The Midwife of Hope River
Page 43
Grandma bustles in and begins to prepare the birth bed. “Set her down. Set her down!” she orders as if expecting the baby to fall out.
“Not yet,” I counter. “Levi! Back to work. Keep singing. Molly, don’t push yet. You can lean on the baby, but don’t push, it can’t be time.” I squat down on the floor, pulling my rubber gloves on. The young woman gaps a little on the outside, but there’s nothing to be seen.
Levi stares straight up at the ceiling, afraid to look but still crooning, “Away, I’m bound away, ’cross the wide Missouri.”
Within minutes the moans turn to growls and a round bald infant’s head appears at the opening. “Okay, she can lie down now,” I command. “The head’s right here.” Everyone is happier when we get Molly back in bed, but I barely have time to get my birth stuff out.
“Oh, no!” the young woman cries. “It’s coming! It’s coming!” And it is.
“Okay, Molly. This is it. Push like your life depends on it. Push like your baby’s life depends on it. I’ll hold your bottom so you won’t tear.” Everyone joins in with encouragement, including Levi, who has slipped from the room and collapsed in the hall.
“Push, Molly. Push hard! You can do it!” he yells, and I catch sight of his long legs and his farmer’s boots sticking out past the door.
“PUSH!” he roars, louder than any of us—and Molly does.
In two more woody hard contractions, a baby boy is born, screaming and pink, and I lay him in his mother’s arms.
“Praise the Lord!” hollers Grandma, picking up Molly’s glasses and gently adjusting them behind the ears.
“My baby. My baby. Oh, Levi, our baby!” Molly cries as she kisses the infant.
The other women fall on their knees and begin to pray. I’m kneeling too, checking the womb for the final contractions, watching for the afterbirth.
Levi creeps into the room, keeping his eyes averted, and kneels with us. “Great God,” he prays aloud. “Thank you for your bounty and for this gift which you have bestowed upon us.” There is more, but I don’t get it.
Light lifts me as I deliver the afterbirth. Light lifts us all.
March 7, 1930. Quarter moon rising.
Wyse Klopfenstein, male child of Molly and Levi Klopfenstein of Bucks Run, born at 7 pounds, 2 ounces. Head presented in the military position. The young patient had pained for two days to the point of exhaustion. She hadn’t been out of bed for almost twenty-four hours, and I see now that what we do or don’t do for the mother influences the course of labor. Immobilizing the woman in bed, not letting her eat or get up to pee, slowed down everything, and then the uterus got tired.
Whether it was getting her up to the commode, feeding her broth with ginseng and raspberry tea, or calling her husband into the birthing room, we’ll never know, but within an hour, Molly pushed four times and the baby came out. No tears. No hemorrhage. I found myself on my knees praying “thank you” with the others of the sect, who I later learned are a variation of Old Order Amish.
22
Gift Horse
Today is St. Patrick’s Day, which was a big time for us when we lived in Chicago. The celebration was important for Mrs. Kelly too, and I became used to her parties with Irish soda bread and Irish stew and even a little Irish whiskey. I kidded Bitsy at breakfast for not wearing green, but she didn’t get it. It’s been good to have her around again. With the exception of the three days with Thomas, she hasn’t been off the farm at all, unless it’s to church on Sunday. I hate to say that I’m jealous of her relationship with Thomas and the Hazel Patch community, but it’s a little true. It’s unseemly and makes me feel small.
Nevertheless, it’s spring, and that’s something to be thrilled about. The apple tree is blooming, a warm wind comes up through the valley, and there will be a full moon tonight. Though it’s really too early to plant, the kitchen garden has been turned over and we are raring to go. As soon as the breakfast dishes are done, we head out to the side yard, which is fenced with barbed wire to keep the deer out. Bitsy carries the yellow Old Farmer’s Almanac that her mother, Big Mary, lent us, and I carry the hoes and rakes. Mary also shared with us the seeds saved from her garden last year.
This will be my third garden, and though I don’t care much for the relentless physical work or getting muddy and sweaty, I still marvel at the miracle of placing seeds in the ground and watching them sprout. My companion has been helping Mary grow vegetables since she was little, so it’s not quite as thrilling for her.
We bend low, sowing our early crops: peas, collards, carrots, and beets. Bitsy shows me a few tricks about seeding evenly. After the danger of frost is over, we’ll put in corn and beans, tomatoes, squash, and potatoes. When I stand to straighten my aching back, I’m startled to notice a Model T creeping up Wild Rose Road. The auto appears to have a horse tied to the back. It’s Daniel Hester. As we walk out to greet him, I tuck my loose hair back and wipe my face on the back of my sleeve.
“Little early to start a garden, isn’t it?” he observes after he parks and gets out.
Bitsy jumps in with her chin tilted up. “Not according to the almanac. It’s a full moon tonight and going to be an early spring. We won’t get another frost. The Old Farmer’s Almanac uses science to make their predictions.” I’m surprised that she’s treating the vet as an equal. So often with whites she eats the humble pie, never disagreeing. “Yes, sir, and yes, ma’am,” and all that.
Hester looks skeptical but cuts short the discussion when his horse starts to flop down in the road. He runs to the back of his Ford and grabs the rope. “No, you don’t, Star. On your feet! She tries to do that,” he explains, “whenever I stop.”
I meander over and touch the big animal’s nose, but she whinnies and turns away. She’s a beautiful horse, brown with a blaze on her forehead. “Is something wrong with her?”
“She’s Mrs. Dresher’s horse; the farmer with the dog that had puppies. She has founder, a disease of the hooves. The other name is laminitis.” He waits to see if I know what that means, but I shrug. “Causes the hooves to become deformed, very painful and hard to cure. The old man wanted me to put her down this morning, but I couldn’t do it. I asked if I could have her instead. See if I could bring her back to health.”
