of degrees. This woman had home births herself in another state, so it is always mind-boggling to me that she has forgotten her roots. Despite her steely veneer, somehow she and I establish an uneasy respect for one another. This time, the umpteenth visit to her office, I am cited for misconduct. She says, “There’s been a complaint that you have delivered another baby in this hospital. You know you’re not allowed to do that. You are not on staff at this hospital.” I say, “Oh, so that explains the lack of a paycheck from you folks in my mailbox every week.” She says, “Cut it out, Carol. I’m serious. You’re really pissing people off when you do that, and then I have to deal with them.” “Well, look at it from my perspective. I come into the hospital because I have a problem, something that’s out of my league. I think my client may need more specialized care than I can provide. So I come here assuming she’s going to be adequately cared for, and then she’s not. It’s not my fault an experienced OB nurse doesn’t recognize when a grandmultip is pushing.” I continue on, “I do admit that if she and I had communicated a bit, the snafu may have been avoided. But she chose not to acknowledge me or ask my opinion or involve me in the care in any way. What am I, chopped liver? I’m a midwife for godsake, I’m not going to sit by and let a woman blow out her perineum because she’s left unattended. If she was getting proper care in the first place, I wouldn’t have to do a damn thing!” She responds blandly, “And the report states that you were not wearing gloves.” These were the pre-AIDS days when we didn’t have to be as concerned about contracting a blood borne disease from someone as much as we were careful to not introduce contamination to the mother or the baby during delivery. Most out-of-hospital midwives I knew preferred to scrub well and to assist the birth of the baby gloveless. I answer, “I don’t think a baby’s first touch in this world should be through latex.” She sighs, “Look, you know the drill. You can’t touch the mother or the baby, no matter what. Let’s see if maybe you and I can not see each other like this for a couple of months, OK?” * * * * ~from LADYS HANDS, LIONS HEART, A MIDWIFES SAGA, Bad Beaver Publishing, 2010
Posted on: Thu, 11 Dec 2014 11:34:50 +0000
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