"A Birth Story: A Fairly Honest Recounting of the Events Immediately Preceding the Birth of Our Daughter"
Part Two:
The In-Hospital Part
We stumble around the house, gathering what we need to bring with us to the hospital. I manage to get my contact lens solution into a canvas bag. I am just starting to pick out a suitable first-ever outfit for Saoirse to wear home from the hospital - blue or red? it seemed like a very important decision at the time - when John announces that we are ready. Not only has he remembered that we had somewhat prepared for this eventuality by making a list of things to bring to the hospital, but he has also managed to gather everything on said list in under five minutes. He's also reinstalled the carseat, packed us a feast of peanut sauce stir-fry and chocolate, gathered some baby paraphernalia, provided for the dogs, located the spare house key for their walker, and even packed the iPod dock. So, correction: I stumbled around aimlessly, while John turned on the super-dad afterburner and actually pulled it off.
We arrive at the hospital and meet Claudia on the maternity ward. She greets us warmly and enthusiastically, and the staff behind the desk all do the same, referring to me by name and assuring me that I'll simply love the room. Although I don't feel able to fully appreciate everybody's efforts - I still feel on the verge of tears - I do smile. I add "social lubricant" to my growing mental list of Claudia's incredible talents, as I feel myself melt a little. The whole hospital experience, which I had once held in such sharp contrast to my idealized vision of "natural" childbirth, is softening. Then, I feel another powerful contraction coming on, so we begin to slowly make our way down the hall to our room.
I notice that the room itself is massive, and boasts a wide view of the Experimental Farm. Doesn't really matter, doesn't really hurt matters. I explore my way to the bathroom, and am blown away by the size of the tub. This is a big deal to me. Since early pregnancy, I have put the idea of having a water-birth on a pedestal; although I know that I can't get into it until I am 5 centimetres dilated, I am grateful to have it to look forward to as providing some pain relief.
We settle in. A doctor comes in and informs me that they are going to put me on the Oxytocin at a regularly increasing dosage until they "have that baby out of me, in no time at all". I tell him that I don't mind if this thing takes a bit of time. I look to Claudia for help, wishing she wouldn't be so damn respectful all the time, and say, "You're going to remain my primary caregiver, right?" And she reassures me that she will. The doctor leaves shortly thereafter and, when he's gone, John tears down the sign above the bed that advertises an epidural.
We go for a stroll down the hall and I discover my love of ice chips.
Later in the afternoon, around 5 pm, Claudia's 24-hour shift is over and Paula's begins. Paula has been my primary mid-wife since the beginning, so I have been meeting with her regularly for almost a year. Paula is warm, positive and realistic, and she is not prone to overreaction, exaggeration or fear-mongering. I've always felt we are compatible in the unique relationship that we've found ourselves in. She provides the care willingly, as is her job, as she has done with countless other women; I accept it, gratefully, without giving up any of my autonomy. There is no strange power dynamic complicating things, just pure co-operation.
Shortly thereafter, the mission is to get the Oxytocin drip connected to my IV, or something to that effect. At this point, I'm really not able to be present to that type of discussion. I do get the sense that they are having some difficulty, though, because they are not familiar with the particular thingy that that connects the thingy to the thingy on the IV thingy. They call in the nurse, who turns out to be something of an old friend, and the room erupts into happy banter and loud laughter. Me? Oh, don't worry about me, I'm just over here by the chair, totally freaking out. That's right. I'm losing my control, I can't concentrate, my breath escapes me and suddenly, the contraction peaks and another one has already begun, leaving me no time to recover. I hear Claudia say, "She was doing great, I don't know what's happening", and someone else says something about an Oxytocin flush.. the whole dose... I don't want to hear that, I don't want to know anything other than whether or not it is going to continue on like this. I need them to understand that I can't handle this, if this is how labour is going to be from now on, forget it. I'm open to anything, but not this. I'm relieved when it's finally over, and they assure me that there was not an accident with the Oxytocin, it was just a one-off double whammy contraction. The trust is still there.
I spend another long time leaning over the bed, with my head down, holding John's hands... until my legs get sore... then I move back to leaning over the chair. I want to try other position - no, I want to want to try other positions - like squatting or hands-and-knees, but I find both positions so uncomfortable that I always hurry back.
Later in the evening, my endurance starts to falter, and my optimism goes with it. I ask Paula for some idea of what's going on. I feel trapped in time, like this one moment is stretching way longer than I can cope with, and start to distrust the process. I'm getting really tired of being in pain.
Paula gets that I am craving a sense of accomplishment, or at least some measurement of progress other than time. I find that time can be a surprisingly unpredictable unit of measurement, in times of intensity. She checks me again, and I am 5 cm's dilated. This is the best news I have ever heard. I can get in the bath.
The bath's warm water doesn't disappoint. In the tub, I relax to the point of drifting off between contractions, which are now a minute long and a minute apart. After about an hour, my sounds become more guttural - I can hear myself, it doesn't sound like me, but I know it must be because I was told there was no one else on the ward - and my pitch goes up at the end. I'm feeling the urge to push.
"Are you feeling the urge to push?" Paula is on top of it.
"Yes! Can I?!?" I'm pretty much begging.
"No. As long as you can keep yourself from pushing, don't push!" I think of a Sublime song but I can't remember how it goes.
Some time later, I rebel and I push. I can feel Saoirse inside, moving down; I can tell, inch by inch, that my pushing is being productive. There is show in the tub, and Paula finally tells me that it is alright to push. I don't want to disappoint.
Several pushes later, she informs me that I have to get out of the tub because in Ontario, water births are illegal. Somehow, this information didn't register with me before. I don't think it's possible to get out of the tub, and I want to sneakily push her out while Paula's in the other room prepping, but I don't. I curse Ontario all the way back to my leaning chair.
