When Marisa came to the clinic that stifling
October afternoon, she didn’t say much. But then she never did. If
not for the village gossips, I would not have known how she suffered.
“They live upriver all alone on that island,
and her man almost never lets her leave the house,” they told me. “They
say he beats her when he gets drunk and sometimes he hurts the children
too. He refuses to buy her any maternity
clothes and always makes her wear jeans just to shame her. We don’t know if he is a little slow, or just
plain mean.”
Upon entering the clinic she
needed no gown since her eight-month stomach protruded from below her cute
blouse and above her fitted jeans. I
gently performed her prenatal exam and ran through my standard questions. Because so many of my prenatal patients were
teenagers, my questions were basic, designed to educate and make sure the
mother-to-be was planning and preparing for the birth.
When
I asked how she was planning to travel out to the hospital she hung her head
and quietly stated that as much as she would like to obey me, she didn’t think
her husband would allow it. My heart
sunk. Her island was an hour upriver
from my clinic which was three to four hours and across a river from the
hospital. The only midwife in the area
was eighty-five, illiterate, and blind.
Thinking
over the times she had already refused offers from me and other to help her
leave her man, I knew she didn’t believe she had many options. I wasn’t qualified to deliver her baby, and
neither was anyone else on this side of the river. Even though I was convinced that the natural
childbirth most of my patients experienced needed no intervention, we were just
too far from the hospital to risk the complications that could appear
mid-labor. I explained that by planning
to give birth so far from a hospital, she was risking her life and the life of
her baby.
Unwilling
to discuss the subject further, she gathered her things and paid the small
consult fee of 5 Quetzales. The
equivalent of 85 cents, the consult fee was designed to avoid charity and did
not include any necessary medications. I
filled a small black plastic bag with the standard: prenatal vitamins, iron
supplements, and a few sheets of patient information that explained the
benefits of colostrum and encouraged mothers to nurse their babies immediately
after birth. As she left, with the bag
in her hand and her children by her side, I wondered if I would ever see her
again. Would she end up being just one
more statistic of Guatemalan maternal/fetal death?
I sent a short prayer heaven word on her behalf
and then returning my attention to the small stack of charts and group of
waiting patients. I knew that if I
allowed my heart to get too wrapped up in one case, I would useless to everyone
else. Still, pushing thoughts of her
from my mind wasn’t easy as I focused on the wide eyed eleven-year-old with a
tooth infection in front of me.
Marisa and her husband arrived at our dock in a
small boat just a few weeks later, and I confirmed that she was in labor.
“I’ve come to take you back up river to deliver
the baby,” her man strongly asserted to me. “She’s going to have this
baby at home just like the last two.”
Marisa’s man had never spoken to me before, and
I wondered if all the things they said about him were true. He didn’t raise his eyes to mine, and there
was no clue in his quick, loose body movements.
What was his story? How did he
see himself and his beautiful little family?
A new contraction of Marisa’s stomach cut off my ponderings, and I
considered her options.
While Marisa had no signs that suggested
complications, the idea of labor and delivery in a dark little home of sticks
didn’t appeal to me. I quickly reassessed my feeble midwifery skills.
No formal training, twenty hours of study on the subject, and
participating in less than ten other births; no, it didn’t make sense to travel
in the opposite direction of the hospital.
Her pleading eyes, set in that strong, young
face started to sway my decision. Obviously, the hospital was the best
option, but she was headed back up river with or without me. Should I go with her to support her? Should I
make myself responsible for any problems or complications, when I wasn’t even
sure if I would recognize them? Or should I let her on her own with two
preschoolers and the man who had a lousy record of taking care of her?
Feeling myself start to lean towards helping
her, I called my superiors for advice. ‘’The ultimate decision is
up to you Ashley, but it certainly isn’t the recommended course of action,’’
was the response I got from everyone.
Finally, I decided to put into words the prayer
that had been running through my mind. ‘’Lord, what should I do? I
can’t bear to say no. If something goes wrong and she or her baby dies, I
will always ask if I could have done something to help. But if I am
present, and something does go wrong, am I strong enough to face the guilt and
the certain recriminations?’’
In the past, I had an unfailing track record of
following my superiors’ recommendations.
I trusted Holly and Norma implicitly, and after all, that was why I had
called them. But the sense of stillness, of peace and the assurance that
my hands would know what to do made the decision for me. The security
that God would get me through, not only the birth, but also through whatever
followed, overcame my heart.
