Hello Dear Readers!

Well, we are running down the last several days of a very eventful 2011, and I am hoping for an interesting 2012. Barring a miracle of funding, Vanocouver is a no-go in 2012, so I’ve been interviewing a little to see what’s out there, and I start 2012 with a slew of interviews, so I’m really excited to open up the next chapter. Who knows, maybe the best situation is right here. To be honest, the coming interview that I am most excited about is with Medecins Sans Frontieres. It’s unlikely that will yield anything immediate, but I’m still pretty stoked. It’s work I’d really like to do.  I have to admit that this surprises me. When I went to midwifery school, I was terrified of the prospect of going to work in the developing world like so many people seemed really interested in doing. The idea of facing maternal and infant death on a  fairly regular basis because of lack of access to surgical delivery or anti-hemorragic drugs made me want to run screaming and bury my head in the sand. I suppose after a few years of living how good prenatal, intrapartum, and postpartum care can influence outcomes, I want to be part of helping bring that to people who don’t have it.

Yes, I can do that right here in NYC. I have thought of that. But there is something about the fearful way obstetrical care is handled here, and the way providers of that care are treated, that just makes me also want to run screaming. And it’s not fear of bad outcomes. It’s fear of being SUED for bad outcomes, and that’s the sad state of our medical system.

I am looking forward to finding the right fit and the right place to be a midwife and to think about being a mother. In 2012, I will turn 38 which means the clock is ticking, so serious thinking has been going on, and I think this may be the year to start trying. I just need to get settled first, but my heart feels ready, and my bank account is about as ready as it will ever be.

So, 2011 was a difficult, eventful year. Here’s hoping to a wonderfully eventful 2012. I am not a resolution maker, but this year, I plan on making my blog a regular thing, so stay tuned to this space for wonders and delights of midwifery, music, and life.

Sisterhood is such a complicated concept. It’s simple on the surface, but dig a little deeper and it could mean so many different things. There is biological sisterhood. My older sisters, born 15 months apart and best friends for life. Or my relationship with them, the significantly younger sister, distant from their youth, yet common experiences growing up with the same parents. There is sisterhood in closeness with a biological relative who shares your world-view. For years, I spent nearly every weekend with my cousin and her family. She was my crunchy-granola biological soul-sister, and we bonded over shared beliefs and passions. She is the one, in the end, who is responsible for me taking the leap into midwifery, and for that I am forever in her debt.

Then there is the sisterhood of friendship. I have my fandom sisters. Women I’ve met through the crazy world of the internet and science fiction. (Have I mentioned that I’m a geek?) There’s Andi, my roommate, who I love like a sister. Yeah, we can drive each other crazy sometimes, but we get over it. Isn’t that what sisters do? And we’ve shared an NYC apartment (or 3) in recent years in relative harmony. Of, course, when people ask how we met, there’s a lot of coughing and laughing in which the internet comes out at some point. There’s my friend Amanda in LA, also a fandom sister: like minds are a beautiful thing. For our ‘how we met’ story, we can simply use the vague, “Oh, we met in London.”

There is the sisterhood of midwifery. The midwives I practice with, literally, feel like family to me. There is a kinship among midwives that doesn’t seem to cross over many of the medical professions. One of the astonishing things that I’ve discovered in the few years I’ve been practicing, is that anywhere you meet a midwife, you immediately have a wealth of shared experiences and ideals and hours of conversation. There is enormous sisterhood in the heartfelt desire to improve the lives of mothers and babies.

Finally, there is the sisterhood of women. A grand sisterhood, to be sure. Diverse and wonderful. I know it’s surprising that as a crunchy tree-hugger type, I’ve never let this ideal come to the forefront of my thinking. Oh, I have certainly explored it, but never really let it stick with me, until recently. And this is the inspiration for this whole post.  Recently, a woman came to my office for a gyn exam and pre-conception counseling. After a very long chat, during which she asked me whether or not I was married and had kids (why can’t I find a way to evade answering this?) she put her hand on my arm and said, “Sister. You find a man. Become friends with him. Learn about him. Then marry him. This is good, the way it is done in America. Don’t let him talk love. Make him show love before her marries you.”  This led to a little more probing on my part and  revelations that made me find this woman social work help and put the desire for another baby aside temporarily until she felt safe. I also know that her calling me ‘sister’ is simply a way women in her culture greet each other, but her genuine concern for my personal well-being, someone she’d just met,  made me think.