At the chair! I bear down and push. Between pushing, I feel absolutely nothing. I don't actually feel the urge to push. I start pushing because I want this to be over, and it's only once I'm pushing that I can't stop. It feels sort of amazing in an awful way. The infamous ring of fire, that I learned about in prenatal class, lasts much longer than I thought it would. It lasted long enough for me to scream that I am feeling it, swear, repeat that I'm still feeling it, and swear again for a really long time. The ring of fire is aptly named, as it really does feel like there's a fire lit inside of you and the flames are lapping at your exit point.
I'm told that her head is out, but I don't dare look.
I'm in bed, shaking like a fiend, totally dazed and confused. Some time later, Paula hooks Saoirse up to my breast and she latches on. I can't believe it. I'm totally floored. I get it now. There are no more words.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
A Birth Story: A Fairly Honest Recounting of the Events Immediately Preceding the Birth of Our Daughter
Preflections
I love my birth story, so I don't know why I haven't wanted to write it down. While pregnant, I read many a birth story and found a lot of comfort in them. They provided a possible framework for my own story, which seemed mysterious and expansive from my outsider's perspective. Generally, hearing other women's stories left me feeling iron strong and freakishly confident; but the odd time, they came with a twist ending that left me absolutely terrified.
What was I afraid of? It wasn't the pain or the possibility that I couldn't do it. Nope, there was never a doubt in my mind that I could do it. Maybe it would hurt like hell, but the pain would be merely physical and I would persevere in the throes of active labour. Then, I knew, the pain would be over - it always does have an end - and I'd be left with a child. I'd be left with my brand new universe.
I wasn't afraid of the unknown, either. That's too big and broad a fear to apply to a discrete event that literally has a countdown, however inaccurate, leading up to it.
Most of my fears were specific, and I was able to manage them as they arose throughout my pregnancy. For instance, I feared the possibility of hemorrhaging after the birth and being rushed to the hospital, so I had an INR test to convince myself that this wasn't going to happen. I was also wary of the looming threat of having a hospital birth from the get-go, which opened up a whole snowballing of fears: at the hospital, I would be hurried along, I wouldn't know my patient's rights well enough, I would be induced with hormones which would make the contractions unbearable... I would beg for an epidural, which would numb me to the experience, I would push too hard, too fast... I would rip wide open and before I could recover from a hundred stitches they would have my perfect daughter drinking formula from a bottle and wearing makeup and refusing to look me in the eye after breaking curfew...
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!
Ultimately, I had nothing to fear but fear itself, as my story illustrates.
*****************
Part One
The At-Home Part
On November 4th - my estimated due date, mind you, so a baby was what I least expected - my contractions started late in the evening. "How delightful!" I thought. Every ten minutes, I would feel my uterus gently clench, a kind of pleasant discomfort. They weren't nearly as bad as cramps. I was off to a grand ol' start.
On November 5th, at 4 am, just as I was starting to doubt that this could possibly have anything to do with labour, my waters broke. My side of the bed was soaked. But how could I be sure? Classic denial. I googled it. Convinced, I called the midwifery hotline, where a male voice congratulated me and advised me to get some rest. A midwife would be 'round in the morning. Obviously, I didn't sleep that night, despite my best intentions.
When the midwife arrived, we were hustling about, preparing snacks and putting a tarp on the bed. I baked goods and contracted at home, while John went out to gather some last-minute supplies. We told family that it was on, and we all put on our game faces. The midwife, a stranger to me, checked my vitals and prescribed me extra-strength Tylenol or Baileys (a no-brainer) and a Gravol shot in the leg. I took it, and I passed out for a couple of hours.
By 11 am, the contractions had come to a complete stop. Visions of my worst fears started skulking about in the darker corners of my mind. That poor midwife was my scapegoat: I would blame her for killing my contractions for quite some time, until I am told by my own midwife, a fountainesse of wisdom and knowledge, that, "If you are really in labour, nothing can stop it. You needed the rest".
Although relatively mild contractions had resumed by mid-afternoon, they weren't accelerating or intensifying nearly enough to silence my monkey mind. I knew that they wouldn't let you sit around with your waters broken forever, and I couldn't shake the awareness that the clock was ticking.
At 5:30 that evening, we went for a walk, and as I walked through the neighbourhood I secretly stimulated my nipples and tried to relaaaaax. My anxiety was seeping into John, and I could feel it coming back at me in full force. Castor oil! John went and got some. I guzzled those fish oil bubbles down like my life depended on it and I didn't notice the taste. After big fat nothing for a few hours, I spent an hour on the toilet. Wrong kind of contraction. Still, the contractions I was needing to stay out of the hospital eluded us.
At 7 pm, Claudia - my secondary but equally super-human midwife - comes over for another cervical sweep, and the contractions start in earnest that night. Honestly.
It's now November 6th. At 2:30 am, Claudia returns for another round of antibiotics. All along, I've been receiving antibiotics intravenously every 8 hours, a reward for being Group B Strep positive. She informs us of our options and their associated risks and, when pressed, advises us of both her professional and personal opinions. She has attained the perfect balance of compassionate care and professional discretion.
Because I'm on antibiotics and the baby and I are both doing fabulously, she grants me the gift of time and empowers us to make our own decision by morning. I'm to call her at 8 am. After listening to some hypnosis, I drift into a night of 3-minute catnaps between contractions which are about 40 seconds long, every 7 minutes. Give or take.
At the crack of 8 am, we touch base with Claudia. Then we're out of bed and off to the dog park for a walk in the woods. In the car, the contractions are gaining an edge, and my heart goes out to women who've had to labour in bed. The unpleasantness of the pressure of the car seat is ever so slightly mitigated by the fact that we have heated seats. At the dog park, the fresh air makes everything more okay, and I arrange to be next to a tree for each contraction so I can assume the pose that will get me through the next million or so contractions - bending at the waist at a 120 degree angle is where I find the most relief. The car ride back pretty much sucks.
