The Midwife of Hope River
Page 35
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Your girl coming?” Mr. Ott asks as he cranks up the engine.
“She isn’t my girl,” I start to say but bite my tongue. No use getting hostile. “Bitsy is my birth assistant. She comes to all my deliveries.”
The ride into town is uneventful; no traffic, no other autos. As we cross the bridge over the Hope, I note that the ice is breaking up. Below us, huge chunks pile up, then fall apart and race each other around rocks that stick up like teeth.
Fruit Flies
The Otts’ two-story brick home, with white trim like a gingerbread house, looks inside about how I remember it. White doilies are draped over everything: the arms of the chairs, the back of the sofa, and all the shiny mahogany tables. Though I know the couple has a four-year-old daughter, I don’t see a sign of a child or a toy anywhere, and I imagine she’s been sent away to her grandmother’s.
Upstairs I hear arguing, and I don’t wait for an invitation. I take the stairs in the front hall two at a time.
“Hi,” I say pleasantly to Prudy and the other women huddled with her in the master bedroom. Mrs. Wade, who attended one of the births I did with Mrs. Kelly, fancies herself useful but only gets in the way. Priscilla Blum, the town doctor’s wife, tells us she’s Mrs. Ott’s best friend. I’m surprised to see Becky sitting in a rocking chair in the corner, twisting her handkerchief. I smile, but her face is creased with worry and she doesn’t smile back.
“I tell you, you’d be better off resting! This baby won’t come till after midnight!” exhorts the Wade woman. She looks at me, expecting support, but I’m mum, wanting first to get the lay of the land. Mrs. Wade rolls her eyes.
“How are you doing?” I ask Prudy. She is wearing a blue chenille bathrobe, and her shoulder-length dark hair is disheveled and stringy.
“Oh, not good. Not good at all, Patience. I don’t know what to do! There’s never a break! When I lie down, my back hurts. When I stand up, the pains come closer . . . Oh, what should I do? Help me!”
I shake my head. It’s going to be a long day.
All afternoon, the female companions hover like fruit flies. I get Prudy to lie down for an abdominal examination, but before I can see how firm her belly gets or determine the baby’s position, she screams and they help her get up. If I suggest she try rocking in the rocking chair, Mrs. Wade and Mrs. Blum want her to lie down on her side. If I show her how to bounce up and down to shake the baby into the best position, they want her to kneel and pray. The heartbeat, from my brief check, is steady, and the contractions are every six minutes.
Becky doesn’t get very involved, and I’m not sure what her role is, maybe just moral support, since she saw Prudy at her clinic. I’m sure she’s wondering how she got roped into this. Bitsy too, stays out of the way, sitting in the corner by the fireplace, keeping a low profile, reading her book, Up from Slavery, one of my favorites. Now and then we catch each other’s eyes without expression. We both know that the scene is out of control, but we don’t know what to do about it.
I’m Charles Lindbergh, flying through the dark without instruments. Prudy’s response to the pains is so exaggerated, she could be close to delivery or two days away. Now that I think of it, I don’t even know for sure if the baby’s head is down.
Finally I decide I’d better do a vaginal exam. I’ll be outside the law again, and I glance at Becky, knowing she’s aware of the midwifery statute, but the information I can get by doing it is essential.
“Prudy, I need to do a better examination. If you lie on the bed for a minute and bring down your bloomers, I can tell you, by feeling inside, how your labor’s coming.” She finally agrees, and pulling on my gloves I find the baby’s head low in the pelvis, but she’s only half dilated. As soon as I’m finished, she pops off the bed and begins to wail again.
“That was horrible! I can’t stand it on my back. I keep seeing myself spread-eagle, strapped on the delivery table, the shiny metal forceps in the doctor’s hands!”
As the shadows in the room slip across the floor and evening draws near, the situation only gets worse. Prudy’s whining turns into a high-pitched cry, the sound of a dog with its tail in the door. It makes your toes curl. “I can’t do this! I can’t. I won’t! Make it stop, Patience!” The two support ladies keep wiping her brow, their faces gray with worry. Becky has tears in her eyes.
