Photos provided by Author

Midwifing the Portal Door

by Sister MorningStar | February 21, 2024

Midwifery Today, Issue 149, Spring 2024
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Not all babies live. Not all wimyn die with their uterus. Not all mothers survive childbirth. These are hard truths to bear. Hard truths for the family, community, and world to hold. But truths set us free and help guide us to deeper understanding and reformation.

I know these are hard stories to hear, but there is help and healing and learning in the stories. I pray you can discern that. I also have created guides to help develop our skills in serving the psycho-social-emotional-relational-spiritual needs of the at-risk mother and the support persons who care about her. First the Herstories, where fact and information blend with feeling and the soul.

Sally wrote me asking if she could come to The Holyland for a healing. Sally had a handsome, quiet, observant toddler and a Swedish husband. She was womb-full with a third child, albeit in the early weeks. They borrowed a car, drove three hours to reach my cottage in the woods, and Wilhelm gave some private time to me and Sally. They would be moving in just a few weeks to seek new employment and a protected place to birth. Sally was planning another freebirth. Her first birth was a homebirth transfer that ended in birth by knife for her son. Her second child—her first daughter—was stillborn in the sacred space of their home. A saintly neighbor named Anna came straightaway to comfort, clean up, make prayers, and companion them as the necessary calls were made. Sally let a quiet tear fall from her cheek as she told me her birth stories and shared the few photos she had of her daughter, Malou. Sally felt she had received such grace, support, love, compassion, and heavenly reassurance in her grieving journey. She had a natural and humble respect for the unknown future of the birth and baby she now carried. Mostly, she was joyful and excited to be cradling new life. She longed for purity and sacred prayers to accompany her journey into this new mystery.

Wilhelm returned and the family circled in my little cottage with what seemed like a divine halo around them. They were radiant, quiet, and loving to one another.

“We are no strangers to death, Sister.” Wilhelm spoke slowly with soft eyes. “We have lost aunts, grandparents, and others. We know life fades. Life holds these truths.”

Wilhelm taught religious philosophy around the world. I asked him to tell me about meeting Sally. He told me about their meeting in a European coffee shop.

“We started a conversation that day and we are still having it.” He smiled and took Sally’s hand while the golden son sat quietly on his father’s lap and looked at his mother.

We made prayers and healing ritual together. I secretly determined to gather some of my calmest, most powerful wimyn and journey to Kansas City to offer a private Village Prenatal (1) for Sally. There were 10 days before she moved. I worked and prayed with diligence. Two of my daughters who had birthed in power agreed to meet me there. Sally was speechless with gratitude. She gathered two other wimyn to join us. A new mother who had birthed in power, and Anna, a womyn of devotion and mother of many children born at home. I brought my music maker, songs in my heart, talking stick, anointing and massage oils, altar icons, power stories and chocolate. As of old, the wimyn gathered.

Unspeakables filled the afternoon. Sacred space for joy and sorrow and hope was reborn. Anna announced her new pregnancy. A beautiful surprise! She and Sally would both be due in September. Like Elizabeth and Mary, they made promises to one another. We feasted on healthy, wholesome foods and sipped nourishing teas. Our goodbyes are still a treasured echo in my mind.

Sally found a secure place to birth at home after months of travel. She made her nest. She birthed her second daughter in the light of candle and under the sky, resounding with exclamations of joy and triumph. A live daughter returned to Sally. We, her elephant circle, knelt before our altars 1000 miles away and sang out: Her splendor reaches far beyond the Heavens! May the name of Sally be praised! From the rising of the sun to its setting! May the name of Sally be praised! (2)

Ellen was pregnant with new life as I prepared to leave on my mission trip to Mexico. It was baby number six. The last baby had been born at home with anencephaly. Ellen sang and held this holy child for 11 hours before he slipped away in his mother’s arms at home. It was time to plant autumn bulbs and time for new hope.

I told Ellen, “Together we will see these flowers bloom when I return!”

“Maybe,” she responded.

Ellen birthed the night before I flew back home. One of my colleagues picked me up at the airport wearing black. The funeral was to be the next day. The baby was born at home. This child was microcephalic and Ellen died within moments of seeing her son. The midwives with her grieved with the family and community. We buried a mother and baby that day with broken hearts and searching spirits. During her pregnancy, Ellen had told her parents and siblings, “I will not bury another baby.” They embraced us saying, “Thank you for loving Ellen. We knew. There was nothing anyone could do.”