At 10:30 am, we meet our beloved Claudia back at our place for an antibiotics date. We also have an uninvited guest, who gushes in and can't be ignored - green baby poop. Meconium. Procedure and common sense dictate that this is the point at which we must go to the hospital. I know this. Claudia confirms this. Despite having tried to remain open to a hospital birth throughout my pregnancy, I feel the loss and cry it out. After 5 minutes, John brings me back to positive zone and a sense of acceptance, then urgency, takes over. It's off to the Civic we go.
I love my birth story, so I don't know why I haven't wanted to write it down. While pregnant, I read many a birth story and found a lot of comfort in them. They provided a possible framework for my own story, which seemed mysterious and expansive from my outsider's perspective. Generally, hearing other women's stories left me feeling iron strong and freakishly confident; but the odd time, they came with a twist ending that left me absolutely terrified.
What was I afraid of? It wasn't the pain or the possibility that I couldn't do it. Nope, there was never a doubt in my mind that I could do it. Maybe it would hurt like hell, but the pain would be merely physical and I would persevere in the throes of active labour. Then, I knew, the pain would be over - it always does have an end - and I'd be left with a child. I'd be left with my brand new universe.
I wasn't afraid of the unknown, either. That's too big and broad a fear to apply to a discrete event that literally has a countdown, however inaccurate, leading up to it.
Most of my fears were specific, and I was able to manage them as they arose throughout my pregnancy. For instance, I feared the possibility of hemorrhaging after the birth and being rushed to the hospital, so I had an INR test to convince myself that this wasn't going to happen. I was also wary of the looming threat of having a hospital birth from the get-go, which opened up a whole snowballing of fears: at the hospital, I would be hurried along, I wouldn't know my patient's rights well enough, I would be induced with hormones which would make the contractions unbearable... I would beg for an epidural, which would numb me to the experience, I would push too hard, too fast... I would rip wide open and before I could recover from a hundred stitches they would have my perfect daughter drinking formula from a bottle and wearing makeup and refusing to look me in the eye after breaking curfew...
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!
Ultimately, I had nothing to fear but fear itself, as my story illustrates.
*****************
Part One
The At-Home Part
On November 4th - my estimated due date, mind you, so a baby was what I least expected - my contractions started late in the evening. "How delightful!" I thought. Every ten minutes, I would feel my uterus gently clench, a kind of pleasant discomfort. They weren't nearly as bad as cramps. I was off to a grand ol' start.
On November 5th, at 4 am, just as I was starting to doubt that this could possibly have anything to do with labour, my waters broke. My side of the bed was soaked. But how could I be sure? Classic denial. I googled it. Convinced, I called the midwifery hotline, where a male voice congratulated me and advised me to get some rest. A midwife would be 'round in the morning. Obviously, I didn't sleep that night, despite my best intentions.
When the midwife arrived, we were hustling about, preparing snacks and putting a tarp on the bed. I baked goods and contracted at home, while John went out to gather some last-minute supplies. We told family that it was on, and we all put on our game faces. The midwife, a stranger to me, checked my vitals and prescribed me extra-strength Tylenol or Baileys (a no-brainer) and a Gravol shot in the leg. I took it, and I passed out for a couple of hours.
By 11 am, the contractions had come to a complete stop. Visions of my worst fears started skulking about in the darker corners of my mind. That poor midwife was my scapegoat: I would blame her for killing my contractions for quite some time, until I am told by my own midwife, a fountainesse of wisdom and knowledge, that, "If you are really in labour, nothing can stop it. You needed the rest".
Although relatively mild contractions had resumed by mid-afternoon, they weren't accelerating or intensifying nearly enough to silence my monkey mind. I knew that they wouldn't let you sit around with your waters broken forever, and I couldn't shake the awareness that the clock was ticking.
At 5:30 that evening, we went for a walk, and as I walked through the neighbourhood I secretly stimulated my nipples and tried to relaaaaax. My anxiety was seeping into John, and I could feel it coming back at me in full force. Castor oil! John went and got some. I guzzled those fish oil bubbles down like my life depended on it and I didn't notice the taste. After big fat nothing for a few hours, I spent an hour on the toilet. Wrong kind of contraction. Still, the contractions I was needing to stay out of the hospital eluded us.
At 7 pm, Claudia - my secondary but equally super-human midwife - comes over for another cervical sweep, and the contractions start in earnest that night. Honestly.
It's now November 6th. At 2:30 am, Claudia returns for another round of antibiotics. All along, I've been receiving antibiotics intravenously every 8 hours, a reward for being Group B Strep positive. She informs us of our options and their associated risks and, when pressed, advises us of both her professional and personal opinions. She has attained the perfect balance of compassionate care and professional discretion.
Because I'm on antibiotics and the baby and I are both doing fabulously, she grants me the gift of time and empowers us to make our own decision by morning. I'm to call her at 8 am. After listening to some hypnosis, I drift into a night of 3-minute catnaps between contractions which are about 40 seconds long, every 7 minutes. Give or take.
At the crack of 8 am, we touch base with Claudia. Then we're out of bed and off to the dog park for a walk in the woods. In the car, the contractions are gaining an edge, and my heart goes out to women who've had to labour in bed. The unpleasantness of the pressure of the car seat is ever so slightly mitigated by the fact that we have heated seats. At the dog park, the fresh air makes everything more okay, and I arrange to be next to a tree for each contraction so I can assume the pose that will get me through the next million or so contractions - bending at the waist at a 120 degree angle is where I find the most relief. The car ride back pretty much sucks.
At 10:30 am, we meet our beloved Claudia back at our place for an antibiotics date. We also have an uninvited guest, who gushes in and can't be ignored - green baby poop. Meconium. Procedure and common sense dictate that this is the point at which we must go to the hospital. I know this. Claudia confirms this. Despite having tried to remain open to a hospital birth throughout my pregnancy, I feel the loss and cry it out. After 5 minutes, John brings me back to positive zone and a sense of acceptance, then urgency, takes over. It's off to the Civic we go.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
The joke's on moo
Who's there?
