The Damsel's Dilmena

Until now I didn't realize the therapeutic nature of this blog. That my interest in writing about his topic is directly correlated with the stage I am at in my life as I battle with coming to terms with what it means to be female. In this day and age, so many of the expectations and stereotypes aren't really relevant for most women under the age of 25 . . . domesticity, marriage, gender roles, career planning vs family planning, childbirth, to breastfeed or not to breastfeed, to breastfeed or not to breastfeed - in public, saggy breasts, menopause . . .

Aside from loving chocolate, wearing skirts (occasionally) and the ability to talk for hours with a friend about each and every analytical detail of a situation, I don't see myself as being much different than any man. I completed a degree in mechanical engineering surrounded by 101 men and 9 other women. I wore hard hats and steal toe boots to work. I drove monstrous pick-up trucks, quads and school buses. I didn't shower for a week, and I didn't brush my hair for 3 months. I lived in a trailer on a construction site where I was the only female and ate bacon and eggs for breakfast every morning. I kayaked for three weeks on Canada's rugged seas and canoed for 17 days in the high north. I lived on a boat for 2 weeks every summer. I took helicopters through the mountains, float planes in a storm and wrapped chains around my tires to drive in the snow. I peed in the street, in the bush, in my kayak and in urinals when I had the chance. I took pride in the fact that I could drink a lot of beer and that I liked my scotch neat. I even bought men's boxers for the better part of a decade.

So . . . what is my point? My POINT is that I may have been less interested in engineering (due in part to playing with Barbies and not engines while growing up), judged my my female counterparts for what daily bacon would do to my butt (let alone my heart) and virtually incapable of remembering how to change the tire on the F350 truck after I did it, but I could and DID do it all.

As I sit here in a busy downtown coffee shop swarming with corporate men and women, and sitting opposite a chaotic table of disheveled mums with their two small children, I am appreciating the leap of faith these women must have made to have children. Yes, it is the most normal and natural role for women. But it looks so unnatural in this environment. Which makes me think why? Maybe it has to do with the equality women have succeeded in obtaining throughout recent history and the inequality inherent in childbirth. Men can't birth babies. They can't. They can watch the birth, they can feed the baby, they can raise the baby, but they can't be pregnant and they can't give birth.

More often than not, women are still the ones seen at 9 am on a Wednesday morning carrying a baby in one hand and a latte in the other while attempting to visit with their girlfriend. Although some men are also starting to assume this daytime care-giver role (thanks to paternal leave), the very nature of childbirth and breastfeeding (if one chooses) still requires the mum to be the first "stay-at-home parent".

And then starts the mental shift . . . am I the only woman approaching 30 out there who has started taking folic acid, become more risk adverse and decided to take my career in a more family friendly direction? Almost four years ago, I turned 26, met someone great, and promptly decided that having babies was what I was put on this earth to do. But... it's all fine and well to harp on about the curvaceous beauty of a pregnant body, the miraculous occasion of childbirth and the power to give life, when you haven't actually been there. The mum's sitting across from me communicate solely via their children, despite their best attempts to have a more intellectual conversation. I think they looked at each other twice to roll their eyes. Their frustration was entirely understandable. In the span of 8 minutes, one child was ferociously crying while the other sent a mug of hot coffee streaming across the table. I guess today as I watched these mums I couldn't help but wonder who else they were - before they joined the pee-wee club? A question that is likely in their own thoughts as their minutes, hours and days are filled with frequent feedings, messy diapers, crying children and spilt milk. Did they also think this was their ultimate purpose in life?

Spilt milk and unsuccessful coffee dates just comes with the territory - the territory of being a woman, with womanly parts and the responsibility/privilege to choose to travel a path that only women will travel. To accept the challenge and find solidarity in other women - even if you never have before. Women who are married, single, sexually straight, sexually curious, house-wives, corporate managers, public breast-feeders, formula feeders, fitness freaks, teenage mums or nearing 45 . . . you are no longer as clearly defined by these choices and values but by your shared position in society - and humanity. A position of duty and responsibility, purpose (no doubt), isolation (at times), sheer chaos (at others), exhaustion, reward and ultimate femininity - whether you like it or not.

To ignore this unique function of being a woman seems a shame. After all, the propagation of the human race (which is in itself a controversial discussion) relies on some of us stepping up to the plate. But I would argue that the compromises are greater and the decisions more complex - or at least very different - for women today. Today, pregnancy and early motherhood asks that you check your manual labor, corporate connections, intellectual conversation, independence, extreme sports, caffeine addiction, and scotch habits at the door of conception.

