To Be A Doula Again

Years ago I had a thought that the most wonderful job in the world must be being a doula. Not responsible for the medical side of childbirth, you would nevertheless get to be there at the pivotal moment, and help the mother and father become this new version of themselves.

I was a doula for two births. Both experiences were heavenly, magical, transformative. I remember thinking, after each occasion, that bearing witness to the beginning of life must be like bearing witness to its end. And I said out loud, that these experiences made me unafraid of death.

That was a pretty bold proclamation from someone who knew nothing about the subject.

These days I don't spend a lot of time thinking about the experience of Oli's death. I've paced over the carpet of those hours over until it's threadbare. The blister of pain that covered my soul has turned into a callus and I have come to accept I'll walk on it forever. When I am kind to myself I can see how my time with him was like being a doula for death. I remember thinking, in the hospital, that I needed to be calm and comforting and help him push through the sickness just like I had helped mamas push through childbirth. But the end result was not what I had imagined. It's still not something I can imagine and I'm nearing two years without him in my arms.

I said just days after he died that I did not think I could ever be a doula again. My heart was a million broken pieces then, my mind like Main Street in a terrible flood, bits and pieces of memories and insights bobbed by unscathed while everything else was submerged up to the chimneys. But I felt a certain clarity about this point because just 24 hours after he died a nurse reached out about a woman needing a doula and my response was swift. Almost angry. I think that was because I associated witnessing birth with a joy and affection for life that as the mother of a dead child I should never be able to touch and know again.

It is true that joy still shuns me. But it turns out life does not. I am beginning to think one can be a doula for more than childbirth and death. There are so many things to bear witness to in this wild existence, in these temporary bodies.

Today I bore witness to three very different transformations all in a matter of 45 minutes. I went with my dear friend to pick up her new puppy. The 70-year-old breeders were saying goodbye to their very last litter before the wife leaves home for three months to undergo a bone marrow transplant. In a small crowded room that reeked of ammonia and puppies, I bore witness to Angela bonding with Asher - the beginning of a lifelong love. I bore witness to the breeders, perched on the perilous edge of an unknown future bidding farewell to a hobby they'd cultivated for 26 years and a puppy they'd nurtured for the past nine weeks. And I bore witness to the mother dog who came to my knee and looked me in the eyes with a profound knowing, the origins of which I guessed were tied to her departing offspring but perhaps conveyed concern for her humans. It was a mixed bag of happiness, sorrow, and trepidation. It was a concentrated concoction of life as strong as the smells in that room.

It felt sacred and holy.

Tears were shed and we departed, puppy in hands. Angela held Asher the whole way home, the two radiating comfort for one another. And in my belly there was a quiet, warm glow that felt both foreign and familiar. It took me several hours to recognize the sensation as joy for someone else. I do not know what form my doula-ing will take, but I think perhaps I wish to be a doula again.