Monthly Coffee Date

TW/CN: sexual assault, rape examination.

How. in all the world. in all the rational knowledge of the passing of time. has it been a month already? And at the same time, hasn't it been at least a year? Or has it just been a quick twirl and somehow our hair is longer and our backs are sore and we are low on tissues and softer around the middle and overslept yet still tired and desperate for a hug?

Let's start over. Good morning. Is your coffee still warm? Rewarm it if not, because cold coffee you did not intend to be cold just isn't right. Are there people out there who drink their coffee quickly enough that it does not require re-heating? Do you pour-over? Who are you and how else do you live?

I am sitting in my reading and writing chair, with my feet up on the windowsill, listening to jazz, looking at the tree blooming green and yellow out the window, on my second cup (reheated only once so far), ravaging a sharing-size bag of peanut butter M&Ms. Where I wish we were, dear reader, is perhaps sharing a campsite deep in the forest, with a fantastic view, tucked into sleeping bags and having just stirred our instant coffee. Actually sharing this sharing-size bag. Morning fire crackling, naturally. Birds wide awake and chattering for hours. The sun pondering what it has in store for us today. No masks to breathe through heavily, no windows to press our faces against longingly, no screens to glare unnaturally blue into our retinas.

I am finding myself sleeping so, so well, after almost two years of struggling mightily with sleep and its correlates. It was posited to me that perhaps the daily weight of trauma and stress leads to such exhaustion that my body an mind have no choice but to surrender. Maybe that's true. Honestly I have spent so much time over-thinking my sleep disruptions that I balk at any urge to over-think this. I welcome this newfound easy slumber life with open arms.

What isolation trends are on your docket? Sourdough? Tik Tok? Trying on old clothes? High school graduation photos? None of those have made it to my list yet, but I did respond viscerally to the idea that people arrange their books by color and even the idea of it offended me so. Something about the degree of offense led to a compulsion to try it out (see photo). And I annoyingly kind of liked this micro version so might just try it. Right now I do not have my books arranged by genre, as others who similarly scoffed then praised their method as superior, but rather by "read" and "not read" and honestly the "not read" isn't getting any smaller so perhaps it's time to try a new tactic.

What I am reading-reading in Chanel Miller's "Know My Name" which is delicate and intense and so simply honest. I am barely to chapter three and the pages of her writing on her post-assault (which she did not know was an assault at that time) examination really, really, really pushed me to continue writing about the intimacy of gynecologic care. I have briefly chatted with some Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner (SANE) nurses at talks I've given on trauma-informed care, and had a few student midwives who had been SANE nurses, and what stands out to me in those conversations (I need to look further to read more) is that these nurses are trained on specimen collection, not emotional support or consent during the care process or grounding work or power transfer. Isn't that an incredible nod to the breakdown in gynecologic care's disconnect from its role in trauma and intimacy? I have been contacted by some local SANE programs to talk / train, but really want to think about reaching out to the national group. If you have contacts, let me know. (Also, I have two articles brewing about this very topic, so keep an eye out for those.)

Just reheated my coffee, and as I stood up to do so I felt every joint in my body respond. How are your knees? How are your ankles? Your wrists? Your shoulders? Where does it hurt, and can you take a minute to feel it rather than just move along on your way? My knee has still not recovered from my hip surgery and if that isn't a metaphor for the interconnectedness of trauma I don't know what is. My hands has still not recovered from my broken midwife heart. My eyes cannot still see clearly after institutional betrayal. My brain can still not calmly process audible slights. What else is connected to these? And where does the non-linear healing start or move to along the way?

I just started listening-reading Patti Smith's "M Train." I adored listening to Gabrielle Hamilton's "Closing the Restaurant That Was My Life for 20 Years," and especially enjoyed thinking about how we can pivot and make adjustments and keep going, or we can end, finalize, appreciate what was, and recreate later. And the ever-eloquent Rebecca Solnit's "Solidarity in a Disaster" was really poignant.

Apparently I caught my fourth baby as a student midwife nine years ago. Facebook memories are such a wild experience. What was that birth like? Who was I then? Did I even really catch that baby, because as student midwives "catches" are often our preceptors' hands still overwhelming involved, sometimes annoyingly because we know we could've handled it on our own, and sometimes thankfully because there was a tricky cord or shoulder or compound hand or elbow and what we we have done then or what should anyone have done then because most of the GD time people can push their own babies out because we should all just get out of the way anyway? end rant / the rant never ends. @parteramidwifery on instagram has had some of the most beautiful birth videos recently, with nuchal cords that didn't need to be reduced (sing it with me! 'cause they don't / 'cause they don't / 'cause they don't) and squatting positions that led to quick shoulders (sing it with me! 'cause squatting is physiologic! / 'cause squatting is physiologic! / 'cause squatting is physiologic!) and people who've come @ me in comments asking my opinion on those things even though @parteramidwifery's vids say it all (sing it with me! 'cause racism! / 'cause white-institutional-education-and-hospital-systems are valued over home-birth and the truth right in front of you! / 'cause no one can believe that shoulder dystocia is often iatrogenic!). end rant / the rant never ends. Whew, reaaders, I'm in a mood today.

I've been thinking about whether to keep on doing birth work. I think the paragraph above, written as a stream of conciousness like I'm downhill skiing and I might not even go back and edit it before I publish this, has the scales leaning strongly toward my work there is not yet done keep going.

Where is your work not yet done? What books have you half-read, what projects have you half started, what thoughts have you half-begun, and is it time to move on or do you have the space and the grace to get back to them forgivingly and figure out if they are still right for you? Do. Or don't. Whatever feels right.

This coming weekend, thanks to the precociousness and fierceness of two student midwives, Katrina Lipinsky and Erica Imaoka, I am hosting two virtual gatherings for midwife students in the United States. These are super hard times for students about to graduate and in the midst of learning. We are asking students what they'd like to talk about, and curating the conversation based on those responses. And !yes! I am still giving away three months free to my weekly subscription newsletter, for students who continue to ask (almost 200 so far!): email feministmidwife@gmail.com.

These days I am doing a lot of telephone visits with patients whose obstetric or gynecologic care can be addressed virtually, or at least begun that way. Weird things happen on those phone calls. There are always unintentional interruptions due to phone delays, or my own struggles to understand interrupted / faster Spanish in the same way I do in person, or people swearing or saying inappropriate things to me or generally, that I do not think they would do if we were in-person or perhaps by video. I know that I have started to drink wine during my own video therapy appointments, which my therapist has addressed / supported directly, and I wonder what circumstances I am finding people in, in their homes, when I call. What parts of themselves are expressed differently there, than what is embodied in a clinical space? What are they unable to control in that moment and what they can control is their interaction with me?

I am almost at the end of my coffee, and am wondering where "we" as the royal and all-encompassing community will be next month. I have a revise-and-resubmit paper due. I have plants to repot and propogate, and a balcony to fill with flowers as the weather settles into warmth. I have books to read and organize by color. I have new trends to embrace or ignore. I have hours of sleep to catch up on. In my newsletter this week I wrote about the desire to start doing things effortlessly again, like driving with the windows down or going to the grocery store or laughing with patients. Really that points to hopeful dreams about life "after covid." AC. My wife and I had been house-hunting, and I am hoping we can get back to that and find a nice home with a yard and a place to put a piano and space to fill with more dogs and walls to hang more art and shelves to put all these rainbow-ed books and a new window to look out of while I read and write and plan what's next, then.

My heart continues to go out to all of you.

In solidarity,

Stephanie (Feminist Midwife)