The Midwife of Hope River
Page 52
“Bitsy, tie and cut the cord, get the mother back in bed, then start massaging her uterus,” I order, grabbing the infant. I wipe the inside of its mouth with the corner of my work shirt and commence to breathe for it. Come on, baby. Come on. There’s no response, and part of me knows there won’t be. The baby is cold, and the mucus all over him is already dry. I keep trying anyway. Puff. Puff. Puff. I put my fingers to the chest. No pulse. Puff. Puff. Nothing, but I can’t stop.
“Miss Patience?” That’s Bitsy, standing beside me. She shakes her head to indicate that what I’m doing is useless. Even my young apprentice sees that. And I hope she sees more, sees that what we do for a living is like walking on a straight razor: life on one side, death on the other.
“My baby. My baby!” The mother starts up again. Outside there’s commotion, and minutes later Mrs. Potts hobbles in with her cane, followed by a thin man dressed in coveralls who I presume is the father.
He looks at me sitting on the side of the bed with his dead baby. “What have you done?” He whirls to Mrs. Potts. “What has she done?”
Mrs. Mintz raises one pale hand. “Ernest,” she says weakly. “Ernie . . .” He’s not listening.
I try once more. Puff. Puff. Puff. Come on! I can’t believe this is happening.
“It’s okay, honey,” the old midwife tells me. “That baby’s long gone. Give it here.” She wraps the limp female infant in a blanket and hands it to the mother. This is something I’ve never seen before, giving a dead baby to the mother.
“Gladys,” she says, “hush your crying. That little girl has gone back to Jesus. Sing her a song.”
Gladys looks at Mrs. Potts with big tear-filled eyes but does what she says. “Swing low,” she begins weakly, “sweet chariot. Comin’ for to carry me home.”
“Swing low, sweet chariot,” Bitsy joins in as she delivers the afterbirth all by herself. It lies in a pool of red on a white towel, covered with more of the brown goo.
“Get me a bowl, Ernest, and a pot of warm water. We’ll need some clean linens,” Mrs. Potts orders. The man, his jaw rigid, stalks out of the room.
“The baby was already born when I got here, Mrs. Potts. I didn’t do anything to it, I swear! When Bitsy and I came in the room, Mrs. Mintz was sitting on the floor, already holding the baby. I did my best. I did what I could.” We all stare at the pool of water and blood in the middle of the floor.
“It’s all right, honey. You can tell by the cord the baby was in trouble.” She shows us the twisted rope of flesh with a true knot and three dark purple clots. Somehow I don’t feel any better knowing the cause of the infant’s death.
When Mr. Mintz comes back and sits next to his wife, the old midwife shows him the unusual cord. “See this, Ernest,” she instructs. “It’s a true knot. Your little girl was swimming around in the womb and made the loop-de-loop herself. I don’t want you saying anything bad about this new midwife. These things happen, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Mintz shoots me a hostile look, then turns his attention to his wife. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he says, pushing back her red hair and stroking her face. “If we’d only had the money, I would have carried you to the hospital.”
Mrs. Potts interrupts, “Now, Ernest, don’t you go blaming yourself, neither. I already told you. The baby’s time had come. Some of us get ninety years on this good earth. Some get nine days. Your little one didn’t get nine minutes. There’s nothing those doctors at the hospital could have done. I can tell by looking this baby’s been gone for two days. The good Lord giveth, and the good Lord taketh away. Your job is to take care of your woman. Make her life easy until her heart mends.”
By the time we’ve cleaned up the blood and remade the bed, the shadows of the mountains lean into the room. Mrs. Potts, Bitsy, and I move into the kitchen to wash the limp infant and leave the couple alone. The old lady wraps the tiny girl in a clean blanket and carries it out to the children.
“Come here, boys.” She sits down on the porch rocker. “I want you to see your dead sissy. She’s just a little bitty thing, but Jesus took her home early. She’s an angel now.” The four boys, their faces white with sorrow, gather round the rocker.
“Mama was crying,” one of the kids whispers. “We never heard her cry before.”
“I should have gotten Miss Patience here sooner. I tried.” That’s Albert.
“Don’t you go reproaching yourself either, son! You did what you could. That’s all God asks of us.” Albert wipes his eyes.
The youngest boy touches the dead baby’s hand and then wipes his tears. “Look at her itty-bitty fingers!”
May 14, 1930. Three-quarters moon.
Stillborn female infant. Angel Mintz, child of Ernest and Gladys Mintz of Horse Shoe Run. Born dead with a true knot and three clots in the cord. Also, there were only two blood vessels. Mrs. Potts said there are usually three . . . The baby seemed perfect in every other way, but she weighed only 5 pounds. She was covered all over with brown baby poop. I tried to get her to breathe, but it was too late. Probably died before labor, Mrs. Potts said.
Present: Bitsy, Mrs. Potts, and I. No payment. Didn’t expect any. Bitsy felt very bad too and said she would go back to Hazel Patch with Mrs. Potts. Now I will have to go to the courthouse to fill out a death certificate. I hope I don’t get blamed.
Summer
26
June 3, 1930. Sliver moon, thunder with lightning in the west.
Thomas came for us again in his cart, riding fast through the summer storm. He brought two heavy slickers, which he must have borrowed from some of the miners because they were so big that Bitsy and I drowned in them. There wasn’t any time for talking. He carried us back around the mountain to the Wildcat Mine, where we delivered without fuss Gincey Huckabee, one of the women whose husband was killed in the spring cave-in. The mine owners let her stay in her shack because she was a widow and pregnant. When the baby boy was born, Gincey cried and cried. It was so sad about her husband, Bitsy and I cried too. Male, 6 pounds, 4 ounces. Named for his father, Harold Huckabee, Jr.
