She moans as another contraction begins. "Oy, mezanmi, li fè mal!"
Oh my goodness, it hurts! She sinks to the ground, resting her head on the low couch on the maternity center porch. "Mwen pa ka fè sa anko!"
I can't do this anymore. We coach, we encourage, we get stern... "Try this position, this will help the baby descend...You can do this, you are strong...Get up, keep going, you cannot just lie here and give up." It's been nearly three days, but her labor has not yet become "cho"; she still has a long way to go, and lots of hard work to do before her little one is in her arms. But she is tired. She is young. She is scared. She has little support from her family. Her ability to cope with being in labor has deteriorated rapidly; if this goes on much longer, her baby, too, will start exhibiting signs of distress.
She comes to the maternity center for a pregnancy test. Positive. "Is this your first baby?" we ask. Yes. Are you happy? No answer is needed; she is glowing with excitement and joy.
Midnight. There is banging at the gate. Sleepily, I stumble to the door of the apartment above the maternity center where I am staying.
There's a woman here, and she's bleeding, the night guard tells me. As I unlock the door to the birth room, I question the woman:
Are you having pain? When did the bleeding start? Have you felt the baby move? I check her blood pressure and fetal heart tones. Both are good. I am relieved, for the moment. She stands up to go to the bathroom, and there is blood. So much blood. I call another midwife: "It could be a previa! I'm on my way!" She arrives with the ambulance, and we quickly load up the woman and drive through quiet streets to the hospital. Port au Prince is eerie at 1am. We pull up to the entrance of the hospital and give the woman instructions on what to tell the staff, knowing that we won't be allowed in to tell them her history and our suspicions. We hope and we pray that the doctor is there, that the operating room can be quickly readied if necessary, that she will be treated with dignity, that she and her baby will be well. We head back to the maternity center with heavy hearts, thinking of all the pain and the sorrow she has already endured in recent months and years.
She places her baby on the scale for his weekly weigh-in. We both smile; he is continuing to gain. This once tiny baby, born long before his due date, is thriving, thanks to his mother's complete dedication to the hard, never-ending work of keeping him alive in a country where all odds are against him. His now-chubby cheeks are a testimony of her love; they both are a testimony of God's mercy and grace.
She sits quietly on the exam table, as her new guardian begins to tell us her story. Barely a teenager, yet she is a mother. She never knew she was pregnant, and it is hard for her to believe that she actually had a baby. Working as a child-servant in a family member's home, raped by someone more than twice her age, her experience is beyond heartbreaking, though tragically all-too-common. Thankfully, she is safe now, having been rescued by an organization that has taken her in and will send her to school and teach her a trade. May beauty rise from the ashes of the childhood that was stolen from her.
"Sa se kè pitit ou!"
That's your baby's heartbeat! she is told, as the midwife holds the fetal doppler to her belly. Tears begin to fall from her eyes, as this teenager, who is all alone in the world, connects for the first time with the tiny person who is growing inside her. From this moment, she is changed; she is excited about and invested in this new little life in her womb. She picks out names and cuddles with other mothers' babies. She exudes fresh hope.
She flees the hospital in the middle of the night, unable to face the possibility of losing another child. Her baby hovers between life and death, and only God knows if this little one will survive to know her mother's love.
She steps onto the porch, clearly feeling out of place among the other moms who are visiting with each other. I step over to welcome her and ask how she knew to come. She says she was given a flyer by a woman in her neighborhood. I can feel the smile on my face freeze as I uncover her baby. His wrinkled skin and gaunt appearance leave no room for question; this child is starving to death, and something must be done immediately. We examine the baby and talk with mom. We explain the severity of the situation and teach her how to breastfeed him, and we tell her that if she is committed to this, she can save his life. Other moms surround her, telling their stories and giving encouragement. She is so young, not even eighteen, but she seems to get it. We tell her to bring the baby back in two days, and she does. We weigh him, and he has gained! We celebrate, and we commit to continue to walk through this journey with her.
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It is with a bit of hesitation that I share these glimpses into the lives of these women and babies that we're blessed to serve here at the maternity center. I share these things not to garner either sympathy or praise, but to give a picture of both the joy and the heartache that are a part of daily life here, and to say again how very desperately we need and appreciate your prayers as we seek to best serve those who come through our gate.
I am so incredibly thankful for the opportunity to get to know the women here and to share in some pretty pivotal moments in their lives, to laugh together, to cry together, to pray together.
As Beth McHoul wrote so beautifully a few months ago,
Our maternity center sees a lot of joy, we have a lot of fun and witness the miracle of birth over and over. Sometimes it is required of us to dip our cups into a well of sorrow and grieve with people in loss. And this we willingly do because the word midwife means to be “with women” and Christian means to be “like Christ”.
That is why we're here. To love, to serve, to rejoice and to mourn with the women that God brings into our lives through the ministry of the maternity center--and ultimately, to point not only them but our own hearts as well to the only One who can meet all of our needs and satisfy our deepest longings. What an incredible, amazing, wonderful gift.
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