My Father Wasn’t at my Birth
My father wasn’t at my birth. My mother had hoped for and planned a home birth for my entrance into the world, but she was a single mother living in a communal house in Switzerland at the time. She was an older mother (She was 29 when she fell pregnant with me) and was advised against having a home birth by her doctor. The man of the house she was living in was also dead set against having her birth in his home – there was no way that African girl was going to squat down and birth in his house. My mother then found out about a natural birthing centre in the neighbouring canton of Graubünden, and while she drove to take a look at it and loved the pink rooms and the deep birthing pools and the midwives in attendance, there was no one who was willing and able to drive her there once she was in labour (which I have now worked out via Google maps is only 1 hour and 23 minutes away!). So she settled for the very fancy and exclusive private hospital at Stefanshorn. My father wasn’t at my birth. I was a planned pregnancy. Very much so. I was very much hoped for and wanted, but it was an unusual arrangement of sorts. I’ll let you in on a little secret. You see, my father was married to someone else when he met my mother and he stayed married to his first wife (my parents actually never married) while embarking on a relationship with my mother. My mother was a staunch feminist at the time and had all sorts of theories about different ways of having relationships and so they embarked on an ‘open relationship’ – which my father’s wife was actually rather reluctant about. So the plan was for my father to impregnate my mother and that she would be a single mother and that he would be a long distant parent and visit once a month or when time and travel allowed him. My father lived in England and in South Africa at the time. My father wasn’t at my birth. He was in England at the time, at home with his wife. My mother was admitted a week before her due date to be induced for no medical reason other than that her doctor was going to be away on holiday. She was admitted on my father’s wife’s birthday, which his wife always saw as a personal affront to her and made her resent my presence even more. My father wasn’t at my birth. A friend drove my mother to the hospital, but my mother was alone when she went into labour with me. I know that she laboured for twelve hours and that she had the latest in foetal heart monitoring technology strapped to her while she laboured. I know she laboured on her back. I also know that she held on to a little green statue. A little bust of an African woman. It had been given to her by a grateful woman my mother had counselled when my mother had volunteered as a rape counsellor in South Africa. I know that this little statue was a lifeline back to South Africa for my mother while she laboured. My father wasn’t at my birth. He was in England at the time, at home with his wife and while she hung out a load of wet laundry he snuck a call to my mother and shouted instructions on how to breathe through the heavy black phone. I know...
Read MoreAre We Creating an Epidemic of High-Risk Women?
Two weeks ago I wrote about the first unnecessary caesar I attended. It was the first but it was also not the last. It did prompt me to do my homework and to really make sure that the women I was attending as a doula were well informed. One of the things I did was call up all the maternity wards of all the private hospitals here in Cape Town and ask them directly what their their caesarean section rates were. I knew from discussions with other doulas and midwives that many caesars were taking place but I did not have clear numbers. The conversations went something like this: “Hi…I am a doula supporting mothers wanting to birth vaginally in private hospitals here in Cape Town and I would just like to know what your caesarean rates are so that they can make an informed decision about where the best possible place to birth is.” Or something along those lines. Responses were everything from helpful and obliging to irritated, rude and irate: “Oh one doctor here has about a 60% caesar rate…he really tries, but the others are definitely around 80 – 90%” “About 65% but I think it is the private midwives that do deliveries here that bring the rates down…the doctors have much higher rates than that.” “Between 60 and 90%.” “I don’t see why we should divulge this sort of information, I don’t see how a high caesarean rate can make a difference to a woman’s chances to birth naturally!” “It is definitely upward of 80% but I am not telling you how much higher – I don’t think it is any of your business!” So in private hospitals in Cape Town, we are looking at a caesarean rate of 60 – 90%. And from my experience in two of the major government hospitals in Cape Town, it seems to be around 50% in the public sector. The World Health Organisation recommended a caesar rate of between 10 – 15% as being healthy, so WHY is our caesarean section rate so high? And why is it not my business to find out the caesarean rate of a hospital that is often promising to be supportive of women’s wishes to birth as they wished? And why is it suddenly okay to slice open perfectly healthy women and change their obstetric history forever? (I need to stress that I am not anti caesarean. I am eternally grateful for the operation that saves the lives of mothers and babies. I am not putting down this very necessary intervention and the skilled people who can perform it.) Since then I have worked within home birth midwifery practices and met midwives from all over the world who maintain a caesarean rate of between 2 and 20 %. Why do they get it right and the hospitals do not? I think the saddest and hardest thing for me is meeting the women who have undergone these unnecessary caesars. Who come with their stories. And who really want to give birth vaginally this time around, sometimes after one, sometimes after two, sometimes after more caesareans… I was induced at 38 weeks and didn’t progress so I had to have a caesar. The doctor said my baby was getting to big and I would never be able to birth her – but then she was an average size! I had a supportive doctor but she was on holiday when I went into labour and I got the doctor with the highest caesar rate in the hospital. The environment was too clinical for me, the beeping machines,...
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