Living with Midwives: A Long labour, a Dead Milk Cow, Futbol, and Notebook Paintings/Drawings

On Saturday we spent nearly 16-hours in the house of Delia. She labored for hours and hours, while progressing very little. Her mood changing so that she seemed like a different woman from hour to hour; strong, scared, fierce, weak, adamant, self-loathing. But it was apparent to us all that her heart was heavy and she was deeply hurt and sad. The father of her baby had left with another woman; who is also due to have a baby any day now, they are living together in house on the same street. Delia's family said they were grateful that Delia was having her baby first, apparently in the minds of the people this establishes her as the "first" and the "better" woman. They were hoping the baby would be a boy, because a boy would demand more support, interest and money from the father. The truth is, the families here always hope for a boy.

When her labor became difficult her family prayed over her in that weeping, moaning way that is customary. This usually frightens me, on occasion to the point of tears, because it feels like I am witnessing something scary like an exorcisim. But, in this instance their praying seemed to charge the air with something good and strong and Delia was comforted and reinvigorated. This family was among the kindest we have been with. Delia's brothers and her father asked permission to enter the room and spoke to her with such respect; they sang her praises, lauded her for her strength and told her that only she knew and could decide where to have her baby. Son muy buenos hombres.

As it grew darker, colder and late into the night Delia was filled with a new spirit and took to the courtyard. Sweeping at the dirt furiously. She seemed strong and committed to having this baby at home. But, more hours passed. A cousin, who she has problems with occupied the kitchen, the radio blared and her cousin's brood of four screamed and bounced a ball back and forth on the sheet metal walls of Delia's bedroom.

Nothing changed. Delia was exhausted and the contractions grew weaker. She chose to leave for the hospital in Antigua. A truck was called and at nearly midnight we arrived at the hospital. We waited outside the hospital gates under the huge angry looking sign that states that, 'each patient is allowed only one companion.' We waited only briefly and then the eight of us piled into the back of the truck, huddled together under a perfectly clear starry sky, me bundled and dressed by Delia's mother in three thick blankets, drifting to sleep, waking only once to my feet being covered with a blanket and Delia's mother sweetly referring to me as "mi hija". Through the dust and bumps I slept like a baby the entire drive home.

On Sunday we slept late and waited for news of Delia. In the early afternoon there was knocking on the door and commotion in the field outside the house. One of the milk cows of a neighbor (two sisters whose births we attended) was lying sick on the grass, the cow's stomach huge and bloated from the poison of some small animal or insect she had eaten. The neighborhood boys had found her there and ran knocking on doors and calling on neighbors. A crowd of women and children gathered and the men pried open the cow's mouth, lodged a tree branch between her teeth and began pouring huge plastic liters of salt water down her throat. I rubbed at her throat to coax the liquid down (something I've seen my mom do when she wants the dog to swallow a pill), while another man filled her nostrils with his fingers. She swallowed it down and began vomiting. She kicked her legs about aimlessly, and then tried to get on her feet and I mistook this as jolt of life. But frothy foam poured from her mouth and nose and It seemed as though I blinked only once before the cow lied still and dead.

Clidia who cared for this cow and who sells us our cheese began to cry, as did the other women from her house. The men discussed briefly and then decided they could still eat the meat. Six men carried the cow to the house, atop two wooden ladders. It's neck, lolled and swung as they went and the crowd began to dissipate.

Clidia's husband has been drunk ever since the cow died nearly two days ago, and plays his stereo at full volume all-day and all-night. I am told this is what a drunk, sad man from Calderas does under such circumstances.

We spent the rest of the afternoon watching soccer. A procession for a baby who died passed by the field, and the game stopped for a moment. Jelver's team lost, but it was good game and they proudly wore their brand new uniforms and asked that that the "gringita" (a slightly more endearing word for gringa) take their picture.

Carolina prepared tamales, wrapped in plantain leaves, stacked to the brim of an enormous bucket, enough to eat all week long. Tamales are a festive and special food and we've been eating them day in and day out, as if we have something to celebrate.

There is still no word from Delia or her family.