Interrupting cow.
Interrupting cow..
Moooo!!!!!
Except this joke's not a knock-knock joke, and it's not nearly as funny.
The joke's butt is us - human consumers, who have been the victims of a long con. We've been bought by the milk industry, we've sold our animal instinct, and become absolutely convinced that it is not only normal, but crucial to our very existence, as bone-based creatures, to drink three tall glasses a day of another species' breast milk. Well, drinking milk doesn't help with back-bone development; it may even be a symptom of a lack thereof.
"The dairy folks, ever since the 1920s, have been enormously successful in cultivating an environment within virtually all segments of our society—from research and education to public relations and politics—to have us believing that cow's milk and its products are manna from heaven. ... Make no mistake about it; the dairy industry has been virtually in total control of any and all public health information that ever rises to the level of public scrutiny."
Dr. T. Colin Campbell
Nevermind the fact that that milk is not nature's perfect food to anyone but the milk-producing cow's own offspring.
Nevermind the fact that there are no convincing studies that link osteoporosis to milk as an effective source of calcium.
Nevermind the fact that milk products - and the hormones, pesticides, and antibiotics that are contained in them - have been linked to heart disease, diabetes, allergies, obesity, cancer, and a host of other diseases that plague us dairy-dining North Americans the most.
Nevermind that it's all based on a lie.
Nevermind all those things, for a moment, and if you haven't considered quitting milk yet, then consider it now, if only for a moment, because of the simple fact that to glass and guzzle a cow's bodily fluid is just plain weird.
What if, in our scramble to be authentic and to minimize our food's travel time, it became popular to get our milk organic, free-range, and straight from the source? Udderly delicious! Would you do it? Would you regress to your infant years, and suckle for milk? We love to bob for apples, pick our own berries, grow our own herbs, draw our own water, collect our own eggs, fish our own fish, but can you really imagine yourself suckling your own cow?
It sucks for the environment, for your health, and definitely, for the cow. If you can't find a reason in there to holler hoax, then be my guest, bottoms up. But remember to ask yourself, the next time you reach for a delicious glass of creamy colostrum: What's that subtle flavour, an undertone, I can't quite put my finger on it, but it could be... it couldn't be.. can it be? Can I taste the nipple?
Sometimes, I like to pretend that aliens have swooped in from outer space and decided to harvest humans' white gold. I've been genetically modified. I've been hooked up to a machine by my nipples and am surrounded by thousands of my closest acquaintances, in a warehouse, all in the same situation. Whatever milk I would produce for my child, I will now be producing ten times that amount - dozens of pounds of milk. My nipples are down to my knees but as long as there's milk coming, these aliens are in business. Oh, and what of my child, you ask? Well, his worth would not be unharnessed by these most parsimonious of aliens and, as a bi-product of their milk-sucking endeavour, my child would not go to waste. An entire sub-industry would be carefully crafted around the deliciousness of his tender ... and then I decide to stop pretending, because this is all pretty sick and a little too familiar.
And then there's the environmental impact of mass milk production. Like most things we do, it is vastly inefficient. A single dairy cow converts tons of grain and an enormous amount of water to a small amount of milk. In the process, it produces as much waste as two dozen people do, every day. Since the cows aren't provided with the luxuries of proper waste management, such as toilet paper, sewers and treatment plants, their waste is cycled back into the system.
With a looming water crisis and global warming being a firmly established fact, do we really need this added pressure on our resources?
Why, when we can eat the same leafy greens that cows eat for calcium, eliminate the blood and pus from our diets, and combat the obesity epidemic, all in one fell swoop?
Dump Dairy because medical studies have proven that it won't help you maintain good bone health. Despite what ours and our parents' generations have been told, excessive calcium in fact causes osteoporosis. It looks like you may have to start acting younger than your age on this one, and debunk the old-school myth that milk is a miracle food. It's not. They'll start teaching this in kindergarden soon. Cow's breast milk is for cows, and humans' breast milk is for humans; it's not speciesist, it's common sense. You wouldn't want someone to mess with the breast-born baby bond between you and your child, so why inflict that pain of longing upon somebody else?
Once you expose the dairy fallacy for yourself, you can start making positive lifestyle changes. Don't dwell on the negatives; take action. At the very least, focus in on healthy alternatives, like molasses, dark leafy greens, cabbage, broccoli, green beans, cucumber, peas, soybeans, squash, most types of beans (including cocoa!), kiwi, real maple syrup, brown sugar, and tomatoes. Now that calcium-fortified soy products are allowed in Canada (wonder why it took so long?) it is easier than ever.
Eating well isn't just about our own health, it's about the health of our planet - and that of Daisy the dairy cow who would thrive just fine outside the confines of a dairy factory.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Who's catching your baby?
My husband's friend, Daniel, strung these words together and I find it so so interesting. If you're into DIY, birthing politics, or self-empowerment, then you will too.
"In the early 1920's, capitalism realized that it could no longer maintain it's exploitation of human labor if it didn't also colonize everything that exists beyond the strict sphere of production. Faced with the socialist challenge, it had to socialize too. So it needed to create its culture, its entertainment, its medicine, its urbanism, its sentimental education and its own moores, and be prepared to perpetually renovate these."
-Tiqqun "Preliminary Materials for a Theory of the Jeune-Fille"
When anarchists speak of "Social War" we aren't just renaming the "Class War" of years past, wherein the struggles against capitalism were carried out by the proletariat seeking to overthrow the bourgeoisie and destroy class society, what we are speaking about is the colonization of capital into all forms of modern life and the need to seek out and attack it in every sphere within which it exists. Social war means constant conflict (in varying degrees of intensity) with all aspects of life inside our post-industrial desert. It means both the destruction of all commodified forms of life and the creation and dissemination of new, non-recuperable life-ways.
