Honolulu Star-Advertiser © Susan Scott
September 2, 1996
ON a Labor Day long ago, during a picnic, my mother went into labor and subsequently gave birth to my brother. This was such a huge event in my 11-year-old mind that the Labor Day holiday was permanently marked as a celebration of motherhood.
It wasn’t until much later, however, during my clinical training in nursing school, that I learned the true meaning of motherly labor. At 18, I witnessed my first human labor and delivery, so casually called L&D in the maternity wards. Wide-eyed and gaping, I was astonished at the tremendous pain the woman endured, and then promptly forgot.
Human females probably aren’t the only ones that have pain during the birth process.
ONCE, years ago, after sailing to Lanai’s Manele Bay, I struck up a conversation with the harbor mistress there. She had written a book in the 1970s about her experiences with whales.
“Sometimes I sit for hours on this bluff at night, just listening,” she told me. “I can hear female humpbacks laboring.”
“You mean in labor? As in giving birth?”
“Yes.”
I raised an eyebrow. “How can you tell they’re in labor?”
“I hear their agony. Sometimes it goes on all night.”
“Oh.”
“I can also hear their joy when the calf finally comes out.”
“Mmm.”
I left as politely as I could. This New Age, communing-with-whales stuff was not for me.
Later, I climbed that same bluff and sat silent for a long time, watching the ocean. Gradually, my skepticism softened. Who was I to say a whale didn’t suffer the pains of labor or the joy of birth – and be vocal about it in the process?
I have never seen, or heard, a whale give birth, but I was once lucky enough to watch a green sea turtle lay her eggs.
Now there’s labor.
Female sea turtles must haul their heavy bodies up the sandy beach of their birth, dig an enormous hole, lay a hundred or so eggs, cover them with sand, then return to the ocean.
THIS might not be such hard work except that sea turtles have flippers suited to swimming, not walking. So, rather than taking steps like land turtles, sea turtles must “row” themselves up the beach.
This is exhausting work. The turtle reaches forward with her front flippers, digs into the sand, then with visible effort heaves herself forward. So tiring are these “steps,” the turtles must rest after just one or two.
Digging nests with these streamlined flippers is no easy task under the best of circumstances, but for my turtle it was even worse: She had a handicap.
Only a small portion of her left rear flipper remained, likely the result of a shark bite. The turtle, however, didn’t seem to know the flipper was mostly missing. She dug furiously with her stub to no avail.
After an hour or so, it was clear that the turtle would not be able to dig her egg nest deep enough without help. So, every time the turtle swung her ineffective stub, wildlife biologists and I reached into the hole and pulled out handfuls of sand.
IT worked. The tired turtle positioned herself over the hole and began dropping wet, white eggs. I was thrilled. But, oh, was she working hard. I could see it in her face and body.
“Do you think it’s painful?” I whispered.
One of the male biologists shrugged. “Who knows? When they’re laying, it’s like they’re in a kind of trance.”
“Trance?” the female biologist scoffed. “She’s in labor.”
Labor Day is a good time to remember all mothers, human and animal, who give life through their labor. It may be the ultimate work experience.