Unassisted Childbirth

I wrote this post about ten years ago ... nothing much has changed in the system, but we are seeing a growing number of women choosing to birth outside the medical system.

Back in the good old days, when I was a subsistence farmer in paradise, I had a friend who told me her birth story. This was before I started working with birth, but not before I had already started studying and learning, and listening to women's stories.

 

Friends Sharing Birth Stories

My friend's first baby had been a breech who did not want to get her head down. The policy at that time in Italy, as in many places, was to deliver breech babies by cesarean section, especially if the woman was a primipara.

So, my friend had a c-section, and she did not feel good about that birth at all. She thought that it was probably possible to give birth to a breech baby vaginally, and she felt pushed into making a decision that did not feel right to her. She decided she didn't want to go back to the hospital again to give birth.

She became pregnant again, and decided to stay at home this time and give birth on her own terms. She looked for a homebirth midwife but at that time in Italy they were a rare breed, especially if you were living in the hills as all us organic subsistence farmers did. She prepared by reading about natural birth, and she made sure she had methergine in the house - they always had it on hand for the goats.

Labor started and she sent her husband and child out for the day. She didn't want her daughter present for what she knew was going to be an intense and possibly scary event.
This was before cell phones, and they didn't have a phone, so he planned to come back around suppertime. She labored on her own and late in the afternoon, gave birth to a healthy baby.
"Were you scared?"
"Yes, I really wanted to have someone else around. I remember when I started pushing, and I felt a cervical lip, and I gently pushed it out of the way - I really wanted someone to be there with me. But I knew everything would be okay - I had a feeling. And if it wasn't ok, then it wasn't. I did it my way."

There is a growing movement that promotes unassisted childbirth as a way to regain control over your own birth, and there are many valid reasons for not wanting anyone at all from outside your circle of family and loved ones to be present at the birth of your child. It is, after all, a natural event, more like lovemaking than like a medical procedure. The presence of a stranger, even a well-liked one, can change and disturb the process. Midwives can be regulated by laws that perhaps don't agree with a woman's perception of how she wants her birth to proceed. 

I often get calls from women who are planning to give birth without attendants. They want information, or they want to find someone to be a "fly on the wall" - who can be there "just in case". Most of these women are women who have not been able to find a registered midwife - either they didn't call early enough, or they live in the wrong area, or they are considered too high risk for a homebirth. They don't really want an unassisted birth, but they are committed to not wanting to go to the hospital unless they really have to, so they are left with unassisted birth as their only option. Because we Canadians are used to free health care, cost is also a consideration. Unregistered midwives charge around $2000 for prenatal, birth, and postpartum care (that works out to about $10.73 an hour, in case you're wondering). Many women do not feel that this amount is an option, and, again, make the choice to give birth "unassisted".

I firmly believe in a woman's right to choose what's best for her body, and for her life. If a woman chooses to give birth on her own, or just with her partner, or her sister, in her own home, then power to her! She is making an adult choice, and she is accepting responsibility. But I do feel sad when women want to have the care of a midwife and cannot.

No woman should have to give birth on her own if she doesn't want to. Midwifery care should be available, really available, to any woman. Homebirth should be an option for us all. Unassisted homebirth is only one option, but it should be an option that is actively chosen and not decided on for lack of other plans. Equally, hospital birth is only one option. Health women carrying healthy babies should not have to go to the hospital to give birth unless they actively want to. Informed choice should be a reality - it should be informed, that is, women should educate themselves and each other, and they should ask for informtaion from their care providers. And choice should be a real choice with real options - unassisted, home birth, midwifery care, hospital birth.

Let's work together to bring the woman and child back to the center of maternity care!

Work in Progress aka Life

In 2003, I was done with city life. We were living in Montreal, not a huge city, but big enough, dirty enough and fast-paced enough to qualify as a big city. Life was fast, cold, busy. We decided to take some of our savings, and borrow some, and buy a ruin in Northern Italy that we could fix up and maybe one day live in. We had experience: we raised four children, renovated an old stone farmhouse, and ran a small subsistence farm in the previous chapter of our lives.

We've lives our lives following our dreams. Sometimes they turned into nightmares, mostly not. We've been poor, rich, and in between. We've been lonely, together, with and without children. Now we have five grown sons and perhaps another chapter is opening.

