Mary, Joseph & the Doula
A misremembered nativity story.
Mary had been in labour for hours by the time the Doula arrived.
It had been a nightmare, finding somewhere nice to lie down and push this baby out. They’d been turned away from practically every inn:
“Sorry, no can do, we’re full.”
“Oh, you’re literally about to give birth? Congratulations!”
“Hate to break it to you but we‘re booked up solid for the tax collectors convention.”
Eventually, a sympathetic opportunist led them to a barn out the back, promising that it could feel rather comfortable once you repositioned a few hay bales.
“There’s a cow in here.” Mary said, shooting Joseph one of her ‘looks’.
“Think of it as a mini fridge. Organic milk on tap!” he replied, rubbing her upper arms in a misjudged attempt to relax her.
The cramps in her abdomen were beginning to spread to her back. Groaning, she bent forward over a pig’s trough and tried rocking side to side to take some of the edge off.
“Scarf!!!” she called out to Joseph.
Joseph searched through the donkey’s pack, extracting a thin length of woven cloth and hurriedly handing it to his wife. She wrapped the material around her hips, leaving two long pieces on either side for Joseph to take hold of.
“So…I just pull it like this?” he asked tentatively.
“Urghhhhh.” She grunted.
Joseph pulled a little harder, taking some of the weight off her back.
“Urghhhhh.” she groaned again.
Joseph tried moving the material a little bit, gently swinging her like a watermelon in a hammock.
“Urghhhhhhhhhh!” Mary turned her head to the side and vomited into the pig’s trough.
When the Doula eventually arrived, she found Mary in much the same position. At Mary’s request, the scarf had long since been discarded and replaced by periodic punches to the lower back.
The Doula had seen it all before, of course. She’d attended births in shacks, caves, banquet halls — and even a few chariots if you can believe it. So she wasn’t about to be intimidated by a little hay and some pig shit.
“Hello Mama! How are we? Deeeeep breath — that’s it.” She flung her shawl at Joseph’s chest and took up his position to Mary’s rear.
“The contractions are every three-” said Joseph.
“Surges. We call them surges.” interrupted the Doula, who was now guiding Mary onto her hands and knees. “That’s it — mind out for the bucket, aaaand down we go!”
Mary was sweating. “I can’t do it. I can’t.” She felt as though a wild tiger had gripped tight to her insides, and feared that every move only angered it further.
“Calm, calm. Remember our affirmations. I am powerful. I am in control…” Mary shook her head, but the Doula carried on. “…I am open. I am safe…”
It was at this exact moment that the local shepherd returned with his flock for the night.
“Urghhhhhhhh.” Mary groaned, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the view of the scruffy shepherd herding his sheep towards her.
“Baaaaaaaa” the sheep cried out in unison, equally disturbed to find a sweating, half-dressed, young woman spread all over their lovely clean hay.
Joseph attempted to mediate the situation, “Just for a few hours mate, promise we’ll leave it exactly as we found it-” but the shepherd was having none of it. The sheep had been driving him barmy all day and he’d been dying to put his feet up. Eventually, they reached an agreement where Mary would be moved into one of the stables to keep some level of separation between the labouring and the livestock.
“How much longer?” Mary asked as the Doula reappeared from under her skirt. “Still some way to go. Just try to relax. Inhale strength. Exhale fear. Ignore the smell.”
If Mary had been asked to describe the sensation running through her body, she would have likened it to a deep internal eruption. Like a spiritual spasm, transfiguring every cell in her body, aching and shaping as she used every mental fibre to keep the atoms of herself gathered together. She felt both at war and at peace, trying hard to resist the urge to fight her body’s natural impulses. Worryingly, she was also starting to feel like a bowel movement might be on its way.
Joseph stepped outside for a breather. It was a lot to take in all of this. One minute he was a humble tradey, living a simple life of chopping, sawing and joining various bits of wood. Now he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, on the verge of becoming a Dad, and not one person had thought to ask — it’s definitely yours, right?
“Excuse us mister, don’t suppose you know where the party is?”
Joseph emerged out of his sulk to find three oddly dressed blokes with hastily wrapped gifts lurking outside the barn. “Sorry, are you lost?” he asked.
“Don’t think so — we followed that star up there and it led us here. Sounds like it’s all kicking off in there…”
“Please don’t-!” Joseph cried, but it was too late. The three blokes barged into the barn without so much as checking for an entry fee. On the plus side, thought Joseph, perhaps they’d bought some useful baby gifts he could save a bit of money on.
The Doula would never admit it, but she loved having an audience. Before she re-trained in hypnobirthing, she’d been an actress — performing in various semi-professional productions in the village amphitheatre. Her role as the Egyptian Queen Cleopatra had been described as ‘ambitious’ and ‘distracting’. If she was honest, she was drawn to the world of childbirth not for the miracle of witnessing life itself, but for the opportunity to take centre stage in one of the most important moments of her client’s life. There’s nothing like a captive audience.
“My lady, we come bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh-” the three men knelt beside Mary, as she leaned against the Doula in a kind of squat.
“Go away!” wailed Mary, who was well and truly fed up by this point.
“Oooh I do love an essential oil!” squealed the Doula, splashing some of the myrrh about before pocketing the bottle. It gave the overwhelming aroma of the barn a slight vinegary edge.
“I’m going to push!” Mary announced, deciding it was time to take matters into her own hands. Embracing the pressure growing inside her, Mary took a deep breath and bared down as she let the air hiss out through her teeth.
The Doula ditched a half-wrapped block of gold to rush back to Mary’s side. “Yes, I can see the head! Keep going! Remember — floppy face, floppy fanny!” She straightened her tunic, ready for the grand finale.
Mary took another breath, willing this nightmare to end, and with an almighty push felt the expulsion and immediate relief as something slippery fell onto the soft hay beneath her. It was a baby, a real baby, with little blue hands and a weird layer of white fat stuck all over its back. It was the most beautiful thing Mary had seen in her entire life.
The barn door swung open as Joseph returned from his ill-timed break. He took in the scene — the dirt-covered cow in the corner, the overflowing pig’s trough, the herd of sheep, the stacks of hay, the three weird blokes, the beaming Doula, and Mary — blood dripping down her thighs, cradling a squealing purple creature, all balled fists and impossibly perfect curled toes. A boy.
“Jesus Christ!”
