I’d be doing a lot of extra shifts this fall, that was for sure, so I’d be seeing Carline more than ever. She lumped CNMs into a group of unnecessary healthcare providers, told patients that it would take longer with a midwife, “confused” us with lay midwives, who had dubious training, and doulas, some of whom had none. She micromanaged, interrupted, told women in the third stage of labor it wasn’t too late for an epidural and clucked over women who took more than two hours to push a human out. Of course some women wanted or needed epidurals or nitrous oxide for pain control . . . but most came in hoping for a completely natural experience.
There are times when a medical intervention is absolutely necessary, of course. Multiples, breech presentation that we couldn’t change, mother or baby in grave danger—all were situations that needed cesareans or a vacuum-assisted birth. But most times, women were completely capable of natural childbirth. Carline’s patients had a 41 percent chance of C-sections, much higher than the national average. She generally viewed childbirth as Old Testament suffering, and herself as the scalpel-wielding savior.
“You’re doing everything beautifully,” I told Molly, pressing the waterproof fetal heart rate monitor against her belly. The ethereal, rushing sound of the baby’s heart made Molly smile without opening her eyes. “Baby’s heart rate is fantastic. I’ll just chat with Dr. Schneider and be right back.”
“Okay,” she said.
I hated to leave her side, especially since she didn’t have a partner, but she was calm. Her first baby, too. I was so proud of her. Another superwoman, letting her incredible body do its job.
“What is it, Carline?” I asked, knowing she preferred to be called Dr. Schneider.
“What’s the problem here?” she asked, glancing at her watch.
“Nothing. There are absolutely no problems at the moment.”
“If she’s worn out, it might be time to section her.”
“She’s doing perfectly.”
Dr. Schneider sighed. “I’d just rather do this now than have to come back in two hours. It’s Friday, and my husband and I have plans.”
“I need to get back to my patient,” I said tightly, and closed the door in her face.
“Am I doing okay?” Molly asked, wincing as another contraction started.
“Are you kidding? You’re the poster child for this. Deep breath, nice and slow.” The contraction made her belly stiffen and list to the right. She rolled over in the pool and leaned her forearms against the side. I pressed down on her sacrum to relieve her back pain through the contraction. She took a deep breath and exhaled with a low note. “There you go,” I said. “You’re doing so well, Molly. Beautiful. Just beautiful.”
God, I loved my job. For thousands of years, women had helped each other give birth. Some of the oldest practices in the world were still used—delivering on your hands and knees, not cutting the cord right away, letting the baby rest on the mama’s chest before doing an assessment. We didn’t need to yank babies away and weigh them or put in eye drops before the moms had a chance to look in wonder upon what they had done.
A healthy labor and delivery was nothing short of miraculous, every single time. I hated that some doctors （like Carline） still used the term “unremarkable vaginal delivery.” It was a miracle, thank you very much.
“I’m here!” said a voice, and there was Bridget, her sister.
“Yay,” said Molly, then took another huge breath.
“Hooray!” I said. “Wash up and come see your superhero sister.” The water in the pool had some blood in it. Wouldn’t be long now.
“Bed,” Molly said, her voice urgent. “Now.”
Ah, the one-word sentences. A sign that pushing was near. “You got it, queen,” I said.
Bridget finished drying her hands and pulled on a gown, then rushed to her sister’s side. “God, this is exciting,” she said. “You’re incredible, Molly.”
Jane, one of my favorite nurses on the floor, came in—she had a sixth sense about when she was needed. We helped Molly out of the pool and onto the bed, which Bridget raised to a forty-five- degree angle. Molly closed her eyes and held her stomach, breathing deeply.
“Look at you,” Jane said. “Won’t be long now, honey.” She leaned down to murmur in my ear. “Need me? We’ve got a footling breech down the hall, but Wanda’s on it.”
Oh, thank God. Babies coming feetfirst was tricky, and Wanda was the best OB here. “No, you go,” I said to Jane. “Molly’s got this.”