The Midwife of Hope River (13 page)

18

Twilight Sleep

As we bump out of Liberty in Hester's Ford, I note the stone house with the green-shingled roof where Prudy Ott and Mayor Ott live. She's due in a month. Becky Myers has been seeing Prudy at her clinic to check on the growth of the baby. Since I haven't heard otherwise, I assume she's okay.

Prudy makes me uneasy. The birth of her only daughter four years ago, at Boone Memorial in Torrington, was a disaster. She's told me the story twice, and it's clear that she's terrified.

“I was assaulted by nurses and doctors,” she announced the first time we met. Those were her exact words, not overcome or treated badly—
assaulted.
I think she meant raped.

“Mr. Ott wanted me to have the best of care, so we went all the way to Torrington for my first baby, where I could have an obstetrician and twilight sleep. For two days I was in labor, in a ward with five other patients, and all that time I was delirious, in and out of a dream. My husband slept in the waiting room. He had no idea what was going on.

“I would wake and hear the women scream as one by one they delivered. I must not have had enough medicine or maybe it didn't take, but unlike most of the mothers I talk to who had twilight sleep, I remember everything. The sounds ripped right through me, and I was strapped down in a high bed with bars so I couldn't get away. One patient untied herself and crashed to the floor. The doctor yelled at the nurses, blamed them for not watching her closer.

“Finally they took me to the delivery room. By that time I was screaming like the rest of them.” Her hands shook and she put down her cup of tea. “They strapped me down, though I begged them not to. The harder they tried to control me, the more I struggled. Finally one of the nurses slapped me across the face.

“ ‘If you want us to help you, you better cooperate!' she yelled. ‘You're worse than a child!' That shut me up. Once my wrists were tied to those boards on the delivery table, I felt like Jesus on the cross.

“Finally the specialist came in. He had a trainee, a younger intern eager to learn. Before the gas mask was forced over my face, I saw the two doctors playing with the forceps and I knew what was coming.”

Prudy let out a long sigh, shaking her shoulders. “When I came out of it, back in the maternity ward, I couldn't believe the pain I was in. My whole bottom was on fire. I called the nurse to look at me, and she laughed.

“ ‘What did you think it would feel like after pushing out an eight-pound girl?' she asked in a superior way. I hurt so badly, I couldn't hold my baby.

“Finally on the fourth day after the birth, an older nurse took time to do an examination. I could tell by her face that something was wrong. I was so swollen
down below
that some of the stitches had pulled out and it was already too late to replace them.

“A month later, I went to Dr. Blum here in town and he said I must have had a reaction to the iodine in the soap they wash women with. He shook his head when he saw the gaping wound. It was a year before I could have relations—you know, the married kind.

“Now my husband doesn't understand why I want to have this one at home. He can't fathom why I don't want to go to the hospital. I would rather die!”

What was I going to say? I promised that when she went into labor, I'd be there.

 

February 15, 1930. Rainbow ring around the moon.

Stanley Elton Lee, 7-pound, 3-ounce male, born to Clara and Curly Lee of Hickory Hollow, just outside of Liberty. Our first colored family, with the exception of Cassie out at Hazel Patch. Mr. Lee was so kind, he even brought us blankets to keep us warm on the way into town. We got stuck in a drift, but Bitsy and I got out and pushed Mr. Lee's car, and we made it to the house just as Clara's water broke.

The baby came twenty minutes later. Five-hour labor. Fourth baby. First son. I saw their little girls peeking through the curtain they use for a bedroom door, but they were so cute, I didn't care. Very little bleeding. Bitsy was helpful in cleaning the baby and getting everything ready. Present, Mr. Lee, Bitsy and I, and the girls. Paid $3.00 and a gallon of homemade sorghum, which will be very handy on corn bread.

 

Prudy

Late February, and snow is still on the ground. It's been a rough winter. The snow at one point was up to our windowsills. Now, in only a month, the apple trees should be blooming. Hard to imagine.

Today, Bitsy and I, at her insistence, went around the outside of the house and knocked off the icicles, some reaching five feet long. I actually enjoyed it, cheered when each big one crashed.

“The weight of the ice could bring down the gutters,” Bitsy explained “And if ice builds back up under your shingles, it will ruin your roof.”

That was all news to me. I didn't do
any
home maintenance last year. I've never owned a house before, but Bitsy has lived in town with the MacIntoshes all her life and she knows these things. In many practical ways she's so much more knowledgeable than I am. She even went to school five years longer than I did, though I consider myself just as educated.

 

Around noon, as small flakes of snow like cold ash begin to fall, an unfamiliar vehicle whines up Wild Rose Road. At first, from a distance, as it slips and slides through the slush, I think it might be Katherine, on the run again, and my heart grows cold, but as the vehicle rumbles closer I make out a Ford, not an Olds.

The auto stops by our mailbox, and a stranger, dressed in a dark trench coat with double buttons, gets out. He stands at the gate, stares at the house, and tilts his gray homburg. The walk isn't shoveled because we get so little company in the winter; what would be the point?

For a minute I think it's the lawmen we saw on the steps of the courthouse. I remember the months after Blair Mountain, when nine hundred miners were indicted for murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and treason against the state of West Virginia. Those were the days when we laid low, and Nora grew bitter. Though it's been almost eight years, I still fear they'll find me.

“Hallo!” the man calls out. “Is this the midwife's house?” Bitsy and I are dressed in trousers, tall rubber boots, and knit watch caps so there's no way he can tell we are women.

“It's me. Patience. I'm the midwife. Come up to the house.” I can't imagine who the guest might be, so we scurry inside to make the place presentable. A tax collector? A preacher come to save my soul? Certainly not a salesman, not in this weather! The stranger stops on the porch to stomp the old snow off his feet and knocks softly. He speaks before he gets into the parlor.

“I'm J. B. Ott, Prudy's husband. She said I should come for you. The pains are mounting. I'm new to this. Last time she had a baby, she went to Boone Hospital in Torrington.”

I look over at the Stenger's Pharmacy calendar hanging on the nail in the kitchen and see that I've circled March 16 as Mrs. Ott's birth time. She's two weeks early if this is for real, but it's still okay. “Did you leave her alone? Is anyone with her?”

“She's got two lady friends there and the home health nurse. I told her I'd be back as quick as I could.” He nervously rocks back and forth on his feet, anxious to get going.

“Is she leaking water?”

“She didn't say.”

“How often are the pains?”

Mr. Ott looks puzzled. “I don't really know. Not close yet.”

Bitsy is already getting the birth satchel. I run upstairs, pull on a dress, and tell her to change too. Then we bundle up and head for the auto.

“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 . . .