Our analysis must encompass the totality of our oppression, that is to say that we should never consciously overlook any part of life that capital has integrated itself into. An anarchist strategy needs to avoid stagnancy by constantly redefining and remapping the social terrain and locating the spaces where power has recuperated dissent. We can't expect to remain relevant or be effective if we keep trying to reintroduce the practices and theories of old dead anarchists into a context that is entirely different. Life has changed and we, if we do not wish to wither away into oblivion, must change with it.
One aspect of life that we should not overlook is childbirth. Reproductive freedom has a long and rich history of resistance to capitalist and state control.
Work that had for centuries been done by women (i.e. gathering, farming) was gradually taken over by men and their beasts of burden. This more sedentary life caused many women to give birth to more children which increased the population and helped to give rise to Feudalism. But when the plague hit, Europe lost 60% of it's population, and people with specialized skills and knowledge could charge extraordinarily large sums of money for their work. Burgeoning nation-states, scrambling to pull together enough people to continue business as usual after the catastrophic population decrease, gave rise to the new networks of power, a primitive state apparatus, and, of course, a clamp down on peasant communalism. Some heretical sects resisted the attack on their communal life-ways by refusing to obey their laws, setting churches on fire, hanging bishops for betraying the real teachings of christ and some, as in the case of the Bogomils, downright refused to bear children so that they would not bring new slaves in this "land of tribulations".
The onset of primitive accumulation necessitated a new restructuring of power in Europe and an increase in potential laborers. This was at a time when a nation-state's power and wealth was partially defined by the amount of its citizens it had at its disposal. When empires needed these bodies they implemented new state regulations over childbirth. In 16th century Nuremburg, the penalty for maternal infanticide was drowning, and all over Germany the Pro-Natalist crusades went as far as punishing women who didn't show enough of an effort during childbirth. In France, a royal edict of 1556 required women to register every pregnancy, and sentenced to death those whose infants died before baptism after a concealed delivery, whether or not they were proven guilty of any wrong doing. The suspicion under which the midwives - leading to the entrance of the male doctor in the delivery room - stemmed more from the authorities fear of infanticide (the potential of losing their labor power and cannon fodder) than from any concern of the midwives' alleged medical incompetence. With the marginalization of the midwife, women lost the control they had exercised over procreation and were reduced to a passive role in child delivery, while male doctors began to be seen as the real "givers of life". Some midwives in Germany turned spies for the state in order to continue their practice. Most midwives rebelled, instead of adhering to the new guidelines imposed on them, they continued guiding women through the birthing experience the way they always had. Some of these unruly women were called witches, some were murdered, but most continued practicing, only less vocal this time.
Midwives, as demeaned as they were, regularly continued to attend most mothers up until the 1920's when there was a move to hospitalize the birthing experience in the United States. White and mostly upper and middle class women started attending hospitals due to the doctors promises of a smooth and hygienic birth. Propaganda campaigns, financed by the medical industry, at the time portrayed midwives as 'unsanitary', poor immigrants. An important thing to note here is that with all of the turn of the century arguments against midwives: that they were unclean, old-fashioned, ill-equipped, and dangerous; it was in fact in the hospitals where a rise in disease was occurring - puerperal fever (aka childbed fever - a fatal infection that was usually introduced by unhygienic obstetricians), complications (due to the hospitals rigid control of the movements of women's bodies), and fatalities (due to unnecessary interventions).
Somewhat quickly the hospitalization of childbirth began to rise. Within a few decades most deliveries happened in a hospital environment. This provided an immense amount of capital to the industry (as everyone now must pay to come into the world). Also accomplished in this is medicalization of childbirth, and this is crucial to an anarchist analysis of childbirth, is the intense regulated control of the process of bringing life into the world. The state decides how (and in some cases when) you are allowed to enter the world. After a few generations women had given up almost all power over procreation to licensed professionals and state bureaucracy. Some midwives spoke against the medical apparatus, but were drowned out by more "competent" doctors and studies financed by the medical industry.
In the late 1960's and early 70's there was a revamp in the field of midwifery, which was closely tied to the hippy and back-to-the-land movements. Childbirth was seen, once again, as a spiritual ceremony and many hippies came to older midwives, eager to learn the trade. This new generation of midwives set up birthing centers on communal farms, collectives in cities and organized free midwifery trainings. This marginal subculture of "spiritual midwives" existed mostly on the fringes of society and did not (for the most part) break out of its groovy ghetto to attack the medical industry and the state apparatus for controlling the welcoming of life. Not to be overlooked though, are the important ways these births empowered women and helped them feel more in control of their bodies. Their refusal to obey state regulations over childbirth, refusal to accept money for delivering children and the expropriation and dissemination of specialized skills shows a move into a revolutionary consciousness. Content as they were to set up birthing communes and midwifery collectives these midwives failed to take direct action against the business of being born.
But the 60's counter-culture came and went and what was left were scattered birth collectives charging clientele ludicrously large fees, upper-middle class midwife authors collecting royalty checks from book sales, and a general acceptance of state licensing and certification. Although there was a slight resistance in the 80's to the legalization of midwifery by some radical midwives, most midwives were just glad they were allowed to practice openly. What started out as a radical subculture reclaiming an almost lost skill, that carried with it a potentially revolutionary paradigm, had become a commodified and regulated component of the industrial medical apparatus. It continues to exist today as another life-choice colonized by capital and overseen by the state.
In recent years midwifery, homebirths and unassisted childbirths have grown in popularity. But midwifery as a practice has yet to reject the commodification of its own existence; it has in fact become more of a commodity than ever before. With the movement toward a green capitalist market, midwifery, along with veganism, organic local food co-ops, hybrid cars, Barrack Obama, and bicycles has become just another eco-niche. Certified Midwives have fairly large incomes, prenatal yoga birthing classes cost a fortune and birthing tubs for homebirths are not communized but are instead rented out for hundreds of dollars.
