My Midwife Was My Gateway Drug

NOTE: Hi. We have have a lot of new fans and readers, so I'd like to give you all the 411, the downlow, the play by play, etc. While almost all of the posts on Back From Nature have been written by the lovely Juniper thus far, she isn't the only one here. I would like to thank Juniper for not only maintaining this blog, but making something of it. I have written one other post thus far, which you can see here. I hope to be here more often now. Thank you, and enjoy the programming.

------------------------

I almost wasn't here to write this.

Today, my daughter is 2 years old and healthy. She always says please and thank you. She can count to twenty and knows her alphabet. She loves pasta and Daniel Tiger. But because of lies, homebirth and woo, I almost wasn't here to see Ramona blossoming into the lovely child that she is.

I take you to a pregnant me. I was 19 years old and wanted to do everything right for my baby. After attending appointments with less-than-friendly obstetricians, I watched the movie The Business of Being Born and, being young and gullible, immediately decided that the best thing to do for my baby would be to have a home birth. So I began to search for the impossible: a home birth midwife in rural Pennsylvania. It took a long time, but I finally found one. I won't use her real name here out of respect for her privacy; but for the ease of writing, I will call her Jane.

My first appointment with Jane was on a sunny day. Our new apartment was barely moved into, and we still hadn't yet begun fixing up a nursery. Jane walked up my steps and into my apartment with two kids in tow, and she looked like she knew what she was doing. My first impression of Jane was that parenting, to her, was like breathing. It just seemed to be her natural state of being. Who better than to assist me with my own baby than someone who is such a naturally skilled parent?

Jane assured me of her expertise and experience. She was a direct-entry midwife who learned everything she knew in a hands-on sort of way, reminiscent of the famous Tennessee midwife Ina Mae Gaskin. She must have been at my apartment for hours while we discussed what she knew and what I didn't know.

You see,  Jane was sort of my gateway drug into woo. Just in my first appointment, she told me how she and her 7 children never went to doctors, and instead got all of their medical care from a chiropractor. She also told me about her "research" and experience with vaccines, as well as how dangerous she believed they were. She heavily encouraged me to look into the possible dangers of vaccines, and I did. Naive and scared, I decided not to vaccinate my unborn child. Because I believed she was a professional, I believed and trusted her.

At my next appointment, my fiancé, Kevin, and I went to Jane's house. Sitting on her big leather couch, while her kids ran around, I felt as if this should be the standard of care. I had never before felt so open to discussion and questions as I did with Jane. It was at this appointment that Jane introduced me to essential oils. If there was an ailment, a pain, a soreness, or even sad feelings, essential oils could cure them.

Oh, and she happened to sell these essential oils.

At the time, I never really felt uneasy about her making money off of the essential oils that she so heavily promoted. I felt like, wow, she believes in this product so much that she wants to share it with everyone. Yeah, you could say I was clueless, maybe even a little stupid.

On my pregnancy went, and with every problem, Jane swooped in with a natural remedy and what felt like sound advice. With my every feeling of uneasiness, Jane jumped up to bat and gave me a dose of confidence in her abilities. As time marched on, I fell into woo in all aspects of my life. I joined Facebook groups, shunned people who vaccinated their children, and began to buy all organic food. I was going from a science lover to a science denier, and I didn't even realize it.

The end of my pregnancy came up quick. Over time, my blood pressure was creeping up, and I was concerned. My family has a history of severe blood pressure problems, and I had never had very good blood pressure myself. I also was showing other signs of pre-eclampsia-- a serious complication of pregnancy-- such as nausea, dizziness, lightheadedness, and so on. I asked Jane, "What do I do? How do I fix this?" And as I expected, she had a solution.

"Eat raw garlic."

What? Even as into natural remedies as I was, it seemed silly even then. I must have asked if she was sure a thousand times, and she was. So from then till my labor, I ate so much garlic that I wondered if my baby was going to smell like it when she was born.

On the day of my due date, November 30th, I went into labor. Jane instructed me to keep her updated via text, and when my contractions were one minute long and one minute apart, she would come to my apartment to help deliver my baby, Ramona.