“I think we need to take her to the hospital,” Mrs. Blum, the physician’s wife, pronounces, her face pale, her bright green eyes brimming with tears. Mrs. Wade nods her agreement.
I’m surprised when Becky jumps up and concurs with them. “I agree,” she asserts. “There must be something wrong. Disproportion or dystocia.” Fear in the room goes up like a bottle rocket, and I wish the nurse wouldn’t use such big words. I know what she means, but no one else does. Basically she’s concluding that the baby won’t fit and this labor is a waste and a dangerous one.
“I don’t think it’s stuck,” I counter. “From what I can tell, the back is anterior and the baby’s not very big.”
“No! I’m not going. I’d rather die!” Prudy screams as her water bag breaks.
Where’s Mrs. Kelly when I need her? Where’s Mrs. Potts with her calm presence?
Water Birth
Observing the puddle of clear fluid on the floor illuminates a way . . .
“Mrs. Wade, Mrs. Blum, the labor is almost over, and it’s time for Prudy to take a birth bath. She needs to get ready for the delivery.” The two women raise their eyebrows. They’ve never heard of a birth bath before! Becky frowns; she hasn’t heard of a birth bath either. Come to think of it, neither have I.
“You two go across the hall and get the tub ready. Make the water comfortable but not too hot, then go down to the kitchen and help Becky boil more water and sterilize the linen in the oven.”
Bitsy puts her book down with a thump and gives me a look. She knows that taking a bath is not part of the usual process; she also knows that the pads in our satchel have been sterilized and wrapped in newspaper for days. She did it herself. I give her a half smile, hoping she’ll understand that this is just a ploy to get the patient calmed down and these meddlesome insects out of my hair.
The water closet in the Otts’ home is nicer than the MacIntoshes’. There’s a green-tiled floor, with lighter green tiles halfway up the wall, an indoor toilet, a sink, and a very shiny white bathtub with claw feet. When I helped Prudy to the lavatory earlier and admired the tub, she explained that it was her husband’s gift to her when they married five years ago. “It even has a gas water heater,” she told me.
“She isn’t my girl,” I start to say but bite my tongue. No use getting hostile. “Bitsy is my birth assistant. She comes to all my deliveries.”
The ride into town is uneventful; no traffic, no other autos. As we cross the bridge over the Hope, I note that the ice is breaking up. Below us, huge chunks pile up, then fall apart and race each other around rocks that stick up like teeth.
Fruit Flies
The Otts’ two-story brick home, with white trim like a gingerbread house, looks inside about how I remember it. White doilies are draped over everything: the arms of the chairs, the back of the sofa, and all the shiny mahogany tables. Though I know the couple has a four-year-old daughter, I don’t see a sign of a child or a toy anywhere, and I imagine she’s been sent away to her grandmother’s.
Upstairs I hear arguing, and I don’t wait for an invitation. I take the stairs in the front hall two at a time.
“Hi,” I say pleasantly to Prudy and the other women huddled with her in the master bedroom. Mrs. Wade, who attended one of the births I did with Mrs. Kelly, fancies herself useful but only gets in the way. Priscilla Blum, the town doctor’s wife, tells us she’s Mrs. Ott’s best friend. I’m surprised to see Becky sitting in a rocking chair in the corner, twisting her handkerchief. I smile, but her face is creased with worry and she doesn’t smile back.
“I tell you, you’d be better off resting! This baby won’t come till after midnight!” exhorts the Wade woman. She looks at me, expecting support, but I’m mum, wanting first to get the lay of the land. Mrs. Wade rolls her eyes.
“How are you doing?” I ask Prudy. She is wearing a blue chenille bathrobe, and her shoulder-length dark hair is disheveled and stringy.
“Oh, not good. Not good at all, Patience. I don’t know what to do! There’s never a break! When I lie down, my back hurts. When I stand up, the pains come closer . . . Oh, what should I do? Help me!”
I shake my head. It’s going to be a long day.