As women, we push so much hardship on each other. From perpetuating the impossible body images in fashion magazines (edited by women) to the polarizing breast vs bottle debate, to the extreme of female circumcision, which is also perpetuated woman on woman. Why do we do it? Competition? Jealousy? Misunderstanding? As different as we may be across cultures and generations, we are all women, and we share that common experience, which I believe is something that runs deeper and should connect us beyond barriers.  I don’t have any answers, just many many questions. It’s something I’ll continue to think on regularly.

I hope you will share your thoughts with me, and that this gives you food for thought, dear readers.

I’ve been spending my post-call afternoon trying to contemplate a Mother’s Day blog entry. The truth is, I don’t know if I can top last year’s. The truth is, I don’t think I should even try. Last year, I said most of what I needed to say about my own mother, so today, I just want to talk about motherhood in general.

Motherhood has weighed heavily on my mind this year. The age at which I always assumed I would pursue single motherhood if I were still unattached has come and gone. Far more than the desire to pass on my own genetic code, I have always wanted to experience pregnancy, labor, and birth, but motherhood has little to do with these things in the long run, does it? And, most likely, if it were not for these things being my intimate daily companions, whether or not I physically bore a child wouldn’t matter to me.

Truth be told, I want to adopt children. I’ve given serious thought to adopting a girl from China or Nepal, or perhaps a toddler or school-aged child locally out of the foster-care system who needed a home. Motherhood has so little to do with genetics. It has so much more to do with love, respect, and nurturing.

It’s funny how these things have been hammered home to me in the last several years training and then working as a midwife. As much joy as I see in impending motherhood and the birth of new families, I also see so much indifference. I find myself having to pull from deep within to remain open to these women. Indifference to motherhood comes for so many reasons. Whether it’s because you are 14 years old and cannot comprehend the enormity of what is about to happen to you, a woman in an unsupportive relationship, or simply uncomfortable and prone to complaining, it is my job to support you, teach you. I have to try to help you understand, try to get you support, help lessen the discomfort.

I hope that I am successful more often than I am unsuccessful, and I hope some little spark of my own joy in their process rubs off on them, even if I am not always the one with them at the time of birth. I wrestle with the dichotomy I see on a daily basis because of my own very deep desire to be a mother. However, I find that my interactions with these women have helped me to understand my own mother a little bit more. Something I would never have thought possible, years ago.

I find that when I struggle with my choices and where they have led me, I think about my mom. Not because she was the greatest mother in the world. She wasn’t. But she did her best, and more than anything, I spent my childhood and young adulthood wanting to make her proud of me. She wasn’t demonstrative. I always heard from others how she spoke of me. It wasn’t until the end of her life that I heard the words from her mouth, and I guess I still live my life wondering if she’d be proud of the work I am doing, or if she’d regret what I gave up. I wear her ring so that whenever I look down at my hands I get the reminder of why I go to work every day. I wear a beautiful silver cancer-battle bracelet to remind myself that I am so small in the broader scope of things. What I have come to understand is that a mother’s love, freely given, is the greatest gift she can give. I hope that if motherhood is in my future, I’ll be able to give without reservations in a way my mother never could. And regardless, I like to think that she would be proud.

Me today

I wanted to use this blog entry to to talk about something that has been coming up in conversation both in my personal and work life: body image. How we, as women, view our bodies and our beauty is varied and all too often, conflicted. I know it’s something I’ve spent my entire life struggling with. In my conversations with friends, patients, and co-workers, how differently we all view ourselves is something I find kind of wild.  I’m about to share some fairly personal stuff in the hopes that you will consider posting comments here or on facebook and engage in a productive discussion with me on the pitfalls and pleasures of how we perceive ourselves.

