Coop_ A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting - Michael Perry [15]
After checking and charting Anneliese’s vital signs and testing her blood for iron (she is holding steady from the last visit but still a little low—this is one of the standards that must be met to have a home birth), Leah turns to me and asks if I have any concerns. I tell her I am in, but want assurance that if there is trouble, we pack up and head for the big hospital with the shiny lights. “Of course,” says Leah, with no trace of defensiveness. “It is my responsibility to be honest with you if we are in a situation beyond my abilities.” By the time she finishes reciting the list of risk factors that trigger “transfer of care,” I am more settled.
We move to the examination booth. As Leah palpates Anneliese, Amy and I study a large wall poster showing fetuses at actual size along various stages of development. We find the six-month image—clearly recognizable as a human, but not much bigger than a Cornish hen. When we turn to look at Anneliese’s belly and extrapolate, Leah is leaning over her wearing a stethoscope that projects from her forehead on a spring-loaded frame reminiscent of a phrenological measuring device. Using her forehead to press the bell against the skin just southwest of Anneliese’s belly button, Leah listens, repositions the bell, and then listens again. I feel the frisson of waiting for confirmation. Then Leah smiles and, with her head still down, turns her eyes up to Anneliese. “Do you want to listen?” Anneliese nods, and Leah passes her the earpieces, and when the rhythm reaches Anneliese’s ears, her smile spreads and inhabits her eyes. Amy listens also, and then it is my turn. Well, hello there, I think as soon as I hear it, tapping along over twice a second, and behind it the backbeat of Mom, bassier and running solid at half the speed. Then Leah takes my hands and guides me around the dome of Anneliese’s belly, pressing my fingertips down as we traverse from spot to spot. “There’s the head…that’s the butt…the feet are here.” As I do when feeling for something in the dark, I close my eyes for focus. “The head, the feet, and the butt,” says Leah. “The constellation of baby.”
Back around the little table we drink our tea and discuss everything from birthing tubs to doulas. Leah mentions that if Anneliese tests positive for group B strep, she will need an IV antibiotic, and since it can only be given by a licensed registered nurse, she would have to go to the hospital. “Well, I’ve got a nursing license,” I say. “I can give it.” “Perfect!” says Leah. In truth, my bravado is exceeding my confidence. Just what your wife wants during labor—you poking away at her veins trying to start your first IV in nearly twenty years.
The last thing is to set up the next appointment. When I say I can’t commit to a date without consulting the calendar on my computer at home, Leah cuts a quick look at me and then at Anneliese. As we stand to say our good-byes, I look at the collage of photos on the wall—all babies Leah has delivered—but instead of the babies I am noticing all the beaming, gently hovering husbands and thinking I do not measure up.
But I leave the visit feeling better than when we came in the door. Above all it was good to see Anneliese so transformed. And I was impressed with the way Leah did her professional duties but allowed the visit to follow its natural course. She gave Anneliese all the time she required. There was no push to wrap things up, and not until we stepped into the hall and saw another family gathered did we realize there was an appointment following. During the drive home I do declare that if the term herstory is used again, I will lodge a polite but firm objection. “False etymology is no way to run a revolution,” I say in the sort of declarative tones that precipitated the revolution in the first place. But what really keeps circling my head was