Tag Archives: biography

Breathe, Baby, Breathe!: The Delivery

Every year in the United States, 12% of all births are preterm births, 5% of all babies need help to breathe at birth, and 3% of neonates are born with at least one severe malformation. Many of these babies are hospitalized in a neonatal intensive care unit. Annie Janvier and her husband, Keith Barrington, are both pediatricians who specialize in the care of these sick babies and are internationally known for their research in this area. In 2005, when their daughter Violette was born extremely prematurely, 4 months before her due date, they faced the situation “from the other side,” as parents. Despite knowing the scientific facts, they knew nothing about the experience itself.

Breathe, Baby, Breathe! is the emotional and personal story written by Annie Janvier, that tells the story of their daughter Violette, alongside the stories of other fragile babies and their families with different journeys and different outcomes. In this post, we share an excerpt from the book.


Excerpt from Breathe, Baby, Breathe!

Part 2: The Delivery and the First Days

The Delivery

Violette was born at 5:21 a.m. in Operating Room 1 at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Montreal. A room that looks like so many operating rooms: too cold, highly impersonal, brightly lit. In some places, they call this an operating theatre, with the OR fluorescent blue light pointing to the main actor and to the precise spot where all the action was focused: my tsouin-tsouin. Whether there was to be a caesarean section or not, all the sick babies were delivered in that room, as the resuscitation room was adjacent to it. The “resusc” room was overheated so that babies didn’t drop their temperature. Dropping temperature is a big concern when tiny babies come out. Their little bodies are wrapped in a plastic bag or under plastic wrap in order to keep their temperature stable.

I remembered three months back, when I was 12 weeks pregnant, nauseated and on call, that I had been urgently woken up at 3 a.m. because a 25-week baby was about to be born. After driving madly through red lights and arriving on time, I felt sick. The mother who was delivering had fulminant chorioamnionitis (a uterine infection) and the smell in the OR was not pretty. I took the baby to the resusc room. The baby stank, a tiny stink bomb, the whole resusc sauna room stank of old diapers and septic tanks. Her heart rate was not coming up with only the bag and mask. I needed to intubate her (place a tube down her throat into her windpipe). I was gagging while I was intubating this poor little girl, but managed to intubate her quickly. Thankfully I had a mask on. The junior resident asked what he could do, with both his eyebrows raised. I hadn’t worked with him before. He was still showing me what the heart rate of the baby was, and his finger was going up and down, but I guess he did not know the protocol for dealing with barfing staff, which list to check, how to assist. When the baby was stable, I asked the resident for some ice. As the main assistant for the resuscitation, he ran out to get some. I am sure he did not know why we needed ice, since we were supposed to keep the baby warm. When he returned, I asked him to place some of the ice in a plastic bag on my head. I felt like I would pass out. This baby did well, though. She was still on the unit weeks later, learning to feed, while I was pushing.

Why was I remembering this baby while I myself was giving birth? I have often tried to understand why over the years. Maybe because I thought my situation was slightly better: I did not stink, plus my physician was not about to puke on my baby. Or maybe because I wanted to vomit with despair. Or maybe because I wanted to remind myself I was not only a failing vessel, a broken belly, the owner of an “incompetent cervix”; I was a strong physician who could intubate a tiny baby in under thirty seconds while puking in her mask. Or maybe because I wanted to think about this pretty little girl who was doing well, in our hospital, with the same care Violette would have, her little preemie-roommate.

Credit: Sasiistock

Axel had been born by Caesarean section, but Violette used the good old “natural route” at a highly unnatural time. So many people were around, but at that moment there could have been a TV crew, a clown, a deep-sea diver, cows, whatever, and I don’t think I would have reacted. I wasn’t supposed to be there. Why not another day, week, hour?? Why had I turned around in bed a week before, when my waters broke? That was a huge mistake. This is all a mistake, I wanted to scream. This is not happening. This cannot be my life. This is my husband next to me, with so much love in his eyes, so much despair, and so much hope. I realized it was really happening. When Axel was born, I couldn’t successfully push him out of me. I thought this would be easier. How can a 700g baby be tough to push out? Well, it was not easy. I think I pushed hard, but my OB seemed not to think so. The whole team was counting, encouraging, telling me this was serious. Maybe I was not pushing because I did not want her to come out. This was NOT a happy moment; this was one of the worse moments of my life. This was failure. A big maternal blaaaaaaaaaaah in broad florescent light for everybody to see. I felt her coming out, heard a little cry and closed my eyes. I saw Gene right there, our great colleague who was a neonatal fellow at the time. I knew Violette was well taken care of. He took her into the resuscitation room. Keith and I both knew what was happening out there. At least Gene was not vomiting and asking for ice. He intubated her when she was stable, gave her surfactant to open up her lungs and took her to the NICU. She needed only room air to breathe, 21 per cent oxygen, what healthy human beings need. I did not want to see her. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be alone.