It was after the loss of Ellen that I created the assessment tool, “Maternal Loss Risk Assessment” (3).

I was in San Miguel, Mexico, helping at a little maternity hospital that championed serving the poor from surrounding villages, when Maria arrived with her husband, mother, and several sisters. The night sky held many bright stars as I walked on the roof for fresh air and to welcome the labor that was progressing quickly for this experienced mother. I knew the staff would call me soon. I sang the songs and made the prayers as of old and as was my nature.

The family was a bit anxious and glad to be with us. Their home in the village had no running water and the few cars were not always quickly available. I looked into their concerned eyes and kept my focus on the mother, who also appeared scared.

She had not been feeling well for some time. She had not felt her baby move all day. The routine vital checking proceeded with increasing concern. A surgical birth was quickly agreed upon. I prepared to enter the theater and be the one to hold her hand. The baby was born lifeless. The surgeon closed the mother’s weeping womb. Wet eyes filled the room. I kept my fingers on her pulse which was erratic. The anesthesiologist announced, “We are losing her.” The surgeon did not want to open her back up shaking his head that there was nothing more he could do.

Everyone pleaded with the Gods. The nurse held her tray like a frozen statue. The pediatrician jumped up on the surgical table vigorously giving CPR. The lifeless baby lay in a warmer with the blanket over his face. I held the hand of Maria, which was strapped to an arm board. I whispered in her ear. I spoke gently to her soul. I felt the pulse go rapidly up and begin to fade. She slipped away under my fingers, our prayers, the stars.

I supported the staff as they processed down the hall to meet the family in waiting. With downcast heads and heavy hearts, we reported our failed attempts to save baby or mother. I went to the garden and got a flower to put in the hands of the baby before bringing the family in.

One of the sisters had tears in her eyes and spoke quietly to me. “I’m scared to have a baby. This is my second sister who has died this way.” The death report for both her sisters listed eclampsia.

We need a village caring about mothers, not just hospitals that handle emergencies. We need wise wimyn in the village who carry the wisdom of ages and some modern knowledge that integrates the body/mind/soul connection. Maybe there are some simple ways we, as a caring community, can help. Sometimes it is the soul that dies first.

“It was harder to watch her spirit die 10 years ago than it was to bury her body today,” Hanna tells me as the family and community mobilize to help care for the remaining children, including her sister’s newborn baby.

The hospital donated a one-year supply of formula. I wondered about cross nursing (4) because there were several sisters and in-laws with new babies, and an ample supply of breastmilk. Even a grandmother can re-lactate to help an orphaned newborn. I was raised hearing my mother recite this part of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem/ballad, “Hiawatha.” I recited it to my daughters. I never see a newborn’s wide eyes under a night sky that I do not begin the recitation. I am comforted to know that, even as a grandmother, I can nurse an orphaned baby if her life depended on me.

Evelyn died weeks after holding her 8-year-young daughter who took her last breaths in her mother’s arms. Evelyn’s family knew she died of heartbreak, leaving other children ranging from three to sixteen. But that is not what her death certificate said.

Ivy had twins. One lived. One didn’t. She struggled to stay and mother her other six children. “If the baby didn’t need my milk, I wouldn’t stay. The other kids will be fine. I wish I could be with my Amelia,” she told me over and over. When Ivy died unexpectedly years later, just as the last child was old enough to “make it on her own,” those of us who knew her secret daily wish to one day be with that sky child, felt a sword of grief pierce our hearts and a shared happiness that she was getting her wish. Ivy had written ballads about her sky baby and birth and the glory of heavenly angels who accompany us. We sing her songs to this day. In her honor and to honor the power of such brave wimyn who birth and serve birth.

Offering Village Prenatals returns dignity and connection to a birthing mother and her community. It has nothing to do with being medical and everything to do with supporting and feasting and listening and celebrating the holy state of Motherhood. It serves with humbleness those who carry our future with bravery—however and wherever they plan to birth. It has the potential of building a community who can show up when the outcome of birth leaves a shadow of sorrow on the lives of a womyn with empty arms, a family without a mother, a mother with serious blood loss, as well as the inevitabilities of elderhood that challenge us all if we live long enough. We can create healing circles and meal trains, organize older child outings, help with laundry, feed the dog, and make the prayers. We can learn to work with a womyn’s family to co-ordinate extra help or work temporarily like a family for a womyn in isolation. For this reason I created the “Assessment Guide,” which helps build the support team for a longer, more demanding recovery time.

