Why I Broke Up With My Midwife

If you've been following my blog, you might remember earlier in my pregnancy I wrote a post about the pros of Midwives vs the pros of Doctors. At the time, I had decided to go with a midwife (with my son, we had an OB) and I was very excited about my decision, because I had heard so many great things about midwives.

I had fantasies of a life-long friendship that would begin at our first appointment—We would braid our armpit hair together as we shared home-made granola recipes! We'd give ourselves matching henna tattoos that read, "Epidurals are for suckers." Then we'd laugh in unison as we casually noticed we were wearing matching Birkenstocks.

*Sigh*

Unfortunately, this intentionally stereotpyical and possibly offensive daydream was quickly brought to a hault. From day one, I never felt 100% comfortable with my midwives or the clinic. Here's why:

• The day of my first appointment, I showed up and found out "I had the wrong day." There was no apology on their part (despite the fact that it very well could have been their fault), and I was told just to show up the next day—like it didn't matter that I left work early and had to feed my son dinner in the car just to make it there on time.
• The next day, when I arrived at my appointment, I was informed that they had changed my midwives. Again, no apology or explaination.
• When I met my midwife, I liked her, but I didn't love her. This is just a "connection" thing and I can't explain it with any real logic. (She also barely laughed at my jokes, so she lost some major points there!)
• At the next appointment, she took my blood and tied the elastic band so tight I screamed in pain and begged her to loosen it. For a week and a half later my arm ached any time I stretched it, so she must have bruised the tendon in my arm or pulled a muscle or something. It got me thinking—can I really trust this woman to SEW UP MY VAGINA?!?
• As the weeks went on, I had to call them to remind them to schedule my apointments, and when I had the appointments with my various midwives, they would all make the same joke when they looked at my file, "It says here NO HOME BIRTH. Haha. Okay, okay, we get the point. No home birth for you! Wherever you're most comfortable . . ." But this care-free statement still felt loaded wtih judgement. Every. Single. Time. 

All in all, it wasn't the warm, re-assuring, comforting experience I was expecting, and, truly, I didn't feel comfortable trusting them to bring my baby into the world.

So, I did what any woman at 33 weeks pregnant would do—I called my OB and begged for forgiveness, "I know I said I wanted to go with a midwife, but . . . would you take me back?" With my tail between my legs, they welcomed me with open arms. 

I did a tour of the hospital I'd be delivering at, and within 0.5 seconds I fell in love with the nurse giving the tour. She was exactly the type of person I wanted—someone kind, yet strong, and knowledgeable. She was warm, easy to talk to, and laughed at my jokes (bonus!). At the end of the tour she said, "What is your name? I'm going to keep my eye out for you—I hope I get to be your nurse!" 

Aw shucks. I hope so too, nurse Katherine!