The Christmas Surprise
Page 19
Faustine backed down.
‘Please,’ she said.
Inside the hut it was incredibly dark and hot, with a warm, sinister scent: smoke, with something underlying it. There were very few possessions – a couple of tin plates – and an older man and woman sat looking frightened by a small fire, which made the room suffocating. They looked up at Rosie with fear in their eyes.
Rosie moved towards the bed. On it was a young girl – very young. She was barely developed, not fully grown, and her frightened eyes were enormous in her heart-shaped face, her stomach painfully distended but not huge.
‘Célestine?’ Rosie said, quietly and calmly, and knelt down next to her. The girl nodded. Rosie cursed and wished she hadn’t spent all her French lessons up the back of the class with her great mate Trix making ‘hee haw hee haw’ noises.
Faustine was there behind her, however.
‘Can you say I’m here to help her?’ said Rosie, and Faustine translated immediately. Rosie felt Célestine’s forehead. She was burning up.
‘Oh Lord,’ said Rosie and felt down between the girl’s legs. As she’d suspected, there was a moist patch on the sheet.
‘Have you got a medical kit in the car?’ she said. ‘Also, I have to scrub up.’
Faustine brought in a large box that had been under the front seat, and Rosie did the best she could with the disinfectant wipes and boiled water on offer.
‘I think she’s got puerperal fever,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ve seen it before. She needs to be in hospital. Her waters have broken but her labour hasn’t started and she’s got an infection. How pregnant is she really?’
Faustine asked the older couple – Célestine’s parents – who indicated various measures.
‘Ask the girl,’ said Rosie crossly. ‘And tell her we need to know; we absolutely need to know exactly. It’s going to make all the difference.’
Faustine spoke to Célestine gravely, then counted back on her fingers, checking quickly with the parents.
‘Oh, that explains it,’ she said finally.
‘What?’ said Rosie, who was palpating Célestine’s stomach, trying to feel the baby move.
‘She told her parents it was when her betrothed came home in the winter time, but it wasn’t. It was the festival when the warriors arrived in the village. This baby is very late, not early.’
‘Crap,’ said Rosie. ‘Right. Okay. OKAY!’ For she had felt a flutter under her hand, a tiny movement that told her what she needed to know: this baby was alive.
She looked at Célestine’s face.
‘How long has she felt so bad?’
‘Three days,’ translated back Faustine, and Rosie swallowed in disbelief.
‘Where’s the nearest hospital? This baby needs to come out now. Every second we delay, we’re increasing the risks – these are real risks. Is there a helicopter?’
Faustine snorted.
‘No.’
‘Well we need to drive her somewhere, then. Where’s the nearest hospital?’
‘She will be in far more danger in the hospital,’ said Faustine. ‘It’s a haven of infection. It’s not safe. We were going to take her to the mission hospital, but it’s an overnight drive back towards the city.’
‘But she needs drugs, monitoring …’ Rosie pulled back the sheet on the girl’s narrow hips. ‘I don’t think she can even give birth. She needs a Caesarean.’
Faustine looked and nodded.
‘I’ll radio in to our nearest field team. They’re working in a refugee camp …’
‘Well they need to be here,’ said Rosie.
She took out a cool disinfected towel and rubbed it on Célestine’s head, then went outside to think.
‘What is it?’ said Stephen, who was pacing in the shade, the children making passes at his stick.
‘She needs to give birth,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s got an infection, and if we don’t get the baby out it will kill them both.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘I can try and induce it.’ She looked at Stephen. ‘But she’s far too young to have a baby, you know. It’s going to be a difficult birth. She really needs a section, and I definitely couldn’t do that. Or not without killing her; there’s no anaesthetic. CHRIST.’
Stephen looked at her.
‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Oh God, I can’t believe I brought you out to this.’
Rosie shrugged and shook her head.
‘Well let’s just try and think that it would be even worse if I wasn’t here …’
Faustine came running out. Her face was calm, but very pale.
‘She’s fitting.’
‘Oh crap,’ said Rosie. ‘This baby can’t wait. It can’t. How far away are the field team?’
‘Eight hours,’ said Faustine.
Rosie swore.
‘She hasn’t got eight hours. I’ve seen this before.’
Both the others nodded.
‘Unpack me a pair of gloves,’ said Rosie. ‘Faustine, I’ll need you.’
Célestine’s parents, who had already lost both their sons, sat looking carefully ahead, too numbed by fate to do anything else. Rosie pulled on the gloves and got Faustine to try and cool the girl with stream water – Stephen fetched it – though it was not as clean as she would have liked. She set a pot to boil on the fire, then, very carefully, gave the girl a ‘sweep’: a gentle stimulation of the ovaries to try and bring on labour. Now that her waters had gone, the baby really needed to be delivered or risk even more infection. And round here, everything you touched was infection.
Célestine moaned and clutched at the thin cotton covering her. Faustine murmured to her comfortingly in French and mopped her brow. Rosie had found a stethoscope in the medical bag but could tell too from touch that the baby was alive. For now.
Suddenly a great wrench went through the girl and she cried out.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Yes. That’s labour starting.’ She looked at the girl’s face in pity. ‘And it’s not messing about.’
All through the day and on into the night, Célestine laboured in the boiling heat, her cries faint as Rosie did her best to hold on to her. The group doctor was talking her through it on the radio, but she remembered most of it from her training, and from delivering Edison’s sister at Christmas time, although that seemed now incredibly far away; a different era, almost, in a clean room, with a doctor present and a healthy, motivated mother. Célestine on the other hand was unresisting, her eyes cloudy.