What about hemorrhage? Excessive blood loss (EBL) in second or third stage leading to transports and transfusions brings a mother too close to the portal door between the worlds and sometimes carries her through it. If she also loses her uterus in the attempt to save her life, or if she has prolapse that leads to hysterectomy later in life, she is facing difficulties for recovery that deserve a community of loving care, not just medical treatment. In a world of “google the answer,” we can, instead, share our knowledge and experience and pool our care and resources to offer human contact that knows how to respect privacy as well as move into action. Wimyn who gather have done this from the dawn of time. We can too. Gather the wimyn.

Carol’s baby’s heart stopped beating at about 26 weeks in the womb. I was with another mother about to birth when I got the panicked call from Carol’s sister (6). When she started bleeding and went to the nearest hospital, an ultrasound was performed that confirmed “fetal demise” and a breech position. The hospital had a policy of “no vaginal breech.” Although the lifeless baby was starting to emerge, Carol was rushed to the surgical theater for a cesarean, according to protocol. She was given general anesthesia. By the time I reached the hospital to meet Carol and her family, they shared a mixture of emotions, including shock, anger, and sorrow. Carol was told under no circumstances should she attempt a vaginal birth in the future due to the type of incision made and the placenta accreta they removed.

It took months of extra home visits to unravel and find answers to their mountain of questions. Normally a very cooperative and faith-filled multi-generational family, they became demanding, resistant, and distrustful of the authorities who had treated them with such disrespect and disregard to their needs and wishes. They wanted their baby, which was taken to the hospital morgue and sent to autopsy. The wait was unbearable. They called every day.

We worked with the county coroner and county assessor to create a plot on their land where the child could be buried according to their traditions. The result of the autopsy was “cause unknown,” a conclusion my attorney has told me is about 60–80% of stillbirth autopsies. Due to the estimated gestational age, the baby required a death certificate and medical report. All of these legal, yet incomprehensible, requirements unraveled the normally steady, calm nature of the family.

I attended the private, quiet, home burial. It was the first time Carol got to see her daughter. Her husband, sister, and small family community were present. She asked if I would help her look at her baby. Before we uncovered the face, I told her what we might see and how her heart would see things differently than her eyes. I told her there was no hurry, that we could take all the time we needed and stop at any moment. I told her she could also look over every finger and toe and part of her baby she wanted, for as long as she wanted. It was her baby. Carol took her time. She marveled over every inch of her baby. In the field that day, under the blue sky, we embraced baby and covered her with our love, our songs, our tears. We buried her little body with sacred prayers. Carol began to heal. We all did.

The next year Carol birthed a live child triumphantly in her bathtub. Her greatest sense of victory was the birth of her healthy placenta, whole and robust. She held both baby and placenta in her arms and demanded the phone. She called the hospital and left a message for Dr. ________. “I have in my own hands a live baby and a healthy placenta. You have no right to tell me or any womyn what we can do.”

I used to think I was a midwife. Then I learned what other people define as a legitimate midwife and I thought I wasn’t a midwife. Then I became a storyteller of the greatness of the wimyn around the world who welcomed me into their lives for first and last breaths. Then I realized one can’t midwife the sacred portal door between the worlds and not be a midwife.

Don’t worry about what you call yourself or what other people call you. Gather the wimyn.

Notes:

1. Read can read about Village Prenatal and how to create one by searching MT archives and visiting my website: sistermorningstarl.com
2. Anna also birthed another daughter that September. Quietly, humbly, and calmly at home.
3. Maternal Loss Risk Assessment Handout is provided with this article or you can write to me for a download: [email protected].
4. Indigenous people and people of old give an orphaned newborn to a newly-birthed mother to nurse.
5. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1855. From “The Song of Hiawatha, III. Hiawatha’s Childhood.” www.hwlongfellow.org/poems_poem.php?pid=277.
6. The mother I was with gave birth to a daughter on the birthday of her twin daughters. Baby number 5. “I guess I will be making three birthday cakes next year,” was the first full sentence she made as you held her precious baby girl. “As well as three Sunday dresses to match.”
7. Carol used homeopathic hydrastis, along with food, as medicine to help avoid a repeat complication with placenta.