I met one of our beautiful young soccer girls, Katrine*, on the road on Tuesday. She was heavily pregnant and contractions had started on Monday evening. “I am scared. Pray for me Rusi,” she asked. I prayed, right there on the street. Throughout Wednesday, Samantha and I phoned her for updates. After a long, full and hot day in the city we went to the maternity room in the late afternoon as soon as we arrived back up the mountain. Katrine was having regular contractions but clearly still had a long way to go. Her Mama and Aunt and a couple of other ladies were in the small room. It was quite a social affair. Three beds closely together in a line, Katrine in one of them and the other two empty. We laid hands on her and prayed and then left telling her we would come back.
After supper, around 9pm, we drove slowly over the bumps and holes in the road to the health centre. Wondering whether the baby would arrive soon. Katrine was in a lot more pain and contractions were every 2½ minutes. The women in the room were drinking beer and gossiping away as if it was a night out in the pub. Then we noticed a lady lying under cloth and a blanket on one of the other beds. When we asked if she had given birth, the ladies told us yes, but the baby was small as she gave birth early at 6 months. What? Where is the baby? Next to the Mama we were told. Samantha rushed to the bed and started pulling back the cloth and blanket. Next to the Mama was a bundle of blankets and as she unraveled them, there was a tiny, perfectly formed face, with a little hand at the mouth. She called me to help and I got one of the women in the room to help me wash my hands with soap and water from a container (there were no wash basins to be seen). I shouted at the women drinking beer and told them to go outside. I was so angry.
The baby felt warm to touch so we thought he was alive. What can we do? Kangaroo care. We stripped the upper clothes off the Mama and Samantha placed the baby on the Mama’s chest and we wrapped them both with a blanket. It didn’t take long for us to realise the baby was cold, and it was only the blankets that had caused him to feel warm and alive.
Katrine was still having contractions every 2½ minutes a few metres away.
Samantha went to get the nurse. The only nurse on duty for the whole health centre. Hospitalisation rooms full with more than one patient per bed. This one lady was nurse, midwife, doctor, manager, etc. She came and we took the tiny baby boy wrapped in cloth to the delivery room to examine him. He was beautiful. No breath, no warmth, no life left. His little lungs could not cope. No incubator. No oxygen. No expertise to know what to do. The nurse told us he came out crying, but the ambulance was not available and therefore he couldn’t be taken to a bigger hospital with neonatal care. We stood around him and prayed for life. I was so confused as to how to pray – for life, knowing there were no facilities to help him if he did breathe again – or for him to be at peace. God may your will be done. I think he was probably 26 weeks gestation. Tiny. Memories of my days working on the Neonatal Units in big London hospitals came flooding back to me, what a contrast. For Samantha, a different memory. For both of us, the frustration and anger of not having facilities available to help save a life.
The nurse wrapped the cloth over him and moved him to the other delivery bed. We asked the Mama if she would like to see him, but she didn’t want too. It was Samantha who broke the news to the Mama, Ceilla*, to tell her that her little boy had died. She was still waiting for the ambulance to arrive thinking they were going to the city and all would be well.
Katrine continues to have contractions every 2½ minutes a few meters away.
At about 10pm there was a commotion in the hallway. A lady had been carried in on a wicker stretcher. She was 8 months pregnant and in a lot of pain. The nurse asked her to walk to the delivery room so she could be examined. I helped her friend to half carry her and then Samantha and I lifted her on to the bed. The nurse checked and she wasn’t dilated so an injection was given and we half-carried half-walked her to a bed in a room a little further away.
Katrine was examined and she was only 3cm dilated. A long night ahead. At 11pm Samantha and I came home to get some sleep and told Katrine to phone us when she was ready to deliver. Sleep didn’t come quickly for me. I prayed. I cried. In two hours in that maternity room so much had happened. Sadness, anger, confusion, death, pain, imminent new life but fear of complications. Raw, raw, raw and oh so real. And for the nurse, the burden and responsibility is heavy. No counselling or debriefs happen here.
At 5am the phone call came and we rushed back to the health centre, thankful for the few hours sleep we did manage to get. The maternity room is full. Another lady, Emma*, has arrived by moto in the early hours. Both her and Katrine are having painful contractions. The same night nurse comes and examines them – 10cm dilated. She calls for the Chief Nun nurse to come and help her. These babies could arrive at the same time.
Katrine and women waiting
Ceilla, who has lost her baby boy, is still in the other bed wrapped in a blanket. Pain all across her face. Her friend brings her a bottle of beer and some peanuts.
The Chief nurse is a little scary. She tells both Katrine and Emma to not make any noise. For goodness sake, they are in full-blown labour with no pain relief and they are not allowed to make any noise. These mountain women are so strong. Katrine has been having contractions for 60 hours and has not slept. And she is not allowed to make any noise. She is told to walk around outside and do laps of the courtyard.
And then the time comes for them to give birth. I am not allowed to enter the room, the chief Nurse points her finger at me and almost shouts a big No. I sit with the women in the room with the three beds. Waiting. Praying. Stifled noises coming from the delivery room because no screaming allowed. And then a baby cries. And another baby cries. Katrine and Emma have given birth. Praise God for the safe arrivals. We continue to wait in the room with the three beds. Boy or girl? How are the Mamas? No news for a while.
The women start to sing and dance, praising God for the arrival of the new babies. I sit and look across the room and there is Ceilla curled up in her blanket with tears streaming down her face. The insensitivity of these women singing and dancing, but at the same time they have reason to rejoice. I slowly walk across the room and sit on the bed next to Ceilla. I hold her. I don’t know what to say. I hold her more tightly and tears trickle down my face. Weeping with those who weep, while across the room joy is bursting forth. I tell Ceilla it is ok to cry and that it hurts and it will hurt. I tell her God is with her. I pray and cry and wipe her tears with the blanket. She tells me her baby is gone and I tighten my grip on her even more. I want her to know she is not alone. She is only 18 years old.
And then the delivery door opens and a baby is passed out to the waiting women. And another baby. Two girls. Katrine’s Mama passes me the new baby girl and I sit and hold the baby with jokes about the skin colour being the same as mine.
Katrine’s new baby
I’m finally allowed in the delivery room where blood and mess cover the floor, waiting for the relatives to clean it up. I hold Katrine’s hand and she cries tears of relief. She has a drip up due to dehydration and low blood pressure. It has been a long long process for her since Monday evening. Her new baby girl, 3.8kg, is passed back to her and I help the baby to latch on to feed. Thankful for the experience I have of being there when my sister gave birth in the UK. Katrine asks for food and a Fanta. The relatives have spent the money on beer while they were waiting, so I go home on a moto for bread, bananas and money for Fanta.
Three ladies in the three beds. One grieving, two rejoicing. One with empty arms, two holding little bundles of new life. Bitter sweet.
A reminder that Mother’s Day is painful for some and a time of rejoicing for others.
More than ever, I have so much respect for those of you who are Mamas! From the pain you endure during childbirth, to the sleepless nights and daily sacrificial love of parenting.
To all you amazing Mamas – may this (UK) Mother’s Day be a day of celebration of who you are. A day of deep love and comfort for those of you with memories of loss. A day of deep love and rejoicing for those of you who have family around. A day of deep love and freedom from fear for those of you expecting new arrivals. A day of deep love and hope for those of you longing to be a Mama.
*Names changed for confidentiality
joy instead 