I had a midwife. I say had because I no longer need her services. I am no longer pregnant. She was actually more than a midwife, she was a friend. I say was because after I delivered my second daughter I began to feel angry and hateful toward her. Let’s call this midwife Laura for the sake of anonymity. Laura is a CPM. She assists moms in home birth deliveries. That’s right, I planned to deliver my baby at home.
My first pregnancy was also a planned home birth with Laura but I ended up delivering at a hospital. I was of the belief model that pregnancy, labor, and delivery are normal conditions and that a low-risk woman (me) need not see an obstetrician-gynecologist (ob-gyn). Ob-gyns are trained surgeons who look for problems, administer interventions, and before you know it, they are cutting you open to deliver your baby. I wanted to deliver at home, amongst my own germs, in a birthing tub with only my husband and two midwives. But as it was, I ended up laboring for three days at home, my blood pressure rose, and Laura recommended that we transport to Hospital X where I had an epidural and delivered my healthy daughter with the assistance of a family physician and a resident. Laura stayed with me to advocate for the skeleton requests of my birth plan and to fill in my pregnancy history.
When I became pregnant the second time, I knew I was pregnant. I did not take a pregnancy test, I just knew. This baby was planned. I hemmed and hawed over what I wanted this delivery to be like. I reflected back on my first experience. We had been lucky, we had a good outcome despite a difficult labor. Seeds of doubt floated through my mind. Why did Laura wait for my blood pressure to get so high before recommending transport? Why didn’t I express my desire to go the hospital sooner? What was the least risky path for this pregnancy, labor, and delivery?
I told my husband I wished to deliver at Hospital A with a group of Certified Nurse Midwives. My first daughter was born at Hospital X, about 12 miles and 25 minutes from our home, and although I didn’t end up with unnecessary interventions, I felt Hospital X was too risky. Hospital A had a good reputation for accommodating all sorts of birth plans, plus they had a labor tub. But Hospital A was about 35 miles and 50 minutes from our home, through curvy backroads and small rural towns. Being due in May meant we wouldn’t be traversing winter conditions on the way to delivery. But my husband felt uncomfortable with the plan and since I really didn’t want to deliver at Hospital X, we settled on another planned home birth, even though my gut told me not to.
I was 17 weeks along when I first met with Laura for this pregnancy. In all, we met seven times. Our appointments lasted two hours or more. In general, I was satisfied with the prenatal care I received. Each appointment began with talking—we’d start with general chit-chat and move on to relevant topics–my past birth experience and my hopes for this one. At each visit Laura would check my blood pressure and use her Doppler to listen to my baby’s heart. I had two risk factors: Advanced Maternal Age (AMA) and a body mass index (BMI) of 31.8 which put me in the obese category. At my first prenatal visit–the one at 17 weeks–I specifically asked Laura if either was contraindicated for home birth. She assured me that I was still a good candidate to deliver at home.
The seventh visit, the morning of May 8th, Laura came to my home and her Doppler could not find my baby’s heartbeat. That was the day I transported to Hospital A to deliver my dead child.
I was not angry with Laura right away. I was grateful, in shock, numb. She advocated for me in the hospital, requesting a CNM rather than the ob-gyn on call. She stayed with my husband and me as we held our dead daughter’s body. She cried with us. She came to my home, she held my hand, she let me cry huge, wet tears of grief all over her shirt. She organized meals and visits with friends. She came to my daughter’s small memorial service and shared kind words. Something bothered me but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
I wrote my daughter’s obituary. Despite a horrific experience, the hospital midwife and delivery nurse were amazing and my husband and I wished to acknowledge them in the obituary. After I finished writing, I asked my mother-in-law to proofread it. “What about Laura?” she asked. And so, I included a thank you to Laura in the obituary. Afterall, she had overseen my prenatal care, helped me through contractions and squeezed my hand as I pushed my baby out of my body. But as time moved on, the anger and hatred built.
A letter I cannot send.
I am angry. Furious. This anger isn’t logical or deserved. But it is true.
First, I am mad that you, as the midwife I hired, failed me. I am angry that you didn’t demand I go to the hospital when I reported decreased fetal movement and that you didn’t review kick-counting with me.
I am livid that you are pregnant. You already have THREE children. Plus you didn’t even plan this pregnancy and you aren’t even married to the father of this child. My husband and I planned our pregnancy, a May delivery. We had hopes and dreams, we prepared our daughter for her role as a big sister. Our baby was wanted, she was already loved so much.
I am irate that your unplanned baby survived when you fell down your steps. I never experienced any trauma but my baby died. I am angry that you made the correct choice to go to the hospital to be checked and I did not.
I am enraged that you said death may have been the best outcome for my baby. That perhaps if she had lived she would have been cursed with medical problems and lifelong disabilities. And when I expressed uncertainty about another pregnancy, you told me I could simply adopt or foster children to complete my family…
Illogical, I know, this rage–it makes no sense at all. Yet it is how I feel.
As you grieved the loss of your baby, who, if anyone, did you feel anger toward?