Keith went to collect Axel from my mom’s place, and I was taken to the prenatal ward. I was so grateful to go there. I had been in the team recommending that all mothers of very sick babies be admitted there after birth, so they did not have to be exposed to the bright balloons, the damned joy and happiness of the other mothers, the first meconiums, the crying fullterm
monsters, and the chattering, smiling, noisy relatives. I was with the waiting ones and the sick ones. It was silent. I went to sleep.

May 22nd. This is the day I learned the definition of emptiness. I did not feel pain, sad emotions. I felt nothing – such a big black hole, a void. I was empty; nothing had any meaning. I learned the definition of nothing, of meaninglessness, the meaning of meaninglessness.

A mother who is really a mother is never free.

Honoré de Balzac


To find out more about Breathe, Baby, Breathe!, click here.

Annie Janvier is a professor of Paediatrics and Clinical Ethics at the University of Montreal, and a Neonatologist, clinical ethicist and researcher at CHU Sainte-Justine.

Phyllis Aronoff and Howard Scott won the 2018 Governor General’s Literary Award for their translation of Descent into Night by Edem Awumey.

Some Candid Thoughts by R. Peter Broughton, author of ‘Northern Star: J.S. Plaskett’

Guest post by R. Peter Broughton, author of Northern Star: J.S. Plaskett

As a retired high-school math teacher, I fall into no particular camp. I’m not a scientist, an astronomer, or a historian. But perhaps, with no particular axe to grind and at my advanced age, I am oddly suited to bring some new viewpoints to bear on writing a historical biography of an astronomer.

As far as astronomy goes, some of my professors, including the renowned Helen Hogg, actually knew Plaskett. The equipment he used as well as the techniques and methods that were familiar to him were still current. But it was only after a course in the history of mathematics that I took as part of a master’s degree a few years later that I began to see the unity of the humanities and the sciences. I began to feel that, by reading extensively, I could learn what interested me. Encouraged by Professor Kenneth O. May, I thought that eventually I might make my own contributions to knowledge.

Fortunately for me there was a means to do so. I had joined the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada as an undergraduate and over subsequent years held virtually every office in the Society, giving me a broader understanding of the great variety of attitudes, backgrounds, and challenges faced by this subset of Canadians. Though I found that the RASC Journal and monthly lectures by experts provided a means of keeping in touch with some of the recent developments in astronomy, I realized that it would be through the history of the subject that I would try to make my mark. Boldly I thought there were few significant developments in Canadian astronomy before the twentieth century, so it would not be a preposterous goal to attain familiarity with the entire history of astronomy in Canada. Of course science really knows no boundaries, so I was inevitably drawn to explore some topics on a broader scale.

Writing for the RASC Journal had its rewards. I was able to address topics that interested me and in the process found at least a few encouraging readers and sympathetic friends. This experience gave me the confidence to write for other journals as diverse as Annals of Science and Journal of Geophysical Research, and eventually to write two books, Looking Up: A History of the RASC and Northern Star: J.S. Plaskett.

My hope is that this biography of John Stanley Plaskett will appeal to a very wide audience. The astronomical community is already familiar with Plaskett as one of a fairly small group of astronomers to make major contributions to the science in the first half of the twentieth century. For such readers, this book will flesh out Plaskett’s personality and provide pertinent illustrations of how he managed to become so highly-regarded at home and abroad. Amateur astronomers, who often like to read (on cloudy nights) about the accomplishments of a former generation, will appreciate Plaskett’s rise from humble roots to international acclaim. He achieved fame for himself and his country by learning on the job, and without ever taking a formal course in astronomy. But I really hope this book will reach beyond those aficionados of astronomy to a broader audience.

I do think the Canadian public thirsts for stories of national heroes. For decades, professional historians have largely derided such figures as elitist, preferring to focus on down-trodden minorities or those whose experience or impact has been localized. So says one of the few notable exceptions, Jack Granatstein in Who Killed Canadian History? Moreover, he writes, these historians in academe often write in a turgid style admired only by their colleagues. Fortunately, there have been counter examples. One shining example is Michael Bliss’s biography of Sir Frederick Banting, published by the University of Toronto Press in 1984 with a second edition in 1992.

Though Plaskett cannot be credited with saving countless lives as did his contemporary, Banting, he did, along with Banting and a handful of others, put Canada on the international radar as a country making serious advances in scientific knowledge. Before the First World War, Canada was a backwater in the arts as well. It took pioneers like Lucy Maud Montgomery and the Group of Seven to bring awareness to the world that important advances were occurring in the vast land north of the 49th parallel.

Finally, and in my opinion, most importantly, I hope that this book will break down some barriers. I would be delighted if humanists realized that they can learn the ways of science from the biography of an astronomer. Scientists may appreciate the value of history when they see how personal, political, and economic forces shape their working lives. Perhaps professional historians may see the value in writing for a broad audience, and writers of creative non-fiction may understand that there is no need to embroider the facts.

I should not kid myself. Five years after Bliss’s second edition of Banting: a Biography came out, an Angus Reid poll found that only 11 percent of Canadians between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four knew that Banting had won the Nobel Prize in medicine for his discovery of insulin. If that’s the best that an outstanding writer and historian could achieve, I will be amazed and delighted if 11 percent of Canadians of any age come to recognize the name of John Stanley Plaskett as Canada’s founding astronomer.