‘Please,’ she said.
Inside the hut it was incredibly dark and hot, with a warm, sinister scent: smoke, with something underlying it. There were very few possessions – a couple of tin plates – and an older man and woman sat looking frightened by a small fire, which made the room suffocating. They looked up at Rosie with fear in their eyes.
Rosie moved towards the bed. On it was a young girl – very young. She was barely developed, not fully grown, and her frightened eyes were enormous in her heart-shaped face, her stomach painfully distended but not huge.
‘Célestine?’ Rosie said, quietly and calmly, and knelt down next to her. The girl nodded. Rosie cursed and wished she hadn’t spent all her French lessons up the back of the class with her great mate Trix making ‘hee haw hee haw’ noises.
Faustine was there behind her, however.
‘Can you say I’m here to help her?’ said Rosie, and Faustine translated immediately. Rosie felt Célestine’s forehead. She was burning up.
‘Oh Lord,’ said Rosie and felt down between the girl’s legs. As she’d suspected, there was a moist patch on the sheet.
‘Have you got a medical kit in the car?’ she said. ‘Also, I have to scrub up.’
Faustine brought in a large box that had been under the front seat, and Rosie did the best she could with the disinfectant wipes and boiled water on offer.
‘I think she’s got puerperal fever,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ve seen it before. She needs to be in hospital. Her waters have broken but her labour hasn’t started and she’s got an infection. How pregnant is she really?’
Faustine asked the older couple – Célestine’s parents – who indicated various measures.
‘Ask the girl,’ said Rosie crossly. ‘And tell her we need to know; we absolutely need to know exactly. It’s going to make all the difference.’
Faustine spoke to Célestine gravely, then counted back on her fingers, checking quickly with the parents.
‘Oh, that explains it,’ she said finally.
‘What?’ said Rosie, who was palpating Célestine’s stomach, trying to feel the baby move.
‘She told her parents it was when her betrothed came home in the winter time, but it wasn’t. It was the festival when the warriors arrived in the village. This baby is very late, not early.’
‘Crap,’ said Rosie. ‘Right. Okay. OKAY!’ For she had felt a flutter under her hand, a tiny movement that told her what she needed to know: this baby was alive.
She looked at Célestine’s face.
‘How long has she felt so bad?’
‘Three days,’ translated back Faustine, and Rosie swallowed in disbelief.
‘Where’s the nearest hospital? This baby needs to come out now. Every second we delay, we’re increasing the risks – these are real risks. Is there a helicopter?’
Faustine snorted.
‘No.’
‘Well we need to drive her somewhere, then. Where’s the nearest hospital?’
‘She will be in far more danger in the hospital,’ said Faustine. ‘It’s a haven of infection. It’s not safe. We were going to take her to the mission hospital, but it’s an overnight drive back towards the city.’
‘But she needs drugs, monitoring …’ Rosie pulled back the sheet on the girl’s narrow hips. ‘I don’t think she can even give birth. She needs a Caesarean.’
Faustine looked and nodded.
‘I’ll radio in to our nearest field team. They’re working in a refugee camp …’
‘Well they need to be here,’ said Rosie.
She took out a cool disinfected towel and rubbed it on Célestine’s head, then went outside to think.
‘What is it?’ said Stephen, who was pacing in the shade, the children making passes at his stick.
‘She needs to give birth,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s got an infection, and if we don’t get the baby out it will kill them both.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘I can try and induce it.’ She looked at Stephen. ‘But she’s far too young to have a baby, you know. It’s going to be a difficult birth. She really needs a section, and I definitely couldn’t do that. Or not without killing her; there’s no anaesthetic. CHRIST.’
Stephen looked at her.
‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Oh God, I can’t believe I brought you out to this.’
Rosie shrugged and shook her head.
‘Well let’s just try and think that it would be even worse if I wasn’t here …’
Faustine came running out. Her face was calm, but very pale.
‘She’s fitting.’
‘Oh crap,’ said Rosie. ‘This baby can’t wait. It can’t. How far away are the field team?’
‘Eight hours,’ said Faustine.
Rosie swore.
‘She hasn’t got eight hours. I’ve seen this before.’
Both the others nodded.
‘Unpack me a pair of gloves,’ said Rosie. ‘Faustine, I’ll need you.’
Célestine’s parents, who had already lost both their sons, sat looking carefully ahead, too numbed by fate to do anything else. Rosie pulled on the gloves and got Faustine to try and cool the girl with stream water – Stephen fetched it – though it was not as clean as she would have liked. She set a pot to boil on the fire, then, very carefully, gave the girl a ‘sweep’: a gentle stimulation of the ovaries to try and bring on labour. Now that her waters had gone, the baby really needed to be delivered or risk even more infection. And round here, everything you touched was infection.
Célestine moaned and clutched at the thin cotton covering her. Faustine murmured to her comfortingly in French and mopped her brow. Rosie had found a stethoscope in the medical bag but could tell too from touch that the baby was alive. For now.
Suddenly a great wrench went through the girl and she cried out.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Yes. That’s labour starting.’ She looked at the girl’s face in pity. ‘And it’s not messing about.’
All through the day and on into the night, Célestine laboured in the boiling heat, her cries faint as Rosie did her best to hold on to her. The group doctor was talking her through it on the radio, but she remembered most of it from her training, and from delivering Edison’s sister at Christmas time, although that seemed now incredibly far away; a different era, almost, in a clean room, with a doctor present and a healthy, motivated mother. Célestine on the other hand was unresisting, her eyes cloudy.