Within this commercialization of natural childbirth there exists a kernel of subversion and rebellion, the anarchist midwife. The anarchist midwife is new to the scene but brings with her all of the tools to make childbirth a threat to the ruling order. She carries with her a disdain for all things regulated and surveilled, a readiness to work outside of the law, a sharpened critique of the medical industry, the skills to deliver a new life and a deep trust and love for the mother and child's intuition.
The anarchist midwife has within herself the capacity to be truly subversive. She can provide free or low-cost births for illegal immigrants who would otherwise be turned away or into the police by the hospital staff. She can learn Spanish to offer her skills, and knowledge, to immigrant communities, outlaws and fugitives. She and her peers can communize birthing equipment. She can use illegalism to fund birthing centers, conferences and skillshares. She can expose and disrupt obstetricians that speak out against midwifery when they give lectures. She can despecialize her knowledge by sharing it with others. She can write pamphlets and journals critiquing the capitalist medical industry. She can give whatever procedures she and the mother deem safe during child-delivery without regard for the state and its arbitrary restrictions.
She is a free agent, a rebel, a subversive, one part of the social war. She is the anarchist midwife.
Childbirth and Social War
"In the early 1920's, capitalism realized that it could no longer maintain it's exploitation of human labor if it didn't also colonize everything that exists beyond the strict sphere of production. Faced with the socialist challenge, it had to socialize too. So it needed to create its culture, its entertainment, its medicine, its urbanism, its sentimental education and its own moores, and be prepared to perpetually renovate these."
-Tiqqun "Preliminary Materials for a Theory of the Jeune-Fille"
When anarchists speak of "Social War" we aren't just renaming the "Class War" of years past, wherein the struggles against capitalism were carried out by the proletariat seeking to overthrow the bourgeoisie and destroy class society, what we are speaking about is the colonization of capital into all forms of modern life and the need to seek out and attack it in every sphere within which it exists. Social war means constant conflict (in varying degrees of intensity) with all aspects of life inside our post-industrial desert. It means both the destruction of all commodified forms of life and the creation and dissemination of new, non-recuperable life-ways.
Our analysis must encompass the totality of our oppression, that is to say that we should never consciously overlook any part of life that capital has integrated itself into. An anarchist strategy needs to avoid stagnancy by constantly redefining and remapping the social terrain and locating the spaces where power has recuperated dissent. We can't expect to remain relevant or be effective if we keep trying to reintroduce the practices and theories of old dead anarchists into a context that is entirely different. Life has changed and we, if we do not wish to wither away into oblivion, must change with it.
One aspect of life that we should not overlook is childbirth. Reproductive freedom has a long and rich history of resistance to capitalist and state control.
Work that had for centuries been done by women (i.e. gathering, farming) was gradually taken over by men and their beasts of burden. This more sedentary life caused many women to give birth to more children which increased the population and helped to give rise to Feudalism. But when the plague hit, Europe lost 60% of it's population, and people with specialized skills and knowledge could charge extraordinarily large sums of money for their work. Burgeoning nation-states, scrambling to pull together enough people to continue business as usual after the catastrophic population decrease, gave rise to the new networks of power, a primitive state apparatus, and, of course, a clamp down on peasant communalism. Some heretical sects resisted the attack on their communal life-ways by refusing to obey their laws, setting churches on fire, hanging bishops for betraying the real teachings of christ and some, as in the case of the Bogomils, downright refused to bear children so that they would not bring new slaves in this "land of tribulations".
The onset of primitive accumulation necessitated a new restructuring of power in Europe and an increase in potential laborers. This was at a time when a nation-state's power and wealth was partially defined by the amount of its citizens it had at its disposal. When empires needed these bodies they implemented new state regulations over childbirth. In 16th century Nuremburg, the penalty for maternal infanticide was drowning, and all over Germany the Pro-Natalist crusades went as far as punishing women who didn't show enough of an effort during childbirth. In France, a royal edict of 1556 required women to register every pregnancy, and sentenced to death those whose infants died before baptism after a concealed delivery, whether or not they were proven guilty of any wrong doing. The suspicion under which the midwives - leading to the entrance of the male doctor in the delivery room - stemmed more from the authorities fear of infanticide (the potential of losing their labor power and cannon fodder) than from any concern of the midwives' alleged medical incompetence. With the marginalization of the midwife, women lost the control they had exercised over procreation and were reduced to a passive role in child delivery, while male doctors began to be seen as the real "givers of life". Some midwives in Germany turned spies for the state in order to continue their practice. Most midwives rebelled, instead of adhering to the new guidelines imposed on them, they continued guiding women through the birthing experience the way they always had. Some of these unruly women were called witches, some were murdered, but most continued practicing, only less vocal this time.
Midwives, as demeaned as they were, regularly continued to attend most mothers up until the 1920's when there was a move to hospitalize the birthing experience in the United States. White and mostly upper and middle class women started attending hospitals due to the doctors promises of a smooth and hygienic birth. Propaganda campaigns, financed by the medical industry, at the time portrayed midwives as 'unsanitary', poor immigrants. An important thing to note here is that with all of the turn of the century arguments against midwives: that they were unclean, old-fashioned, ill-equipped, and dangerous; it was in fact in the hospitals where a rise in disease was occurring - puerperal fever (aka childbed fever - a fatal infection that was usually introduced by unhygienic obstetricians), complications (due to the hospitals rigid control of the movements of women's bodies), and fatalities (due to unnecessary interventions).
Somewhat quickly the hospitalization of childbirth began to rise. Within a few decades most deliveries happened in a hospital environment. This provided an immense amount of capital to the industry (as everyone now must pay to come into the world). Also accomplished in this is medicalization of childbirth, and this is crucial to an anarchist analysis of childbirth, is the intense regulated control of the process of bringing life into the world. The state decides how (and in some cases when) you are allowed to enter the world. After a few generations women had given up almost all power over procreation to licensed professionals and state bureaucracy. Some midwives spoke against the medical apparatus, but were drowned out by more "competent" doctors and studies financed by the medical industry.