R. Peter Broughton was president of the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada from 1992 to 1994. His service and extensive writing on the history of astronomy led the International Astronomical Union to name a minor planet in his honour.

One in a Thousand: One Hundred Years Later

One hundred years ago, Eddie McKay, the WWI flying ace featured in One in a Thousand, was shot down and killed. To commemorate his life and death, and the publication this year of Eddie’s story in an innovative new microhistory, author Graham Broad discusses how he was compelled to research, write, and publish Eddie’s story. To learn more about Eddie McKay, you can of course get your hands on a copy of One in a Thousand, but we also urge you to check out Eddie’s account on Twitter: @AEMcKayRFC

I don’t believe in such things, but if I did, I’d say that Eddie McKay was pursuing me.

About fifteen years ago, when I was a TA in the Canadian history survey at Western, I was asked to give a guest lecture about Canada in the First World War. It was my first lecture and I was quite unsure of myself, but I knew that the lecture would be more meaningful for the students if I told them about someone from their own university who had been killed in the war. The campus had no First World War cenotaph—it’s a long story—but I found Eddie’s name in an old book about Western’s history. I looked into his story briefly. He was a rugby player who became a pilot in the Royal Flying Corps. Perfect.

I spent a few hours in the university archives looking for a picture of him to no avail. I left, stretching and yawning, rubbing my eyes, and paused to glance for a moment at a nearby display case. And there was an old and yellowed photo of Eddie McKay, wearing his rugby team uniform, looking straight back at me from the pages of a scrapbook about Western’s sports history. I alerted the archivist. “That’s weird,” she said. “I flipped to that page at random this morning.”

Odd things like that happened again, over a decade later, when I decided to write a book about Eddie, like the time I took my laptop to the local market for a change of scenery. Sipping coffee and writing, I looked down for a moment at the top of the table. Somebody had etched “Eddie” in it. So that was weird, too.

Again, I don’t believe in that stuff, but Eddie McKay does haunt me in a way. I can’t really claim to know him. Even if he had survived the war, it’s improbable that I ever could have: he would have turned seventy-eight the year I was born. Would I have liked him, or would he have liked me? He was athletic and a soldier. I am bookish, uninterested in sports, and unmilitary. And it would be incredible if he did not share many of the commonplace sentiments of his own age that rightly find no place in our own. Yet something about him compelled and still compels me inexorably. I’d mention him once a year when I guest lectured, and later in my classes when I started to teach. Then in 2007, I persuaded my senior seminar to do a little class project about him. Together, we gathered material about his life, at least the stuff we could get locally, and placed a commemorative marker for him on campus. I pass it often. My wife, who works at the university, can see it from her office window.

In 2013, I hashed out an idea with Natalie Fingerhut, the Higher Education History Editor at University of Toronto Press. A biography, of sorts, of Eddie McKay. Could it be done? I dunno, I said. I’m not sure if there’s enough material. What the students and I had gathered in 2007 provided no more than a sketch. Even better, she proposed. It would really be two biographies: the story of Eddie McKay and the story of how I wrote that story—or failed to write it. A pedagogical microhistory.

So, I committed biography, as they say. Sort of. I was able to locate only about six documents relating specifically to Eddie’s life prior to his twentieth year, for example, so the “biography” was pretty much confined to the last three years of his life when he was a student and soldier. Moreover, the experience of thinking my way through things I had taken for granted, such as how I went about doing history, why I believed the things I discovered about the past were probably true, laid me bare. Oh, back in the day I had taken the obligatory theory and methods courses, and I had wandered the thickets of “theory” over many hours of beer and argument with classmates who were convinced that there was nothing in this world that we could be convinced about. But I had always believed that, for all the interventions of the post-modernists, the core methodology of the historical profession hasn’t changed much over the years. We write about more things and often take a broader perspective, but fundamentally it seems to me that most historians do what historians have been doing for a very long time: they gather evidence to tell stories and make arguments about the past.

My book, One in a Thousand: The Life and Death of Captain Eddie McKay, Royal Flying Corps, is the story of a promising young man who was killed in a terrible war. It is also the story about how I struggled to learn what I did about him, how I came to certain conclusions—however tentative—about him, and how I dealt with gaps in the record and the mysteries I couldn’t resolve. Where is he buried? Who was the mystery woman who inquired after him when he failed to return from his final patrol? What was in the envelope, addressed to him, that was never sent by the President of UWO in 1917? The book serves as an entry point, then, for students wanting to learn more about historical theory and method. It’s possible to skip the methodological discussions and read the book as biography alone, but it’s my hope that readers who come for the history will stay for the historiography.

Eddie McKay was killed in action the day after his 25th birthday, 28 December 1917. For the past two years, I have been tweeting significant events in his life from @AEMcKayRFC. You can follow him there. In a future blog post, I’ll ruminate some about how I learned to stop worrying and love the tweet.

Graham Broad is Associate Professor of History at King’s University College at Western University and the author of A Small Price to Pay: Consumer Culture on the Canadian Home Front, 1939-1945 (2013).