In any case, our mountain hideaway is a big part of our lives, and it's always been part of other peoples' lives too. This past summer, we hosted our first "work-in-progress" retreat. It was a great success! It was a healing retreat for women, and we learned how to stop and let life happen. It was about fun, playing, resting, eating and drinking, hiking, and being ourselves.

This year, 2019, we have a huge building project! Our land has two stone structures on it. We've fixed up the small one:

and now we have to get to work on the bigger one!

This is the barn. It's a huge, beautiful stone structure with a giant corrugated iron roof, that was put up many years ago to cover the original thatch. The roof has to come down, the beams have to be replaced, and we have to put a new roof on that baby.

So no retreats planned this summer. But if anyone out there loves to build and you want to come and visit for a while? Come on down! 

Next summer, though, I have three fantastic retreats planned. I'm inviting eight women to come and learn how to rest. I'm inviting eight experienced trail runners who want to master trail running in these mountains ... 

and I'm inviting eight women runners who want to learn about running trails, in a safe and fun environment, with an experienced running coach.

Drop me a line if you're interested in any of these activities - more details and dates to come!

Work In Progress!

Beach day!

Sage Sticks

Come Away This Summer!

Dear Friends,
I’ve been feeling the winter blues a little lately. I wonder if you have too. My life decisions recently have been huge but difficult. I’ve chosen to walk away from doing what I love, and I’m walking to different things (or running, actually. Literally).
My school is going through some changes - I am no longer offering group classes, except on demand, and I am moving towards individual mentorship, self-directed work, either in person or online! Super interesting and exciting. And I'm finding the time to build a new project that will unfold in a few years. Also exciting. And the present takes care of itself, with a large family, a cafe, and a marathon to run ...
It's so hard for us to take time off, to remove ourselves from our duties – even if those duties are ones we feel with the very deepest parts of ourselves that we MUST do. The tasks that we actually do have to do, time after time. Listening to an adult child. Comforting a small child. Spending time with a teenager who is growing before your eyes. Nurturing your intimate relationships.
Creating change. Working for what is right. Attending births. Writing for peace. Serving food.
And we get tired! And, of course, that’s ok. If you weren’t tired, it would be very clear that you weren’t fulfilling your potential. And not fulfilling your potential is not your way.
But that’s why, when you are tired, you need to reenergize so that you continue to reach your potential. Continue to care for others, to make change, to provide an example, to live well.
I'm really looking forward to the possibility of surrounding myself with strong, active (if a little tired) women - this summer, for a week.

Please make that first step. I am offering you the chance to spend one week in one of the most beautiful spots in the world, away from your work and your duties, surrounded by nature and the amazing people who will make up our group. I want to take care of you, and I will be there to facilitate, to guide, and to be silent when needed. (and my husband will cook...)

The first steps?
Check out the retreat: https://www.mbcdoulaschool.ca/summerbirthretreat.html
Like what you see? Pay the deposit. https://www.mbcdoulaschool.ca/store/p16/Summer_Retreat_%28deposit%29.html
Contact me! Leave a comment and I promise I will get back to you.

Making that first step is the most important thing you can do for yourself, today. I promise you won’t regret it.
With Love and Respect,
Rivka

Homophobia in the Eternal City?

The shortest little shorts and the tightest shirts are regularly worn by those endowed with the least fashion sense here in the Eternal City. I always loved the way Italians dressed, but I spent most of my time in Florence, where people used to look like they popped straight out of a renaissance painting. Their faces were beautiful, their teeth absolutely awful, their figures sublime and their fashion sense spot on.

"Froscio!" yelled at someone wearing longer shorts and a regular T-shirt. Is their gaydar so fine tuned they can pick out a gay person out of a crowd of thousands, just from their clothes? Or is it the way they carry themselves?

There are articles all over the internet about how bad homophobia really is in the Bel Paese. Have a look:
https://www.thelocal.it/20170517/italy-one-of-the-worst-countries-in-western-europe-for-gay-rights-report
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/italy-guest-house-no-gays-animals-lgbt-calabria-homophobia-massimo-arcangeli-a7859746.html
https://rgnn.org/2016/02/10/italy-religion-pasta-and-homophobia/

What are the roots of this intolerance? It probably has something to do with the way sexuality is expressed in general. Young women are expected to remain virgins forever, but to dress as sexy as they possibly can. On the beach, smaller than small g-strings can be seen everywhere, but sex education in Italian schools is limited and controversial. My feeling is that Italian men are terribly insecure about their own sexuality: women there seem to have a strange brand of bullying that relies on sexual allure. Italian culture itself is one of facade and appearance, so whoever looks the sexiest must be the sexiest, right? What if the sexiest is taboo; what if the sexiest is a no-no according to the religion of the day?

