Covid Cohort. It was a name assigned to us, and with good reason. When we arrived on campus the fall of 2018 intent on pursuing a designation that meant so much to us, we expected hard. We knew Midwifery Education Programs to have a grueling, unrelenting reputation. We thought we knew what we had signed up for.
We never dreamed that our “hard” would deviate so much from the norm. We never anticipated a global pandemic that would simultaneously derail our education while also forming the foundation of our clinical learning. We never expected to spend the bulk, and for some of us, the entirety of our clinical learning serving clients in the most intimate way while never allowing our faces to be seen. Never allowing our faces to show the full breadth of our joy and satisfaction after a happy birth and a good outcome, or our empathy and concern when things did not go according to plan.
Never in our wildest dreams would we have anticipated that our “hard” would include the inexplicable termination of our program, leaving our instructors without employment or severance, and our specific cohort with no clear path towards a degree. We have never worked so hard, learned and served so many sleepless nights, survived off of so many nutrition bars only to watch the bottom fall out from underneath our feet. We never expected the institutions meant to lead and guide us to fail us in such a colossal fashion.
Never would we have anticipated that our “hard” would mean that our best efforts in our high stake’s courses would mean a choice between graduating with an, as of yet, possibly unaccredited Laurentian Degree, or transfer to another institution that will not recognize our grades and only assign “pass/fail” making opportunities for further education and advancement tenuous at best and impossible at worst. Never did we anticipate that the cost of our education would be so high, while also so disregarded.
I realized at the end of our intensive that it was the last time we would ever congregate together in the Health Sciences building. The termination of our program as we understand it, will see us and the equipment we learned with, chopped up, divided, and sent to other institutions.
The tradition for midwifery students at the end of their education is to don red shoes as they collect their hard-earned degrees. This is a privilege that we will not enjoy in the way we had envisioned.
Instead of red shoes, our gregarious instructor, Buffy, had us don white PPE and face shields for one last photo of our “covid cohort”. One last memory. One last moment together.
We are not yet finished our hard, though I have no doubt that if Ryerson and McMaster keep their commitments, we will. Our hard is not over. Today, I’ve had James Taylor’s classic “Fire and Rain” on my mind on repeat: “oh I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end. I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. But I always thought that I’d see you again”.
This program and a global pandemic have put us through fire unlike any who have undergone this learning. And I held back rainy tears as we posed for our last photo today. There have been too many moments during clinical placements where I think we have all felt small and lost and like we couldn’t find a friend. But I had always taken for granted that we would see each other again, for the duration of the remainder of the program at least.
The termination of the Laurentian Midwifery program is a tragic end for all of us. But I believe — I hope — I actively manifest that the fire that brought us here will see us through to completion. Until then, know that I’m grateful for all of the souls who were here to witness it. The births of these baby midwives.
Samantha Smith-Bird
Third-year midwifery student
Sudbury