All afternoon, the female companions hover like fruit flies. I get Prudy to lie down for an abdominal examination, but before I can see how firm her belly gets or determine the baby’s position, she screams and they help her get up. If I suggest she try rocking in the rocking chair, Mrs. Wade and Mrs. Blum want her to lie down on her side. If I show her how to bounce up and down to shake the baby into the best position, they want her to kneel and pray. The heartbeat, from my brief check, is steady, and the contractions are every six minutes.
Becky doesn’t get very involved, and I’m not sure what her role is, maybe just moral support, since she saw Prudy at her clinic. I’m sure she’s wondering how she got roped into this. Bitsy too, stays out of the way, sitting in the corner by the fireplace, keeping a low profile, reading her book, Up from Slavery, one of my favorites. Now and then we catch each other’s eyes without expression. We both know that the scene is out of control, but we don’t know what to do about it.
I’m Charles Lindbergh, flying through the dark without instruments. Prudy’s response to the pains is so exaggerated, she could be close to delivery or two days away. Now that I think of it, I don’t even know for sure if the baby’s head is down.
Finally I decide I’d better do a vaginal exam. I’ll be outside the law again, and I glance at Becky, knowing she’s aware of the midwifery statute, but the information I can get by doing it is essential.
“Prudy, I need to do a better examination. If you lie on the bed for a minute and bring down your bloomers, I can tell you, by feeling inside, how your labor’s coming.” She finally agrees, and pulling on my gloves I find the baby’s head low in the pelvis, but she’s only half dilated. As soon as I’m finished, she pops off the bed and begins to wail again.
“That was horrible! I can’t stand it on my back. I keep seeing myself spread-eagle, strapped on the delivery table, the shiny metal forceps in the doctor’s hands!”
As the shadows in the room slip across the floor and evening draws near, the situation only gets worse. Prudy’s whining turns into a high-pitched cry, the sound of a dog with its tail in the door. It makes your toes curl. “I can’t do this! I can’t. I won’t! Make it stop, Patience!” The two support ladies keep wiping her brow, their faces gray with worry. Becky has tears in her eyes.
“I think we need to take her to the hospital,” Mrs. Blum, the physician’s wife, pronounces, her face pale, her bright green eyes brimming with tears. Mrs. Wade nods her agreement.
I’m surprised when Becky jumps up and concurs with them. “I agree,” she asserts. “There must be something wrong. Disproportion or dystocia.” Fear in the room goes up like a bottle rocket, and I wish the nurse wouldn’t use such big words. I know what she means, but no one else does. Basically she’s concluding that the baby won’t fit and this labor is a waste and a dangerous one.
“I don’t think it’s stuck,” I counter. “From what I can tell, the back is anterior and the baby’s not very big.”
“No! I’m not going. I’d rather die!” Prudy screams as her water bag breaks.
Where’s Mrs. Kelly when I need her? Where’s Mrs. Potts with her calm presence?
Water Birth
Observing the puddle of clear fluid on the floor illuminates a way . . .
“Mrs. Wade, Mrs. Blum, the labor is almost over, and it’s time for Prudy to take a birth bath. She needs to get ready for the delivery.” The two women raise their eyebrows. They’ve never heard of a birth bath before! Becky frowns; she hasn’t heard of a birth bath either. Come to think of it, neither have I.
“You two go across the hall and get the tub ready. Make the water comfortable but not too hot, then go down to the kitchen and help Becky boil more water and sterilize the linen in the oven.”
Bitsy puts her book down with a thump and gives me a look. She knows that taking a bath is not part of the usual process; she also knows that the pads in our satchel have been sterilized and wrapped in newspaper for days. She did it herself. I give her a half smile, hoping she’ll understand that this is just a ploy to get the patient calmed down and these meddlesome insects out of my hair.
The water closet in the Otts’ home is nicer than the MacIntoshes’. There’s a green-tiled floor, with lighter green tiles halfway up the wall, an indoor toilet, a sink, and a very shiny white bathtub with claw feet. When I helped Prudy to the lavatory earlier and admired the tub, she explained that it was her husband’s gift to her when they married five years ago. “It even has a gas water heater,” she told me.
