On Friday, I took my first of the “other” kind of swim class. Instead of paddling around in deep water wearing floaties, we had more of a water aerobics experience, standing in a 3-foot-deep warm-water pool.
It started out innocently enough, with some crouching and squatting type activities, swinging our arms back and forth, just below the surface.
No problem.
The question for the class was “Have you hired a doula?”
Nearly everyone had. This is the Berkeley YMCA after all.
The mom to my right, who moved here recently from Israel, asked me sotto voce why people hire doulas. I explained the concept of having a birth coach to help with the labor, the statistics on a doula’s presence being linked to shorter labor and lower incidence of c-sections; the doula’s role as a consistent presence, unlike nurses who are subject to shift changes and the needs of other patients or the doctor who checks in periodically, maybe, and only really shows up at the end; the idea that a doula who has witnessed over 500 births (like the one we hired has) would be able to reassure us, keep us calm.
She said, “Aren’t the nurses supposed to do all that?”
Hello, doubt.
“Well, yes. I guess.”
Oh well. We’ve already sent in our deposit. I’m nothing if not a fan of hiring a team anyway. Doctor, check. Nurses, check. Doula, check.
And then, we started moving. Jogging, skipping, and a stiff-legged maneuver reminiscent of cross-country skiing. And just when it started to get a little easier because we’d gotten a current going, she’d have us change directions. The group moved in two circles, one inside the other. We looked like a Busby Berkeley film, but less glamorous, or graceful, or intricate. I think at one point I actually felt like I might be developing shin splints.
I mentioned to the teacher that this was really challenging for me. She laughed. “What week are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“It’s usually around 20 weeks that people start saying, ‘Wow, this is hard!'”
For the grand finale, we each grabbed two “noodles” — long slender cylinders of Styrofoam. One noodle goes under your knees, and the other, roughly behind your neck and shoulders, arms wrapped over from underneath, or under from over, so that between the two, you are somewhat cradled, and floating. I couldn’t figure out how to do this without getting my head wet (ewww, chlorine) or my ears full of water, so I gave up; desire for relaxation trumping concerns about damaging my hair or fear of ear problems.
The teacher dimmed the lights, put on a Native American flute CD. We all closed our eyes and quietly, gently floated.
Occasionally I peeked. All I could see was a sea of turquoise and green noodle tips poking out of the water, turning in slow, lazy arcs, like modern art water lilies.
Ten minutes later, the lights came on, the noodles were put back in their big can, and we all ran shivering to the showers.
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