Dolores

Friday night, after running from the rain covered in plastic bags (courtesy of Yolanda's post-pilates kindness) and drying off at my house, Kelsey and I walked over to the CASA hospital. Lock in hand, pocket full of almonds, and Bible in the bag, I prepared for a 12 hour night shift in the maternity ward.

We entered from around the back, as the hospital is only open for emergency for the night. The empty halls, the quiet voices... everything appeared strangely peaceful, blanketed in the night. Nieves, the partera student on duty, directed us upstairs to lock up our things, and we passed the first few hours watching Bad Boys II, with Spanish subtitles. Best movie scene of all time: Will Smith and Martin Lawrence interrogating the 15 year old boyfriend. Pobrecito, Reggie.

The only patient present was a 40 year old woman, with a nino obito - a stillbirth waiting to happen. A resident of the campos, she received virtually no prenatal care. This was her first visit to the hospital. Moreover, the mother of 3 had diabetes. All these factors, expained Dr. Ismael, contributed to the fact that the child had already been dead for 3 days. I did not want to believe it. Are you sure? I asked, hoping for a chance. He just looked at me. The baby's heart had long ceased to beat. They would perform a Cesarian in the morning, if contractions did not start.
Apparently, my plans to see life begin were thwarted by death.

Around 1 am, my mood lifted - someone else came in to give birth! Mauru, the partera on duty (who, in a cool twist of things, is related to Luchi, the woman who runs our favorite lunch place), led us into the room. "Estan aqui para apoyarte," she told the mother-to-be. "They're here to support you." I introduced myself to the girl in the bed, who smiled weakly, fighting off a contaction. Her name is Dolores, and she could not have been more than 15. As I found out while Maura and Nieves filled out her chart, Dolores was actually 17, married, and her husband (also a youngling) was waiting in the hall. Dolores' mother sat in the chair by the bed. Suddenly, another contaction gripped the girl's insides, and she convulsed in the bed. I looked at her mother, who continued sitting, staring off somewhere. I guessed she's been through it many times herself, but I was frantic. Why wasn't anyone doing anything? Instinctively, I walked over to the girl's side, and reached out my hand, which she gripped, tighter and tighter, until the contraction passed. I smiled at her. "Eres muy furte," I told her, "You are very strong." I am still in awe of her strength, a little girl with a little life inside her.

Throughout the next hour, Dolores' contactions became stronger and stronger. I would hold her hand, and when she gripped the metal bed in pain, tears pouring down her face, I massaged her legs. I have never felt so strong a desire to take away someone's pain, to make it mine if need be, but just to make it stop. I prayed to Jesus for help.

Soon, the medical experts decided that the contractions were too strong for barely 3 cm of dilation. They attempted to hook Dolores up to an IV, giving her medicine to ease the pain. They could hardly find the vein, and blood spilled into the IV . Dolores screwed up her face. More pain. When would it stop? Her entire arm burned, she whispered, and Mauru, concerned, asked if she was allergic to any of the medications. The usual response to an IV insertion was a prickling pain, near the entrance of the needle - not an entire arm burning. Thankfully, Dolores' face soon relaxed - the drugs began to work.

Afterwards, we helped the girl remove her sweat suit, and take a shower. (I have never seen such perfect baby-feeding breasts before - they looked so full of nutrition, as if their only function in all of time was to provide sustenance for a new life. Nieves had to teach the Canadian woman how to "milk" herself - she actually compared it to cow milking - but I was sure this girl would not need a lesson). Dolores was already bleeding some, so Mauru put absorbent pads on the bed. I stepped out after Dolores showered, glad to leave the room, which smelled strongly of blood, and made my head woozy. I cannot imagine a battlefield after battle, and the poor souls who collected their dead, or looked for survivors.

Mauru instructed us to rest, as Dolores would probably not give birth until morning. I tried to fall asleep, but my chair did nothing for welcoming dreams. More than that, the woman next door, the one with the stillbirth, chased away any shut-eye prospects. Dr. Ismael thought she would need a Cesarian, but her contractions began, as her body pushed out the dead baby. After walking around the ward, I passed out around 4 am, to the gut-wrenching screams of "No! No puedo!"

Kelsey and I rose around 7, and again at 9, and waited for Dolores - who was 8 cm dilated - to give birth. For fear of missing it, we breakfasted on whatever was available in the closest open stores (a bland cornmeal soup, a banana). But nothing happened, so we passed the time chatting with the girl in the cafeteria, while waiting for tea, at 1030. Around 1 oclock, with everything still perfectly tranquilo, we ventured out - Kelsey to feed Babi and Noe at CASA, and I to make copies at the papeleria. We checked back at 3, after calling, but still nothing. Leaving our numbers with Maura, we finally went home.

In the evening, I met up with Mallory and her crew, as well as Tim (poor Kelsey was sick). We watched Om Shanti Om, which was being screened in the Jardin. I love open air events. Ironically, in the Festival de los Cortes- the shortfilm festival - this Bollywood selection lasted 3 hours. If you ever argued with friends or lovers over which movie genre to watch, I recommed Om Shanti Om - it has all of them. See it, you'll believe me.
After the movie, we stopped by Momma Mia - the regular spot for extranjeros. I was very excited to see diversity - various Spanish speakers, two Indian woman, a black man. A live music band, Pila Seca, played an alternative rock set. It was a very relaxing way to pass the evening, especially compared to the night before.

I called Mauru on Sunday morning. She informed me that they had performed a Cesarian for Dolores - and, therefore, did not call the interns to observe. Eager to see the baby, I walked over to the hospital, first stopping by an artisan's candle shop and picking out three bright, colorful candles with heart and star designs for the mother and child (as well as a gift for Kathy, who loves candles). This took me a whle - I wanted the perfect gift, cheerful and strong, to welcome the new life. I rang at the side-door entrance, and Mauru admitted me in. I then stepped into Dolores' room.

The furniture had been moved - or maybe it was a different room? I looked to the left, where the bed was previously, and encountered a young man in a chair, Dolores' husband, instead. An older female relative was also present, and, to the right, the bed - where Dolores was breastfeeding her chilid. I handed the present over to the husband, and asked if I could see the newborn. Dolores nodded - she looked exhausted! I came closer, and saw the little screwed newborn face, sucking away. The baby girl was wrapped in a bright yellow blanket, the same color as one of the candles! I thanked them all, wished them blessings, and stepped out of the room.

The next stop of my journey was Kelsey's house. We walked over to the Escuela de Bellas Artes, where we watched 5 or 6 shorts (also part of the Expresion en Cortes). One really stands out in my mind - Sweat, an Asian black and white piece, 10 minutes or so, with perfect transitions and a great angle at life. An hour later, we dined on amazing fish and grilled vegetables at a restaurant on Umaran, where we made certain to inquire about the preparation of the dishes. Who knew grilled red cabbage tasted good? At 5, Kelsey accompanied me back to CASA, to conduct the immigration questionnaire. Good fun - the kids were rather fascinated by us, and shared comments along the lines of, "You know, in America, there are whole groups of people with all blonde hair and blue eyes" and "Yeah, but there are even people who are black, completely black." One very outspoken 13 year old did my hair, and Jessie, one of the PESANE members, shared the alphabet soup pasta and frijoles she prepared for the kids' dinner. Exhausted but happy, we finally went home.