I ran to the river’s edge to the waiting couple
in the boat, and asked them to give me just a few minutes more to collect some
supplies, and get Yalonda. I rushed to the clinic and grabbed the large,
almost suitcase-sized, plastic, mickey mouse printed bag I had packed for
emergency deliveries.
Always game, Yalonda hopped into the small
wooden boat behind me. We sat opposite
each other balancing our weight on the sides of the boat, and settling in for
the sixty-minute ride up river. I alternated between prayer, and
worriedly watching Marisa shift uncomfortably on the bottom of the boat.
“Just not in the boat, Lord, please not in the boat.’’
The boat finally slid through the reeds at the river’s edge, and
bumped softly against the mud. We were here. Her home was even less
than I hoped for. It was indeed one dark room. Strips of light
shone through the saplings that formed the outer wall. The alternating
shadow and light was disorienting and my eyes struggled to adjust.
A few minutes into my assessment and preparation of the scene my
one consolation was dashed. I heard the motorboat being started and
driving away.
Apparently, considering this women’s work, her husband decided he
would rather be off with friends, abandoning us to the island with no
transportation in case of emergency. My last link to help and
civilization gone, I asked Yalonda to search the island for cell phone
service. She was no novice and had
become adept at climbing trees and waving the clinic cellphone around.
Then I repeated with wide eyes what would become such a common
instruction, “And Yalonda, keep praying.”
It was nearly 1 o’clock, and Marisa seemed more concerned with
being hostess than birthing a baby. She started a fire and began patting
out the toasty warm tortillas to go with the boiled potatoes she served us.
Her movements were the fluid almost subconscious movements that come with
a task so often performed. Every few minutes, she would hesitate, almost
stopping as she leaned against the elevated platform where her fire was
located. I recognized these hesitations and started timing them. Every
suggestion of mine to lie down, or to head to the bed was countered with a
soft, ¨Not yet.¨
I started to wonder if she would insist on finishing the tortillas
before giving birth. Just how strong was this woman? Continuing to
eat my potatoes with salt, and completely enjoying getting acquainted with her
two dark eyed beauties; suddenly her eyes locked onto mine. My heart
started to pound as I realized that there was no turning back.
Without a word, she moved towards the bed with me close behind, a
prayer on my lips and my prayer warrior Yalonda on my heels with the oversized
Disney bag. As I adjusted her on the small string bed, the large square
of light provided by the open door went dark.
Unfortunately, we were not the only ones to enter the house. In
behind us walked a six-week old calf who nudged Yalonda’s back, almost knocking
her over. Marisa pointed to the oversized bottle filled with milk, and
was pleased that the calf’s feeding time had so coincided. “That will
keep the children busy,” she murmured.
No more than ten minutes later, I was holding a most precious
little black-haired bundle. Suctioning
they baby’s nose and mouth, I wrapped her gently in the flannel Yalonda handed
me from the delivery packet. Passing her
to Yalonda, Marisa and I delivered the placenta quickly. After getting Marisa and the baby comfortable,
I went outside to stretch and quiet my mind from the still running danger
scenarios. Allowing mother and baby to rest, Yalonda swept her little
yard area and played with the children while we waited for her husband to
return.
A few hours later he appeared, apparently unconcerned and
obviously intoxicated. On the ride back
down river, we were surprised to feel how much the satisfaction of the safe
delivery and the deflation of our worry had tired us. It was a thankful
prayer and a sigh of relief that filled my heart that night when I crawled
under my mosquito netting just before the generator went off at 9. My
worries for the day were over. My hands
had been guided and new life had come to the little island home. For tonight, at least, I would fall asleep without worrying about tomorrow. I’ll let it in God’s hands. I’ll just show
up.
In the next few weeks I noticed a growing confidence in my medical
practice. I stopped questioning my own
judgement, and I started trusting God’s guidance. My best was all I could offer these people,
and it was enough.
Hearing nothing from Marisa for several months, I was pleased to
see her waiting on the bench outside the clinic one afternoon. Her
husband had come to town to drink, and had brought her along so that she would
help navigate the boat through the rapids on the trip home. Taking
advantage of the trip, she came for a well-baby checkup. To my delight
everything was fine, and the baby seemed to be gaining weight.
I’ll never forget, how just before she left, she looked at me with
a little sparkle in her eye (the most emotion I had ever seen from her) and
said, ¨You know, the children say that now they know where babies come from.
Soon the news had spread among the children of the village
too. They had figured out what no adult
would tell them. The origin of new
babies was no longer a mystery.
“Keep an eye out for the Mickey Mouse bag.” the children whispered
among themselves. “If the Gringa ever
visits your house with that bag, there will be a new baby when she
leaves.”