In the late 1960's and early 70's there was a revamp in the field of midwifery, which was closely tied to the hippy and back-to-the-land movements. Childbirth was seen, once again, as a spiritual ceremony and many hippies came to older midwives, eager to learn the trade. This new generation of midwives set up birthing centers on communal farms, collectives in cities and organized free midwifery trainings. This marginal subculture of "spiritual midwives" existed mostly on the fringes of society and did not (for the most part) break out of its groovy ghetto to attack the medical industry and the state apparatus for controlling the welcoming of life. Not to be overlooked though, are the important ways these births empowered women and helped them feel more in control of their bodies. Their refusal to obey state regulations over childbirth, refusal to accept money for delivering children and the expropriation and dissemination of specialized skills shows a move into a revolutionary consciousness. Content as they were to set up birthing communes and midwifery collectives these midwives failed to take direct action against the business of being born.
But the 60's counter-culture came and went and what was left were scattered birth collectives charging clientele ludicrously large fees, upper-middle class midwife authors collecting royalty checks from book sales, and a general acceptance of state licensing and certification. Although there was a slight resistance in the 80's to the legalization of midwifery by some radical midwives, most midwives were just glad they were allowed to practice openly. What started out as a radical subculture reclaiming an almost lost skill, that carried with it a potentially revolutionary paradigm, had become a commodified and regulated component of the industrial medical apparatus. It continues to exist today as another life-choice colonized by capital and overseen by the state.
In recent years midwifery, homebirths and unassisted childbirths have grown in popularity. But midwifery as a practice has yet to reject the commodification of its own existence; it has in fact become more of a commodity than ever before. With the movement toward a green capitalist market, midwifery, along with veganism, organic local food co-ops, hybrid cars, Barrack Obama, and bicycles has become just another eco-niche. Certified Midwives have fairly large incomes, prenatal yoga birthing classes cost a fortune and birthing tubs for homebirths are not communized but are instead rented out for hundreds of dollars.
Within this commercialization of natural childbirth there exists a kernel of subversion and rebellion, the anarchist midwife. The anarchist midwife is new to the scene but brings with her all of the tools to make childbirth a threat to the ruling order. She carries with her a disdain for all things regulated and surveilled, a readiness to work outside of the law, a sharpened critique of the medical industry, the skills to deliver a new life and a deep trust and love for the mother and child's intuition.
The anarchist midwife has within herself the capacity to be truly subversive. She can provide free or low-cost births for illegal immigrants who would otherwise be turned away or into the police by the hospital staff. She can learn Spanish to offer her skills, and knowledge, to immigrant communities, outlaws and fugitives. She and her peers can communize birthing equipment. She can use illegalism to fund birthing centers, conferences and skillshares. She can expose and disrupt obstetricians that speak out against midwifery when they give lectures. She can despecialize her knowledge by sharing it with others. She can write pamphlets and journals critiquing the capitalist medical industry. She can give whatever procedures she and the mother deem safe during child-delivery without regard for the state and its arbitrary restrictions.
She is a free agent, a rebel, a subversive, one part of the social war. She is the anarchist midwife.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Something I know to be true for me
Aren't people's actions the best interpreters of their thoughts?
There is nothing wrong with visualizing yourself there. Call it escapism, call it daydreaming, call it what you will. Let it interfere with your ability to be productive. Go there when you're not supposed to, and sometimes, if you can, take your physical body with you.
Maybe that place is but a state of mind, grounded on thoughtlessness, but we do have to choose to go there.
No matter what you've been through, or how much you're still working on, sometimes it is just that simple. It's something that nobody can take away from you, no matter your degree of privilege or freedom.
"Cherish all your happy moments: they make a fine cushion for old age."
~Christopher Morley.
"There are only two kinds of freedom in the world; the freedom of the rich and powerful, and the freedom of the artist and the monk who renounces possessions."
~Anais Nin.
"What's money? A person is success if they get up in the morning and go to bed at night and in between does what they want to do."
~ Bob Dylan
Saturday, May 22, 2010
What are you, chicken?
The opposition's arguments boil down to the same argument used by the otherwise semi-intelligent people who also oppose such developments wind-turbines or urban composting: NIMBY. It goes like this:
Sure, let's move towards using more sustainable, renewable energy sources, like the wind; as long as you understand that those hideous turbine contraptions are Not going In My Back-Yard.
Oh yeah, let's stop filling landfills with potato peels and hair clippings and start composting that organic matter, why, that's a novel idea; but don't you dare try and tell me I have to taint my backyard with my own smelly refuse.
Nimby is the same selfish non-logic as is employed to resist the proposed changing of By-Law no. 2007-77, which currently forbids livestock of any kind within the city limits, with a few exceptions such as the Experimental Farm and Carleton University.
It is easy enough to pay lip-service to the local, slow-food, and organic movement if it simply means you have to shop at different stores. However, when it comes time to invite these food-providors into our own neighbourhoods, we cry about the potential smell, noise, and other, more theoretical, problems such as how people are going to let their chickens run free in the streets until the whole city becomes one big chicken coop and the chickens will start dining on our eggs, instead.
Of course, there are more legitimate concerns too, like disease. I say, if we can't be trusted to handle our own future food in a safe and sanitary way, then we shouldn't trust other establishments, especially those made up of people whose health is not directly at stake - and I'm talking about factory farms here now, folks - we shouldn't let them try to do it for us, either. It's not like factory farms have got food-safety down to a science.
If we, the people, can't do it, and history's shown that factory farms sure can't do it, then it can't be done, in which case we should consider giving up this food-source altogether. Or, for the sake of consistency, we should also outlaw the family vegetable garden, due to the looming threats of E.Coli and vegenitis. Hmph.
