The gentlebirth.org website is provided courtesy of
Ronnie Falcao, LM MS,
a homebirth midwife in Mountain View, CA
The gentlebirth.org website is provided courtesy of
Ronnie Falcao, LM MS,
a homebirth midwife in Mountain View, CA
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I just had my mind expanded this morning by Laureen Hudson's hour long online session on how to use the internet to get a message out. Laureen's session “Creating an Online Presence," gave me a wealth of information in a short time and impressed me with how many people are out there who completely rely on the internet for their information. I needed that, and maybe you do, too. - Ina May Gaskin I just hung up the phone from doing the hour long session with
Laureen Hudson on “Creating an Online Presence”. Laureen’s know-how
and expertise were enough to wake up even the birth oldtimers like me and
Ina May to the many unused opportunities of the internet. Laureen’s
engaging and easygoing teaching style made even those scary (to me) terms
like “hypertext, streaming, wordpress, technorati, feedreader and trackback”
start to make sense. Her passion is to reach the generation of young
women who have not yet given birth BEFORE they fall into the black hole
of aggressive obstetrics. I came away from the class today with lots
of ways to improve my website and make it more modern, usable and interesting
for readers. This class will run again this coming Friday (August
22) and I heartily recommend it.
Cost: $35 per session Each session will be 60 minutes in length Creating An Online Presence
Search!
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I wish someone had told me,
I wish I knew how much the section would hurt
for weeks, months later.
Years.
My throat closes up just remembering,
I shudder and get quieter.
The ICAN meeting was a forum for my feelings
at last, at least.
Though I don't see anyone there
forgiving themselves for this operation,
this interventive delivery,
this surgical birth.
What do you want? A baby. You got one.
No, more. An image of
laboring in harmony with the child,
in a loving helpful embrace with my husband,
soft music, a gentle cheering section
of nurses and midwives and doctors
in clean white gloves handing
the squirmy grateful puddle
onto my nurturing breast.
Not beeping machines and IVs and
stretched out on this strange cruciform
each arm reaching to the walls,
tubes in my spine, and the reflection
of my own bloody entrails
in the overhead fixture.
I'm shivering, so cold, please hold
my hand, don't go
away, don't leave me now, they're not
done with me, I'm lying here
awake and my body is open
to the air like some awful hara kiri,
crucified and
DISEMBOWELED ALIVE
and you have left me.
Now the whole room only cares about him,
why is he crying too
what are they doing to my baby let me see
him let me have him let me hold him
I can't ask with this mask on my face,
my empty arms strapped down,
my legs numb I cannot move.
Why am I here alone, no one left
to hold my hand and they're putting
bloody organs back inside me,
I am open to the wind and so alone
I don't even have my baby anymore.
I was just a body,
these methodical doctors and
technicians working efficiently,
coldly, mechanically
Like a car they could just
disconnect the battery and close the hood;
I was not a person.
I was not a person for weeks, for months.
Dehumanized.
Until I closed the door
on the Room Of Pain, picked up my child,
and went outside.
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