My pay per minute cell phone rings at 2 am. It is Cindi calling, her voice is soft and
tired. She is calling me, her doula, for moral support. She’s been
uncomfortable for a day or so with contractions every 10 to 15 minutes. Unable to sleep she is desperate for the
contractions to either stop or really start in earnest. My Spanish is fairly choppy at this hour of
the morn, but I am able to reassure her that this long start is fairly normal.
Carlos, Cindi and I walk up to the nurses’ station as the sun
comes up. The fresh faced nurse
welcomes and shows us to the room we will be spending the day labor and
birthing in. Cindi immediately gets
settled in bed, her contractions irritate her every five to seven minutes. The fatigue and lack of strong/close
contractions has me worried we are in for a long one. Carlos is fluffing pillows, stroking back her
loose curls, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He can’t get close enough. Her discomfort
is obviously unsettling for him.
As I watch Carlos care for his wife throughout the day, I
see his love for her manifested in tangible ways. So genuine is his focus and attention on
her. Sitting in the closet size bathroom
as she showers, his muffled words of love and encouragement
slide out under the door. As she walks
he guides her from table to bed to window and table again, circling the
room. Cindi’s cervix is held up at 7 cm
for hours on end. Carlos’s attention is
not smothering or controlling, but sweet and soft. I perch myself in the upholstered chair in
the corner of the room, an observer. My
hands are not needed in this labor.
Nose buried in a cross word puzzle, I give Cindi and Carlos
their space. Attentive with a sharp ear, I add a word of
encouragement when needed. I am in awe of
the instinctual way Carlos cares for his wife.
Up to this point my experience with Hispanic partners has been very
different. A culture that values macho
men who guard their emotions in public often makes it hard for Hispanic men to
feel comfortable in a birth room. He has
not once put his own interest or needs before hers, something here is different.
As I work my puzzle I realize this scene is oddly
familiar. Two months prior, in the same
labor room, another couple birthed their second child. It is a few days past Christmas and
Guadelupe’s labor is going faster than she can keep up. Her handsome husband Marcos is sitting in bed
with her upon my arrival. Her eyes are
closed, head cocked to her left resting on his shoulder while he holds
her. Their calm appearance is a façade,
fear dwells just under the surface. This
is the second labor and birth for Marcos and Guadelupe. Their first child, a son, was stillborn: lost
to an accident with the cord at 34 weeks.
They now face their biggest fear, hoping that within hours their baby
will cross over into their arms alive. I
notice we are not alone in the room.
Sitting by the small table with her hands folded in her lap and a soft
smile on her face, a grandmotherly Abuela (Spanish word for grandma) waits.
Guadelupe moves into advanced labor and starts to stir in
bed. Abuela steps in behind her son,
Marcos, whispers something in his ear
and he moves aside. Abuela pours comfort
and compassion on her daughter-in-law.
Speaking in a Spanish motheresse she expertly rubs over her back, down
her legs. Marcos looks to me and smiles
shyly watching his mother in action. All
the sudden I find myself within a moment so full of love I am overwhelmed and
have to step out of the room.
I return to find Guadelupe soothed to sleep in bed. Abuela returned to her chair by the table,
her son Marcos sits in her lap enfolded in her embrace. How a grown man still fits into his mother’s
lap is beyond me. I felt as though I was
intruding on a private moment. His head
resting on her shoulder softly talking, Marcos, did not seem to mind my
presence.
Within the hour Guadelupe and Marcos welcome a small but
healthy baby girl into the room. A joyful exuberance of tears fills the
room. Abuela wails with relief at the sight
of the first girl born to her family in two generations. Marcos and Guadelupe hold each other and weep
as their baby Natasha screams pinking with new life.
I turn to up from my puzzle as Carlos comes out of the
steamy bathroom. “No me aguantes (I can’t
do this anymore),” comes wearily from behind him. Cindi, hair dripping from the shower, is
moaning and swaying against the bathroom sink.
Carlos’s weary look communicates his hope that after 7 hours of lazy
contractions and no progress finally something has changed. Just at that moment, the door to the hospital
room opens, in walks Abuela! As all
heads turn, she greets us with a gentle loving confidence. Her smile seems to say, “Its ok now, I am
here.” I sense the relief from Cindi and Carlos.
Abuela, as it turns out, is the mother of both Marcos and
Carlos. I felt sheepish I hadn’t put it
together earlier. How had I missed the
similarities: handsome brothers, both so
caring and selfless with their wives, obviously influenced by this strong
loving matriarch. Just as she did before,
Abuela enveloped her children with love- providing a much needed boost in
morale. Once settled, she noticed me
sitting in the corner, and greeted me with a hug as well.
The matriarchal family structure is a cultural feature I studied
in college. However, I had never really
seen it lived out in quite this way. I
will never forget the last scene in the birthing room. Within the hour following the birth of Cindi
and Carlos’s baby boy, the whole extended family assembled in the room. Abuelo (grandpa) and Marco’s family with baby
Natasha had all been waiting in the lounge down the hall. I faded into the background as Abuela
introduced the new baby boy to his grandfather, aunt, uncle and cousin. More tears and celebration, blessings and
prayers of thanksgiving, and of course hugging.
Abuela is the queen of hugging.
My favorite photo from that birth is Abuela seated in the rocking chair
with her grown sons on either side, their arms around her shoulders. In her arms she tenderly holds her new
grandson.
No comments:
Post a Comment