Speaking of the religion, it appears that some of the bad boys in the Vatican itself have been having fun with gays from elsewhere in Rome: https://www.lifesitenews.com/blogs/vatican-gay-sex-orgy-12-facts-you-need-to-know. This seems like a fake news fantasy, except that I heard this exact story from a gay man living in Rome.

I remember when I lived in Italy (for 13 years, learned the language, my kids went to school there), people from Canada and elsewhere would always say "Oooh, aren't you always getting hassled by the sex-crazed Italian men?" and honestly, I never once was hassled by anyone. I was slimmer back then, and of course younger looking. I dressed well. I usually had anywhere from one to four small boys either in my arms or hanging on to my clothes, and pretty much everyone I ever met was super respectful and pleasant to me, honoring the mother I represented. Once, an old peasant from down the road asked me if I wanted to "make some minestrone" with him. When I declined he was super embarrassed and probably worrying about what my husband would do to him. Is it true, then, the mother/prostitute dialectic? There are only two women: the mother and the prostitute and everything s/he represents?

Perhaps the homophobic violence is more connected to a generalized xenophobia. Read an interesting article here about how that played out in Elizabethan England. I remember when we lived in our rural paradise in Umbria, we never ever saw a black person, and we knew two brown people; an Indian woman who picked tobacco with us, and an Algerian man (whose name had been modified to "Jesus") who was the right-hand man for the owner of the fattoria down the road. It wasn't like there was a lot of racism; there didn't have to be because there weren't any other races to hate. There were the refugees living in free apartments in town, but they were European, so could be pitied and looked down upon but weren't hated.

Now, there's the generalized unease because of the economic situation in Italy. There's the constant fear of terror attacks. There are more and more immigrants, refugees and asylum seekers entering Italy to get a toe-hold in Europe, and these people are considered to be dangerous and destructive to the fabric of society. Speaking of which, I remember years ago when we opted out of religious education for our six year-old, the priest came to visit us and spoke of the fabric of life in the village and how we were creating a small fistula in that tissue. We persisted and that fistula grew, I suppose. The village is almost dead anyway, because all the young people moved away.

None of this rationalizing, however, makes it any better for the Nigerian who was killed last year for defending his wife, or the constant victimization and harassment of gays and trans people on the streets in Italy. I know, and of course most women know, how it is to be forever on your guard. I am a runner, and I know that many women are harassed almost every time they run. I'm lucky to be less endowed but women with big breasts are a target for stupid remarks and catcalls, and worse, every time they run. The answer? Don't run! If you're gay, don't go to Italy!

NOOOO! Women, go running! Everyone, visit Italy and yell back at those immature xenophobes on their shitty scooters!

https://www.romapride.it/

G for Grace

Yes, G is for grace, goodness, god, garrulousness and granola. But today I am grateful for Geese. Growing up in Canada is pretty special. Although I was born in the tropics, I spent my childhood in view of the Rockies, but as soon as I could leave Cowtown I did and travelled all across this large country, marvelling at its distances and bare bones beauty. One place that always took forever to get through was Ontario, with its lakes, forests, dirty towns, space station landscapes, and those big old birds.

When you see the geese in March you know that the season that smells like dog shit is upon us. Spring in most of Canada is a tortuous affair, where small flowers creep out of the snowy ground and blind you with their bright determination to be alive. The geese have increased in population recently, but they still fly south in the fall and north in the spring.

When I had a farm, we had a filthy pond where the geese lived. Family myths among the kids grew in that pond, daring rescues from near-drowning. When we would argue, which was often back then, the geese would take up the spirit of the screaming match and they would start to holler too. The kids tell me now they were afraid of the geese, but I never was. They knew I had the upper hand, in the form of a rope and a sharp knife. Mama kills.

Our geese on the farm were big and white, with bright orange feet and beaks, not like the dark and smaller Canada geese of our home.

