12. The Tribe

Hello and welcome, I’m Renée Valentina and this is Musing Interruptus. A podcast meant for sharing thoughts, stories, enjoying idiomatic phrases and words in general. You can read along; the transcription is in the description of this episode. The idiomatic expressions are in italics. Try to get the meaning from the context and then look them up to see if you were right. If you like it, share it, but more importantly, continue the conversation. Today, The Tribe. The voice on the other side of the telephone was tense. Her brother was calling, with only one certainty, she was being mistreated by her doctor and she needed protection. This was not a drill, it was happening and so many things were on the line, her right to breastfeed for one. She is his person, his haven, his friend from childhood, from home. He called me because he knew I would stir things up to help push the energy in her favor. He was sounding all the alarms he knew of. The doctor had told her the night before, right before her emergency surgery, that she would have to stop breastfeeding, and anyway, he said, two months was enough. As I listened to her brother repeat this, my teeth clenched up, my jaw tightened and my sight narrowed. —What do you mean, I said. The WHO advocates for at least six months, that is common knowledge. Her brother proceeded to explain that the doctor didn’t want her malnourished on account of breastfeeding, and his sister would not let anyone or situation come between her and feeding her baby. That was out of the question. As soon as we hung up I messaged the only two women I knew who would educate me on the matter and point me in the right direction. I was instructed on her rights, and without a shadow of a doubt, the word violence was pronounced. Who is the doctor? What is his specialty? The network was activated. Meanwhile, her mother activated her tribe. They came together like clockwork, women coming and going, caring for the baby, holding him through the hours of separation and waiting, finding out everything they could on baby formulas, breast pumps, bottles, sterilization pots, and visitation timetables to get the baby to his mother and breastfeed at the hospital, and they let their arms’ memory guide them and soothe the baby as best they could- Her mother was focused on soothing her own child, who was wounded and rallying as fast as she could from a hospital bed.  A continent away, her doula called and coached her on expressing milk, on her rights, accompanying her from afar. Her friends and cousins relentlessly called and messaged, not at all surprised at how strong she was. Her brother, friends, and cousins gathering around her, spending the night by her side and her hospital surroundings, standing next to her as nurses and doctors came and went. Allies in the nurses made themselves known. The doctor said he would prescribe something to make her stop producing milk if she didn’t stop. The tribe pulled closer together. — No, you can’t do that, there is no medical reason to do that. And the pièce de résistance was sharply thrusted, slicing whatever his reign of terror was mounted on. Her aunt was informed, she immediately called her niece, got the information, and called her colleague. She called him out and informed him of her areas of specialization, pediatrics, and neonatal care, and that he should focus on his area of expertise. She put him in his place, she informed him, she was not alone and eyes in the know were watching very closely. After that, his behavior changed. He no longer threatened to strap her breasts or block her milk production. Ah, there was a way to bolster her nutrients and improve her diet. Continue reading.