Brook Trout
Spring turns to summer, and today Bitsy and I took Star down to the river to graze in the grass while we fished. I rode at the beginning while Bitsy walked, and then we switched. It was our first time out of the pasture, and Star did fine. You’d never know by watching her what a mess she was in a few months ago.
“Miss Patience?” That’s Bitsy, standing beside me. She shakes her head to indicate that what I’m doing is useless. Even my young apprentice sees that. And I hope she sees more, sees that what we do for a living is like walking on a straight razor: life on one side, death on the other.
“My baby. My baby!” The mother starts up again. Outside there’s commotion, and minutes later Mrs. Potts hobbles in with her cane, followed by a thin man dressed in coveralls who I presume is the father.
He looks at me sitting on the side of the bed with his dead baby. “What have you done?” He whirls to Mrs. Potts. “What has she done?”
Mrs. Mintz raises one pale hand. “Ernest,” she says weakly. “Ernie . . .” He’s not listening.
I try once more. Puff. Puff. Puff. Come on! I can’t believe this is happening.
“It’s okay, honey,” the old midwife tells me. “That baby’s long gone. Give it here.” She wraps the limp female infant in a blanket and hands it to the mother. This is something I’ve never seen before, giving a dead baby to the mother.
“Gladys,” she says, “hush your crying. That little girl has gone back to Jesus. Sing her a song.”
Gladys looks at Mrs. Potts with big tear-filled eyes but does what she says. “Swing low,” she begins weakly, “sweet chariot. Comin’ for to carry me home.”
“Swing low, sweet chariot,” Bitsy joins in as she delivers the afterbirth all by herself. It lies in a pool of red on a white towel, covered with more of the brown goo.
“Get me a bowl, Ernest, and a pot of warm water. We’ll need some clean linens,” Mrs. Potts orders. The man, his jaw rigid, stalks out of the room.
“The baby was already born when I got here, Mrs. Potts. I didn’t do anything to it, I swear! When Bitsy and I came in the room, Mrs. Mintz was sitting on the floor, already holding the baby. I did my best. I did what I could.” We all stare at the pool of water and blood in the middle of the floor.
“It’s all right, honey. You can tell by the cord the baby was in trouble.” She shows us the twisted rope of flesh with a true knot and three dark purple clots. Somehow I don’t feel any better knowing the cause of the infant’s death.
When Mr. Mintz comes back and sits next to his wife, the old midwife shows him the unusual cord. “See this, Ernest,” she instructs. “It’s a true knot. Your little girl was swimming around in the womb and made the loop-de-loop herself. I don’t want you saying anything bad about this new midwife. These things happen, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Mintz shoots me a hostile look, then turns his attention to his wife. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he says, pushing back her red hair and stroking her face. “If we’d only had the money, I would have carried you to the hospital.”
Mrs. Potts interrupts, “Now, Ernest, don’t you go blaming yourself, neither. I already told you. The baby’s time had come. Some of us get ninety years on this good earth. Some get nine days. Your little one didn’t get nine minutes. There’s nothing those doctors at the hospital could have done. I can tell by looking this baby’s been gone for two days. The good Lord giveth, and the good Lord taketh away. Your job is to take care of your woman. Make her life easy until her heart mends.”
By the time we’ve cleaned up the blood and remade the bed, the shadows of the mountains lean into the room. Mrs. Potts, Bitsy, and I move into the kitchen to wash the limp infant and leave the couple alone. The old lady wraps the tiny girl in a clean blanket and carries it out to the children.
“Come here, boys.” She sits down on the porch rocker. “I want you to see your dead sissy. She’s just a little bitty thing, but Jesus took her home early. She’s an angel now.” The four boys, their faces white with sorrow, gather round the rocker.
“Mama was crying,” one of the kids whispers. “We never heard her cry before.”
“I should have gotten Miss Patience here sooner. I tried.” That’s Albert.
“Don’t you go reproaching yourself either, son! You did what you could. That’s all God asks of us.” Albert wipes his eyes.
The youngest boy touches the dead baby’s hand and then wipes his tears. “Look at her itty-bitty fingers!”
May 14, 1930. Three-quarters moon.
Stillborn female infant. Angel Mintz, child of Ernest and Gladys Mintz of Horse Shoe Run. Born dead with a true knot and three clots in the cord. Also, there were only two blood vessels. Mrs. Potts said there are usually three . . . The baby seemed perfect in every other way, but she weighed only 5 pounds. She was covered all over with brown baby poop. I tried to get her to breathe, but it was too late. Probably died before labor, Mrs. Potts said.
Present: Bitsy, Mrs. Potts, and I. No payment. Didn’t expect any. Bitsy felt very bad too and said she would go back to Hazel Patch with Mrs. Potts. Now I will have to go to the courthouse to fill out a death certificate. I hope I don’t get blamed.
Summer
26
June 3, 1930. Sliver moon, thunder with lightning in the west.
Thomas came for us again in his cart, riding fast through the summer storm. He brought two heavy slickers, which he must have borrowed from some of the miners because they were so big that Bitsy and I drowned in them. There wasn’t any time for talking. He carried us back around the mountain to the Wildcat Mine, where we delivered without fuss Gincey Huckabee, one of the women whose husband was killed in the spring cave-in. The mine owners let her stay in her shack because she was a widow and pregnant. When the baby boy was born, Gincey cried and cried. It was so sad about her husband, Bitsy and I cried too. Male, 6 pounds, 4 ounces. Named for his father, Harold Huckabee, Jr.
Brook Trout
Spring turns to summer, and today Bitsy and I took Star down to the river to graze in the grass while we fished. I rode at the beginning while Bitsy walked, and then we switched. It was our first time out of the pasture, and Star did fine. You’d never know by watching her what a mess she was in a few months ago.
