I had never heard of a doula before I got pregnant. I honestly didn’t even know they existed until I was a couple months into my pregnancy, when I began going to a prenatal yoga class whose instructor was also a doula. For the next several months, I learned about the supports a doula offers and how she can be a valuable asset to a birthing team, but I never ended up getting one. I made excuses—the budget was tight, it would just be one more person who saw my vagina, I had my husband for emotional support. I wasn’t skeptical of medical intervention; I trusted my doctor and nurses would safely deliver my baby. I assumed the team would always have my best interests in mind. I had done my homework; I had studied up on safe birthing practices, wanted to avoid unnecessary procedures, and felt knowledgeable going into delivery.
I didn’t think I would need the emotional support a doula typically provides—but I did. Ultimately, I received it from someone I never even expected to have in the delivery room: my mom.
When I was eight months pregnant, I stumbled across an advice column where the writer asked about the most tactful way to tell her mother she was not invited to be in the delivery room. I read intently, because I was sure I didn’t want my mom in the room with me. I wasn’t even sure I wanted my husband in the room with me. The whole process sounded icky, and I didn’t relish the idea of potentially pooping myself in front of my loved ones.
Shortly after this, I felt a surge of liquid in my pants, and I went to the medical center to determine whether my water had broken or I had just peed myself. The on-call doctor explained that my blood pressure was too high to safely wait out the rest of my pregnancy; she wanted to induce labor that night. Bawling and terrified, I called my husband.
I called my mom next and asked her to come to the hospital. My mom has given birth to five kids. Each experience was longer, more painful, and more complicated than the last—but she always said she loved being pregnant and giving birth. Not so for me: The thought of giving birth left me on the brink of a panic attack. So I spent my whole pregnancy avoiding that part—not making a birth plan, not making it through birthing classes, not touring the hospital, leaving pregnancy books collecting dust on my shelves—and there I was unexpectedly about to do it. I was not prepared.
My mom stayed throughout the whole labor and delivery. She let me squeeze her hands when my contractions got too intense to handle. She tended to my husband when his face got pale. She rubbed my back and tucked my hair behind my ears; bringing me back to when I was a child, she squeezed me, called me “sweetie,” and told me I’d be alright.
Along with providing emotional support throughout the delivery process, my mom also gave practical advice as well. I had a goal for how dilated I wanted to be before getting an epidural, but my mom pointed out that I should get on the list as soon as I could, in case emergencies came up and I missed the opportunity for the epidural. She held my leg and acted as a human stirrup. This vantage point gave her a clear shot of my vagina and she was able to give me a play-by-play of what was happening, like every time she saw my daughter’s head pop out.
I had a mostly uneventful labor, minus the surprise start. I was induced and progressed steadily. My epidural numbed the contractions, and I was able to rest before it was time to push. The only complication came when, after my daughter’s head popped out, I pushed and pushed but couldn’t get the rest of her out. I became primal, screaming at my doctor, crying and telling him I would just have to leave and come back to try tomorrow. I was irrational and broken. My husband, who had never seen me yell, let alone scream weird noises, was clearly ill equipped to deal with me. But my mom was steadfast and strong. She continued to hold onto my leg and reassure me. She told me how good of a job I was doing and how strong I was. She was my mother.
The beauty of having my mother be my unofficial doula is not lost on me. The essence of motherhood is embedded in the mothering she provided me as I became a mother for the first time. Since having my daughter, I have spent more time understanding the role of a doula and the valuable place a doula holds in a delivery space. If I give birth again, I will look for a doula to join me, and whoever does will have a high standard to live up to. A doula needs to not only be an expert at navigating the birthing process, but she needs to know how to navigate the birthing mama–she needs to meet her where she is at and push her through to the end, especially when it feels like the end will never come.
I had a textbook understanding of birth. I trusted my medical team and was prepared to advocate for my needs and wishes. But I had skipped studying up on managing my emotional and mental state. Luckily, my mom was able to hold that space as my doula.