In between contractions, Andréa sits in one of the four birthing suites at the Toronto Birth Centre.solana cain/The Globe and Mail
This is the weekly Amplify newsletter. If you’re reading this on the web or someone forwarded this e-mail newsletter to you, you can sign up for Amplify and all Globe newsletters here.
I closed the bathroom door and looked in the mirror. My hair was askew, my face was flushed and my eyes were wild. I stared at my chaotic reflection and smiled. Then I started to cry. I had just seen the miracle of life, a child being born, and I wanted to scream from the rooftop.
When my friend Andréa gave the final push that sent her son tumbling into the waiting hands of a midwife, I couldn’t believe that I had never witnessed childbirth before. The closest I’d gotten was a dated birth video in my Grade 10 science class, which documented the baby crowning from an extreme close-up angle. My horrified peers and I screamed as a giant, bloody vagina took over the screen.
More than a decade later, there I was, witnessing the real thing. This time, I didn’t look away when the baby was crowning. What I previously thought was a terrifying mess was in fact beautiful and left me utterly amazed at what the human body can do.
I’m Solana Cain, a photo editor at The Globe and a freelance photojournalist. When I’m not editing or capturing photos, I volunteer as a birth worker. When I agreed to photograph Andréa’s birth last year, it turned out to be more than just a favour to a friend. It was my first step on a path toward doula and childbirth educator training.
I first met Andréa in line at a cafe. We became fast friends, and soon, she invited me to take pictures of her baby’s arrival. She had planned a midwifery-led water birth at the Toronto Birth Centre.
When the moment came, I rushed out the door with my camera bag. The birthing suites at the centre surpassed my expectations. There is a fireplace, soaker tub, walk-in shower and a bed big enough for three.
Andréa had chosen to give birth surrounded by a small group of women. I watched as the midwife gently coached her through the pain and suggested she do things such as walk the hallway and get in the tub for water therapy. Between contractions, Andréa would verbalize what she needed – water, leg rub, lights dimmed, silence – and we would hurry to comply.
As Andréa entered the most intensive phase of her labour, she began to feel her pain was overwhelming and wanted to go to a hospital. Her midwife, present and steadfast the entire time – monitoring Andréa’s and the baby’s vital signs and coaching her as she pushed – assured her that she could do it and the birth was imminent. I felt useless just taking photos. My friend was in pain and I wanted to make it stop.
Once Andréa’s baby had safely arrived and was nestled on her chest, I excused myself. And while looking in that washroom mirror, I realized how little I knew about childbirth and how rarely we as a society really talk about it – and how all of that had contributed to my fear.
There are lots of reasons why women, and men, might fear childbirth – pain is inherent in the process, and we’ve all heard a horror story or two of a difficult birth. And in my case, as a black woman, my fear is heightened by this fact: In the U.S., black women are three times more likely to die of pregnancy-related causes than white women, according to a report from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Although similar statistics are not available in Canada, this stat still sends chills up my spine (and there is plenty of anecdotal evidence indicating that black women do not always receive equal care right here at home).
If you ask Dr. Judith Lothian, world-renowned childbirth advocate and educator and an associate nursing professor at Seton Hall University in New Jersey, a shift away from midwives to obstetricians, which dates back to the 1970s, has a lot to do with fear around childbirth.
“The move from home to hospital and the move from midwife to obstetrician have contributed to both a lack of knowledge about birth and an increase in fear … Fear has become pathologic. Is it fear that keeps young people from talking about childbirth? Is it that the only stories they hear about birth feed into their fear rather than build their confidence?” argues Dr. Lothian. More recently, however, there has been a slow turn back to older traditions, and today, about 11 per cent of births across the country are supported by a midwife.
After Andréa’s birth, I dug into doula training. (To clear up any confusion about what a doula is: They are labour companions who provide emotional, physical and informational support to pregnant women and possibly their families.) One of the invaluable things I learned in my training, which took me back to my time in Andréa’s birthing suite, is the difference between pain and suffering. Andréa had been in pain throughout her labour, but she had not suffered. Pain can be necessary and healthy, and we shouldn’t always be shielded from it. Pain can lead to growth, accomplishment and empowerment.
Being by my friend’s side that day was a turning point for me. I’ll be the first to admit that if and when I do bear children, it may be the most painful event of my life. But, today, after my experience with Andréa and as I study for the Lamaze Childbirth Educator exam, I refuse to associate childbirth with fear. Pain, sure, but not fear.
What else we’re thinking about:
I was naive to be alarmed by this story in the New York Times on the fate of African American children living in Ferguson, Mo., in the aftermath of Michael Brown’s killing. An unarmed black teen, he was shot dead by police in 2014, and the effects of the subsequent protesting of the community still reverberate loudly. This piece spotlights the experience of Aminah Ali and her seven-year-old son, David, among others. She took David along to the Michael Brown protests when he was a preschooler, but “I overexposed him,” she tells writers Jack Healy and Julie Bosman. Today, Ali is dealing with the effects of her son’s lingering anger, and despite the stigma so often associated with mental health, has found him a therapist. Her story is just one brave example of how this community is coping.
Inspired by something in this newsletter? If so, we hope you’ll amplify it by passing it on. And if there’s something we should know, or feedback you’d like to share, send us an e-mail at amplify@globeandmail.com.