The time came and I told her, it's go time. But she was sick, so she sent her assistant, who she insisted would give me the same quality of care and help me just the same. So in comes Sue (again, fake name). Sue seemed slightly less experienced than Jane, but knew her stuff nonetheless. I labored on and on for hours with Sue, who was checking my blood pressure every 30 minutes. After it finally reached 180/110, she frantically called Jane. They spoke in hushed tones, and I could tell that Sue felt a bit overwhelmed.

They said we needed to transfer to the hospital. That my blood pressure was getting too high and beyond their "ability of care." And while I am thankful they admitted that they needed to take me to a hospital, I still wonder why they feel so confident delivering babies when they aren't equipped or skilled to handle emergencies and things like that. So, with me in tears, practically kicking and screaming, we went to the hospital.

After all the fear-mongering about hospitals I'd had mashed into my head, I was terrified. I thought that they were gonna take my baby away-- they were going to force me into something I don't wanna do. But my fears eased a bit over time, as every nurse I met was kind and helpful. And they sure came and went... and came and went again. Each time a nurse would come back she'd say "Wow! I can't believe you're still here."

There I was. Late on December 4th. Yes, after going into labor on November 30th, I was still in labor on the 4th. With no signs of issues, they said it was fine to keep me going, that the magnesium to keep my blood pressure down was slowing down my progress. But now, with each contraction, Ramona's heart beat slowed. 

The doctor came in, a kind-hearted woman who swooped away my previous negative obstetrician experience.

"Maranda, I know that you had your heart set on a home birth, and that didn't work out. And you had your heart set on a vaginal birth, too. But your baby is going into distress, you've been here for days and we think you need to go for a c-section. Medically and legally, it's your choice, but it's what I recommend."

I cried. But I agreed. So they rolled me into the operating room, the entire time I felt ashamed, embarrassed, and as if I had failed. All the money I had spent on my midwife, the supplies for my home birth: it was all in vain.

After my epidural, there I lay. As more and more nurses came into the room, I got more scared. Some of them got right to it, some of them introduced themselves to me. I remember asking for my fiancé and my mother several times, and it seemed like hours that I laid there without them, listening to the surgical team discussing my labor time, how far along I was, etc.

Finally, in came my mom and Kevin.

The doctor peeked up over the gown hung up in front of my stomach. "Maranda, we're going to start now. You might feel some pressure."

And on she went. And I waited. My mind was racing all over the place, but I honestly can't tell you what I was thinking. When suddenly, swoosh, a nurse with my baby seemingly flies over to another table. After a few moments I heard a cry and a call of "8 lbs 6oz, girl! Dad, do you wanna come cut the cord?" Kevin walked over to the table, and the nurse instructed him how to cut the cord. And just as I went to shout about not cutting the cord yet, everything faded away.

I had a tonic-clonic (grand mal) seizure on the operating table.

My blood pressure had been so high, for so long that it caused me to seize. Both the obstetrician and neurologist said that my "low quality of prenatal care." had been a primary cause for my undiagnosed pre eclampsia getting that out of hand. They couldn't believe I didn't have a stroke, and they must have told me a thousand times that I was lucky to be alive.

I spent a week in the hospital after my seizure. 4 days of that in the ICU. I don't remember much of anything of my time in the ICU. I don't remember the first time I held my baby. I don't remember the first time I breastfed her. I don't remember her first bath. I don't remember my daughters first week of life.

And so, here I am now. After over two years, I have just now come off of my anti-convulsant medication. I will always regret not having proper prenatal care. I will always wonder what kind of happier and healthier birth I could have had. Maybe, if not for the lies my midwife told me, I would have been on medication to control my blood pressure, and I wouldn't still be suffering the negative health affects.

After my traumatizing birth experience, I never heard from my midwife again except when she asked me when I was going to pay her the rest of the money that I owed her. My mom had told her and Sue that I was in the hospital, and what happened, and yet they didn't say or do anything. 

It's so easy to get sucked into the idea of a natural birth in the comfort of your home, and to long for the "good old days" when birthing a baby was intimate, calm and collected. But, we all seem to forget all the new safeties that come with a hospital birth. After all, all the babies and mothers who died in those not-so-calm home births are not here to tell their stories.