growing up.

a mother and sleeping child in the market.

This past Sunday, Brook and I were settling down for a relaxing afternoon. I was just getting ready to lose myself in my latest read, Jane Eyre. However, the stillness was interrupted with a call for us to drive a woman who was in labor to the Hospital. After locking up everything in the house and packing a few travel necessities, we set off for the medical center in the village. When we got there, the head nurse filled us in on the situation. The woman was only 7 months along and the baby was breech. She told us that the legs were already visible and to possibly come back in a few hours, for they first wanted to try to deliver it there.

Sure enough, two hours later after another phone call, we repeated the same process and arrived at the medical center. As we pulled in, family and friends were sitting out in the front lawn. Some of their faces betrayed worry, and others hope (as if our arrival would miraculously save the day), but for most of them they showed the usual curiosity whenever a white person is present. The situation was much the same, the baby’s legs were still visible, however, contractions had completely stopped and they had already lost hope for the baby’s survival. Now they were worried that if the mother didn’t deliver soon, they would lose her too.

After about 30 minutes of waiting, 8 people carried the woman out on a mattress. They placed her in the bed of our truck where 2 women joined her for the arduous journey ahead to the hospital. It usually takes about 45 minutes to get there, but because of the giant potholes and bumps in the crude dirt roads, we knew that this would be a much longer trip. Brook was plagued with the responsibility of trying to get to our destination as quickly as possible, and yet make it as smooth of a ride as she could.

I recall sitting in the front seat, the realization finally hitting me with the fact that we had already lost a precious half born baby and that we could lose this mother, who was laying right behind me. With every bump and pothole we hit, I found myself desperately praying for this woman’s life. 

After what seemed like hours down the road (but was probably only 20 minutes) they called for us to stop. With the language barrier, it took me a while to figure out what was going on, until brook turned to me and said, “She had the baby”.
eesh.

She jumped out of the truck and I sat there a moment in shock. I steeled myself for the scene ahead of me and made my way toward the back. It was a little boy. The nurse had already wrapped the stillborn baby in a katenga (a cloth) and it was just sitting there. so still. so small. The blood and afterbirth were all over. Some had even spilled out onto the rust colored dirt road, staining it a brilliant red. Thankfully, the mother was ok. They cleaned her up, and we turned around to head back to the medical clinic. They would keep her for only a few hours until releasing her to go back home…

I learned that at some point in the night, a grandfather would have to take the baby and bury it in the woods, hiding it from witch doctors who would otherwise steal the body parts.

As we arrived back to the clinic, the family and friends were still waiting out in the lawn. This time, fear and worry were the only expressions evident on their faces. The atmosphere of silent anticipation was oppressive as we pulled in. I’m sure they wondered what had happened to cause us to return so quickly. The nurse jumped out and explained the situation. It seemed like there was a collective sigh of relief with the news that the mother had survived. We dropped her off, and said our goodbyes.
Brook and I returned home and finished washing the blood out of the bed of her truck…
Darling reader, I think I grew up that day.