I grew up with a fat-phobic parent. As a child, I was always told I was chubby and, of course, since I was a child, my parents were the voices of truth, I

Chubby? No way!

believed it. (I am not sure I should even try to get into the “you don’t need to be pretty, you’re smart” commentary.) As I moved into my teenage years, being told I needed to lose five pounds on a fairly regular basis certainly compounded my anxiety. I would try, but rarely succeed. In hindsight, I look at photos of my childhood self and realize those statements were patently untrue, and I get angry that my self-perception was shaped by false statements. Of course, becoming a performing artist didn’t help at all. In college, I first ballooned up (as many girls do) and then lost such a dramatic amount of weight that people nudged me in their worry that I might blow away, but I didn’t care. I was skinny, and for the first time in my life, people noticed. I then entered a career where being petite and cute was almost more important than what I could do. Oh, and ‘you have the right body type, but really we want a blonde for your voice’. If it’s not one thing it’s another and, of course, they are all excuses that I used to torture myself for no real reason at all.

Ugly Duckling?

Leaving my career as a singer/actor many years later, you’d think I’d relish not having to attempt to maintain a ridiculous body type. But sometimes I think it’s actually harder. No one tells me I need to lose 5 lbs anymore, but the mentality remains. I don’t have to fight my diet, but I do have to fight what I see in the mirror. As I plunge more deeply into my 30’s, my body doesn’t respond the way it did at 20. I have to run that much farther to get the same result.  I started running because I wanted killer legs. I continue to run because the endorphin rush is an amazing feeling. I started practicing yoga years ago because I heard it was a great workout. I continue practicing yoga because the meditative center of it keeps me grounded. Unfortunately, neither keeps me from looking into the mirror and seeing every little flaw that no one else will ever care about anymore. (I hope!)

Why is this? I’ve found recent conversations have given me so much food for thought. A colleague saying, “I’m really healthy and in great shape, but I adore my food, and if I’m technically a little overweight, that’s okay with me.” A skinny patient who, when counseled on the side effect of weight-gain for Depo Provera, got extremely excited because she really wants to put on weight. My rational brain knows these are really wonderful, healthy responses to body image, my emotional brain wonders if I’ll ever be able to feel the same.

I see things in the mirror that others don’t. I still often see the chubby, ugly duckling. If I look close enough I can start to see the signs of aging. I may have

With one of my cuties

to really look closely, but I can see them, and I worry. It’s absurd, and so I spend a lot of time working on my spirit and my center. I know that if my inside is beautiful, the outside is so much less important because it will automatically reflect the spirit. I know the inside requires constant work, after all, I’m only human. But when I sit in a room with a woman and empower her to take charge of her body, or make informed choices about her pregnancy, I don’t care how I look. It’s amazing to see the light come on in a woman’s eyes when she discovers the power within herself. And to know you helped her find that, the feeling is akin to the endorphin rush after a great run.

I have also found that when I’m feeling particularly hard on myself, if I go online and give a small donation to a favorite charity, or work on organizing an event for another one, the self-critique gives way. I then recall that these are very first-world problems, and while they may be embedded into my psyche, doing the right thing is the best remedy. In fact, I’ve found that the more involved I get, the less I worry about that little bit of cellulite that has snuck its way onto my thighs. It doesn’t mean that I don’t look in the mirror that night and wonder how much further I’ll have to run to get rid of it, but sometimes baby steps are all you can hope for. I heard something recently that has really impacted my world view, so I thought I’d close this entry by sharing it as my wish for us all: Love well and be courageous. Isn’t that what it’s all about anyhow?

Hello readers!

I hope all my American readers had an amazing and blessed thanksgiving. I spent the day working in the labor room and had a great day. I didn’t catch any babies, but I did get to help a number of women experiencing various obstetrical concerns throughout the day. We had a lovely holiday meal partially donated by Hatzollah, and partially donated by our superior cooking and baking labor and delivery nurses! I also have to say to my colleague and Maimo OB/GYN resident, Lana, you are inspiring. L&D nurse Jen: you, me, running. Well, as soon as I get a little bit faster. Carolyn: thanks for dragging me to yoga class. Class is so much more centering and satisfying than my yoga DVDs.

Finding the simple joys in everyday things can be hard. Life’s stressors can leave us tired and frazzled. Goodness knows, it’s easy to let those things get to one and when others feel the same, it’s all too easy to fall into that place of misery-buddies. I’m trying to focus on the things that really matter and, like anyone else, I’m sure that from time-to-time, I will fail miserably. I’m only human after all. But I’m trying, and I hope you are too!

Now time, to do something fun and interesting. xo