Birth

Wednesday morning, I had gone to the CSCOM to greet Alima, the midwife and the rest of the CSCOM employees. When I arrived, it was quiet and I was able to greet the people I wanted to, including our pharmacist, Bah and our secretary and vaccinator, Koniba. We also recently got a new Chef de Poste (CSCOM boss) and I was surprised to see her in the office, already at work. I spent a few minutes with Alima’s children, Bonnie, Abu, Laji and Le who were playing around the house, excited to show me the new Tungaro babies (ducklings).

I was getting ready to head back to my house after talking with Alima for quite a while when a man and woman drove up on a moto. Alima took one look at the woman and looked at me, quietly informing me that she was there to give birth. I have only seen one birth before and it was a bit traumatic. Te baby had been a still born and the process was harsh and sad, and I had been pretty apprehensive about having to be around the CSCOM afterwards. While it had lead to a great conversation with Alima about the way they do things here and why, it was an experience I will be happy to never repeat, one that I wish I hadn’t experienced to begin with.

But that was months ago, and this was the first birth I had been around for since coming back to village. I timidly asked Alima if I could be involved, which really just means watching since I can’t actually handle any tools and frankly, probably couldn’t help if I was allowed to. Of course, she said I should follow her, and while Alima prepped the tools and the area, I spoke with the mother, asking her name (Bintou) and where she was from (Solosso). Bintou had two other sons, Mamadou and Bakary, and although I didn’t ask her age, I would guess she was about 22. She patiently answered my questions, quiet otherwise, grimacing every so often with the pain of the impending delivery.

Alima checked the baby’s positioning and spoke softly to the mother, who was still laying quietly on the table, her hand searching for something to grip to steady herself against the pain. While I could tell that she was obviously hurting, she never let on that she was anything more than uncomfortable, her breathing short and even, her voice never lifting about a whisper.

Alima pawed gently at Bintou’s protruding belly, “calling the baby out,” and continued to check the progress of the delivery. With out much notice, suddenly the woman’s face screwed up in a spasm of concentration, and the birth commenced. As Alima was able to see the baby coming, she instructed me to place the fabric that would be the baby’s first blanket on the floor, the only other smooth and even surface in the room. When I looked again at the pair, Alima was receiving the baby’s head, cradling it in her left hand. With a quick motion, se stabilized the baby’s head and shoulders and began to pull gently, as the mother did her part, pushing silently. While her movement reminded me briefly of a game of tug of war with the family dog over a rope toy, Alima was practiced and ready, pulling the baby all the way out. She quickly checked the baby’s breathing, and began to work to clamp the umbilical cord. The baby was silent, and fearing a repeat of last time, I held my breath until I heard a faint whimper. The baby was a boy, and as I brought the fabric to the table, Alima wrapped him up, and gently scrubbed his head and body. She placed the wrapped baby on the floor again, then finished up the birth, collecting the placenta in another large piece of fabric to be taken by the midwife.

I asked about the baby not crying, since my only other experiences with birth were through movies when the baby screamed immediately after meeting the world. Alima wisely said that the baby might not be crying now, but that in a few minutes he’d begin to make noise. And she was right. The mother’s help, an older woman from her family had come just after the baby did, with clothing, extra food and blankets for the mother and baby who would be spending the next 6 hours at the CSCOM. I watched the baby as Alima and the other woman helped the mother to dress. While he had been quite pale when I first saw him, he was beginning to gain some good color, and I wiped the afterbirth still in his hair. He squirmed and made some noise, though he never cried out. The mother and baby were relocated to the recovery room, and that was it. Twenty minutes from the moment the woman pulled up on the back of the moto, she was laying in the recovery room, dozing with her new baby boy in her arms.

In a society that seemingly values women as baby production units, it was amazing to watch this young woman fulfill her duty, her sense of pride and obligation twined together. While it would be easy to fault this society for its treatment of women, it took be by surprise, and made me step back to reevaluate my feelings. Malian women are the gateway to life and are valued as such, given a gift that the men will never have, the ability to provide their larger family units with invaluable life, a new link in the chain.