I'm frustrated because there is an actually viable solution to factory farms - other than giving up eggs and meat, which is viable, but not going to happen in the immediate future - but people are scared of a little chicken poop - I mean, coop.
I propose that if, and only if, you raise, care for, and slaughter your own livestock, you may have your meat (and eggs) and eat it too. If you can't handle the process, then maybe you shouldn't be allowed to enjoy the outcome. When what's on their plate is directly at stake, then maybe people will finally be so kind as to open their own backyards to progressive social change.
In the spirit of chickens and pie-holes, here's a recipe for Chicken-Less Pot pie that is sure to impress. I won't give you my pie crust recipe, because it's actually not that good.
Tofu Pot-Pie
-2 cups of fried tofu or tvp boiled in veggie broth or onion soup mix
-1 cup carrots and/or potatos, sliced and boiled in the same water as the tvp was.
-1 cup of peas or corn
-1/2 cup celery or cauliflower
{Really, any veggies will do}
-1/3 cup of Earth Balance
-1/3 cup onions, chopped
-1/3 cup of flour
-garlic, cumin, salt and pepper, to taste
-1/4 tsp celery seed
-1 3/4 cup broth
-2/3 cup soy or almond milk
1. Make crust for 2 9-inch pies, top and bottom.
2. In a pot, boil tvp. And veggies. Drain and set aside. If you're using tofu, fry it separately.
3. In a saucepan, over med heat, saute onions in butter until they're soft and clear. Stir in flour and herbs. Add broth and milk. Simmer over med-low heat until it thickens, then set aside.
4. Fill the crusts to the almost-brim, cover with top-crust, seal the edges, and cut away the excess. Cut slits in the top crust.
5. Bake uncovered at 425 for 30-45 minutes.
Bon appetit!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
And Then There Was Maire
I had been swearing for years that I would never, ever get another puppy. I went through that in highschool with what is now my parents' dog. Fool me once, shame on you, puppy; fool me twice... shame on me.
I dodged a bullet in India, when I fostered Asha, a mutt who I had found on a side-street in Mysore with a broken leg and other special needs. I was in that open, blissful, travel-induced state of being, so of course I took him in, despite living in a dorm room with strict anti-independent-action policies. Luckily, AirFrance wouldn't let me take him with me, and I didn't think he would survive the quarantine, so I left him with the vet's assistant and several thousand rupees - a misguided attempt to buy my own peace of mind about the fate of a dog who, I realize now, would have been just fine if left to his own devices in the garbage-strewn streets of the city's outskirts.
Then there was Brodie. Dear, dear, crazy Brodie, a one-year old who I picked up in Kelowna - fatefully enough, while I was visiting the very friend who had co-foster-parented Asha with me in Mysore. Brodie was a fine specimen of a Shepherd/Rottie who made me feel protected, loved, and admired... that's what people get dogs for, right? (How embarrassing!) When I first saw him, he was dragging a donkey placenta around in the mud and dodging horses' hooves and steel-toed boots. He was in his very element.
But I nabbed him, and off we drove together, into the sunset, across the big bland country we call home. And so on, and so on, until, after two years together, we parted company; recognizing that he would not be the best creature to have around a newborn baby, we packed his bags and he went to the country with a fellow who fell in love with him at first sight, while I went on to ....
Adopt a puppy. Shame on me!
We recently got Maire (My+Ra). She is a mutt. Depending on who asks, she is either a lab mix, or a Lab/Pitbull with a touch of Dingo for good measure. She's the latest testimony to the power of the puppy face, as well as a reminder to never say never, because you are alive insofar as you are open to fresh and challenging experiences.
On the pit note, here is a really emotionally stirring video that I recently watched. I have been successful at sheltering myself from heartbreaking images of animal abuse. This is a choice that I made, knowing that it is out there, and that a certain degree of exposure to it is inevitable so I might as well cut to the chase and take heart and action, rather than boo and hoo about it. For example, I didn't need to see images of the results of dog fighting to know that it is not the dogs' fault; it is the gruesome outcome of the ultimate human ignorance of failing to respect other species' right to a life free from unnecessary pain and suffering. It follows that breed-specific legislations that are enforced because of the falsehood that "all pitbulls are dangerous because some of them are bred to engage in dogfighting" are ridiculous, unless we are talking about trying to breed-specifically legislate human idiocy. These dogs are among the gentlest around, and are less likely to show aggression towards your pet or child than a Golden Retriever. Anyway - if you're like me and have granted yourself the favour of letting yourself off the hook on this one, then prepare to shed a cupful of tears, for sure, because you're not adequately de-sensitized. Or, if you've ignored the issue despite being a self-proclaimed animal-lover, then here's some impetus.
On a lighter note - on the Brodie note - here's a recipe for a vegan Sherpherd's pie that's quite delicious.
Shepherd's Pie
2 tbsp ketchup
4 cups hot water
4 medium potatoes
2 tbsp olive oil
1 cup onion, chopped
1/2 cup celery, chopped
1/4 cup whole wheat flour
2 cups vegetable broth
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp thyme
1/2 tsp marjoram
garlic powder to taste!
1 1/2 cups carrots, sliced and cooked
1 cup peas or corn
1 tbsp Earth Balance
a bit of soymilk
1/2 tsp paprika
1. Boil four cups of water. Add the tvp and the ketchup. Simmer it for about 20 minutes, until the tvp is tender and there is no more liquid.
2.Make mashed potatoes and set them aside.
3. Cook the carrots until they are just barely tender. (You can use the potato water for this. Save the water again, too.)
4. Lightly saute the onions and celery. Sprinkle the flour over it and stir it in. Cook them for a few more minutes, then add 2 cups of liquid broth.
5. When the sauce bubbles up, add seasonings.
6. Add the tvp mixture.
7. Put it in a casserole dish. Spread the mashed potatoes on top. Sprinkle with paprika.
8. Bake, uncovered, for 30 minutes at 350.
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