On the other hand, nobody will judge you for eating bacon for two . . . just as long as it's well cooked!

Sunday morning sharing...

Some people like to wake up and read the paper. I often choose to stare at a computer screen instead. Sunday morning for me is a great time to peruse the various blogs, links and sites that were forwarded to me in weeks past and didn't get the acknowledgment they deserve.

I've noted those worthy of further circulation below...

Artist Amanda Greavette from Gravenhurst Muskoka - a place responsible for many memories of my youth - offers an emotionally charged depiction of childbearing. Check out the painted curves in her recent Birth Project gallery. Beautiful work!

Read Taking Back Birth. Journalist for The Independent in Newfoundland, mother of two, and a dear friend of mine, Stephanie Trevorrow, reflects on her own contrasting birth experiences and the integration of the midwifery model of care into our society today. It's well researched, powerfully written and above all else, comes from a place of personal truth and experience.

And, last but not least, Women Painting Women is a really unique initiative to showcase, inspire and promote female artists. Some really interesting female portraits on this blog.

Enjoy :)

Operation Birth

I suppose it was inevitable that watching a c-section today would be shocking on many levels given that my previous exposure to childbirth was one in which natural processes, continuity of care and a family centered approach were emphasized. There is not a whole lot in the O.R. that is natural and voicing any preferences or opinions seems radical and futile. I suppose that when childbirth meets surgery there will be an inevitable conflict of interests. Surgery is man-made. Thus, we have full control and losing control has unpredictable, dire consequences. Certain things are done certain ways for a reason. In surgery, keeping track of instruments is more important than consoling the tears that lie behind the drape.

I stood, shifting my weight from one leg standing in a removed corner of the room to the other, which rested just feet away from her head. Wanting to go to her and DO something, I felt glued to my spot – bound by my submissive student role – guilty for judging those more experienced than me. As her body shook (a “normal” response to the spinal anesthesia disconnecting the central nervous system from the peripheries and stimulating the brain to respond as if the body is very cold), tears streamed down her cheeks as iodine streamed down her voluptuous belly into the creases of her thighs, and I watched as seven pairs of eyes blinked through their masks, focusing intently on a patch of flesh bordered by sheets and marked by the convergence of the bright lights. To my relief, the anesthetist gently touched her arm and asked her what was wrong..."I'm scared" she replied. He lifted his arm. "Are you cold? Or in pain?". She nodded her head no. And then the only face she could see disappeared behind her and out of view.  "Okay good" he responded. "Your husband will be in shortly". And he was. I was relieved to see him tenderly kiss her forehead and place his hand among the tangled tubes on hers. I absolved myself of my relational nursing practice responsibilities, walked straight to the foot of the bed and positioned myself in direct viewing of the big show. Bright lights, curtains and all.

As an isolated activity, the c-section surgery was fascinating to me. I love watching surgery. The learning channel taught me that. I’m always amazed at what a meticulous craft it is. They stretch the skin with a force comparable to stretching canvas, break and assemble bones with the calculated precision of a wood-worker and suture the layers of muscular, adipose and cutaneous tissue with the dexterity and efficiency of an experienced seamstress. A caesarean birth is no different (well, except for the breaking bones part). I witnessed a diligent, expert performance. It was easy for all of us to forget who lay behind the curtain. But just as the baby was drawn up from inside mum’s tum and into the pediatrician’s hands, and even dad left mum’s side to crowd around the newborn in awe, I remembered. I leaned down to her and asked how she was. She nodded, silently, and strained to tilt her eyes up at her baby. As I mustered congratulations I felt myself begin to cry. Luckily my mask concealed my recognizable expression. I quickly told her she would see her baby in a few minutes and I re-joined my colleagues where I felt protected from this human challenge. Safe from confronting this experience any further. One that she would likely remember for a very long time. Or, one that she would erase from her memory completely. Not sure which is better. 

All in all, the surgery went as expected with “no complications” and mum and baby both came out of it “alive and well”. The art piece of the surgeons’ performance was hidden beneath a single strip of clear tape and a blue hospital gown. Dad and baby moved one floor up and mum went to recover for hours - to choose her memory’s path: re-call and solidify or delete, delete, delete. Ultimately, what matters most is that she had a healthy baby. A comfort and joy that she would appreciate more fully once they were reunited upstairs.

I am incredibly grateful for this observation. And because of it, I am committed to being a different kind of nurse. To address women’s birth experience, should they be wanting to speak about it. To support women outside AND inside the O.R. To keep them with their baby and their loved ones for as long as possible. To respect and facilitate natural processes in this unnatural circumstance. To challenge the status quo and honor my instincts.