Life and Death: A Tribute to My Mother

Death brings into question all of your life. My dreams, my goals, my aspirations, seem so small when I remember what my mother was whispering about on her death bed. 

I've always felt that my task on this earth is to try to do good; to try to be kind; to try to make the world a better place.

God knows I've failed,  spectacularly at times. I have a temper, and I "shoot from the hip", and I have a devil-may-care attitude that upsets people. I seem stand-offish and arrogant to those who don't know how deeply shy I am. But, yes, I must admit, my ability to dance to the beat of a different drum has kept me alive, literally, in the past, and probably will continue to offend people in the future.

I first met my mother after I stubbornly refused to turn from breech and the obstetrician recognized that because of a short cord, a normal delivery would be dangerous for me. My mother had a cesarean, which back in those days meant a serious incision - no pretending that cesarean section wasn't major surgery back in the fifties. It gave you a scar to remember! 

Two years later, she gave birth to my sister, and then another sister after that. Back in Uganda at that time repeat cesareans were NOT the order of the day, so my two sisters were born naturally.

My mother was a very sociable person. She was intensely creative and loved to see the world. She loved a party. She loved to talk to people. Her deafness was a real challenge to her, as she was a great and witty conversationalist. Two days before she died, my sisters both happened to be wearing pyjamas with polka dots on them. We were at her side constantly for the last five days of her life. That morning, she brightened up, looked at my sisters (both in their fifties and a little tired after having been up for three days) and said: "I could spot you girls a mile off!".

She wins the end-of-life, in deep pain, absolute pun prize.

She was always excited about my projects, no matter how zany they were. 

She was brave. She left England in 1952 with my father to go to Uganda where she taught mathematics at Makerere University. In 1959 they decided to move to Calgary where she lived a very different life and was appalled by the backwardness and provincialism of the people there.

In her late thirties, with three daughters, one of whom was spinning out of control (yours truly), she decided to move from mathematics into art and she decided to take art classes. She worked very hard and created some absolutely beautiful works. She became an artist during this time, and continued to paint, draw and create up until very recently.

These are some works she did during and just after my father died. 

Never to stay still for longer than a few years, my parents moved to Botswana in the late seventies where my mother created a silkscreen workshop that is still thriving, at a village museum:

 Phuthadikobo Museum

My mother loved the desert. They would get in the truck and drive on to the pans and sleep under the stars. She loved the light.

My mother loved dressing up. She would mix colors magnificently, and she always made sure her hair was done. She loved jewelry, and perfume, and high-heeled shoes. She loved going out with me to buy a pretty dress.

She loved a party. She was always ready to celebrate! On her 80th birthday, she was with us in Italy and we drove to our favorite picnic spot: 

Cinque Terre

It is a spot by the side of the road where we stop and eat supper and watch the sun go down into the sea. We didn't have a fancy picnic basket - just the usual - home made bread, tins of tuna, mozzarella, capers, beer, ... and then we stuck a lighter into a plastic plate of cookies and sang Happy Birthday.

After the sun went down we drove to the nearby town, walked on the boardwalk, and had a coffee. A perfect party!

She loved to knit and sew. With three daughters, she always had us dressed in matching dresses, at least until her oldest decided to wear only jeans, hiking boots and a small T-shirt.

She was a very skilled textile artist: This is the front of a sweater she knitted for me from a silk/cotton mix.

She loved music. She loved art. She was always enthusiastic about going to the Musee des Beaux Arts when she visited Montreal.

She loved to get presents. 

She loved Italy. I moved there in 1985 and she visited whenever she could, which wasn't often in the beginning as she was living in Botswana. But a few years later, my parents bought a medieval tower in the middle of Umbria. It was, simply, a tower. No electricity, bathroom, kitchen, or much of anything. It had water. And it was in the middle of an Italian village.

They didn't live there, because they were still enjoying the Kalahari. So we moved in: two adults, two young children and pretty soon two more babies on the way. I don't know many kids who lived in a medieval tower for some of their childhood, but mine did - I suppose I must have inherited some of my mother's sense of adventure! 

Just over a year ago, after my father died, my mother found out she was ill. She decided to forgo exploration and treatment and instead booked herself on an art tour to Italy: 

Italy Art Tour

This year, my mother spent the winter vacation with us, and she partied with her six grandsons well into the night on New Year's, 2014.

L'Chaim!!

In loving memory of my mother who died on March 17, 2014.