“Not yet,” I counter. “Levi! Back to work. Keep singing. Molly, don’t push yet. You can lean on the baby, but don’t push, it can’t be time.” I squat down on the floor, pulling my rubber gloves on. The young woman gaps a little on the outside, but there’s nothing to be seen.
Levi stares straight up at the ceiling, afraid to look but still crooning, “Away, I’m bound away, ’cross the wide Missouri.”
Within minutes the moans turn to growls and a round bald infant’s head appears at the opening. “Okay, she can lie down now,” I command. “The head’s right here.” Everyone is happier when we get Molly back in bed, but I barely have time to get my birth stuff out.
“Oh, no!” the young woman cries. “It’s coming! It’s coming!” And it is.
“Okay, Molly. This is it. Push like your life depends on it. Push like your baby’s life depends on it. I’ll hold your bottom so you won’t tear.” Everyone joins in with encouragement, including Levi, who has slipped from the room and collapsed in the hall.
“Push, Molly. Push hard! You can do it!” he yells, and I catch sight of his long legs and his farmer’s boots sticking out past the door.
“PUSH!” he roars, louder than any of us—and Molly does.
In two more woody hard contractions, a baby boy is born, screaming and pink, and I lay him in his mother’s arms.
“Praise the Lord!” hollers Grandma, picking up Molly’s glasses and gently adjusting them behind the ears.
“My baby. My baby. Oh, Levi, our baby!” Molly cries as she kisses the infant.
The other women fall on their knees and begin to pray. I’m kneeling too, checking the womb for the final contractions, watching for the afterbirth.
Levi creeps into the room, keeping his eyes averted, and kneels with us. “Great God,” he prays aloud. “Thank you for your bounty and for this gift which you have bestowed upon us.” There is more, but I don’t get it.
Light lifts me as I deliver the afterbirth. Light lifts us all.
March 7, 1930. Quarter moon rising.
Wyse Klopfenstein, male child of Molly and Levi Klopfenstein of Bucks Run, born at 7 pounds, 2 ounces. Head presented in the military position. The young patient had pained for two days to the point of exhaustion. She hadn’t been out of bed for almost twenty-four hours, and I see now that what we do or don’t do for the mother influences the course of labor. Immobilizing the woman in bed, not letting her eat or get up to pee, slowed down everything, and then the uterus got tired.
Whether it was getting her up to the commode, feeding her broth with ginseng and raspberry tea, or calling her husband into the birthing room, we’ll never know, but within an hour, Molly pushed four times and the baby came out. No tears. No hemorrhage. I found myself on my knees praying “thank you” with the others of the sect, who I later learned are a variation of Old Order Amish.
22
Gift Horse
Today is St. Patrick’s Day, which was a big time for us when we lived in Chicago. The celebration was important for Mrs. Kelly too, and I became used to her parties with Irish soda bread and Irish stew and even a little Irish whiskey. I kidded Bitsy at breakfast for not wearing green, but she didn’t get it. It’s been good to have her around again. With the exception of the three days with Thomas, she hasn’t been off the farm at all, unless it’s to church on Sunday. I hate to say that I’m jealous of her relationship with Thomas and the Hazel Patch community, but it’s a little true. It’s unseemly and makes me feel small.
Nevertheless, it’s spring, and that’s something to be thrilled about. The apple tree is blooming, a warm wind comes up through the valley, and there will be a full moon tonight. Though it’s really too early to plant, the kitchen garden has been turned over and we are raring to go. As soon as the breakfast dishes are done, we head out to the side yard, which is fenced with barbed wire to keep the deer out. Bitsy carries the yellow Old Farmer’s Almanac that her mother, Big Mary, lent us, and I carry the hoes and rakes. Mary also shared with us the seeds saved from her garden last year.
This will be my third garden, and though I don’t care much for the relentless physical work or getting muddy and sweaty, I still marvel at the miracle of placing seeds in the ground and watching them sprout. My companion has been helping Mary grow vegetables since she was little, so it’s not quite as thrilling for her.
We bend low, sowing our early crops: peas, collards, carrots, and beets. Bitsy shows me a few tricks about seeding evenly. After the danger of frost is over, we’ll put in corn and beans, tomatoes, squash, and potatoes. When I stand to straighten my aching back, I’m startled to notice a Model T creeping up Wild Rose Road. The auto appears to have a horse tied to the back. It’s Daniel Hester. As we walk out to greet him, I tuck my loose hair back and wipe my face on the back of my sleeve.
“Little early to start a garden, isn’t it?” he observes after he parks and gets out.
Bitsy jumps in with her chin tilted up. “Not according to the almanac. It’s a full moon tonight and going to be an early spring. We won’t get another frost. The Old Farmer’s Almanac uses science to make their predictions.” I’m surprised that she’s treating the vet as an equal. So often with whites she eats the humble pie, never disagreeing. “Yes, sir, and yes, ma’am,” and all that.
Hester looks skeptical but cuts short the discussion when his horse starts to flop down in the road. He runs to the back of his Ford and grabs the rope. “No, you don’t, Star. On your feet! She tries to do that,” he explains, “whenever I stop.”
I meander over and touch the big animal’s nose, but she whinnies and turns away. She’s a beautiful horse, brown with a blaze on her forehead. “Is something wrong with her?”
“She’s Mrs. Dresher’s horse; the farmer with the dog that had puppies. She has founder, a disease of the hooves. The other name is laminitis.” He waits to see if I know what that means, but I shrug. “Causes the hooves to become deformed, very painful and hard to cure. The old man wanted me to put her down this morning, but I couldn’t do it. I asked if I could have her instead. See if I could bring her back to health.”
