Sunday night I worked my first and last night shift. It was also my last shift in the labour room and in fact, my last time at the hospital. It was surreal to think that every baby I delivered could very well be my last. It was a beautiful peaceful night, calm enough to actually breathe, but busy enough keep my mind off the fact that it was a ridiculous hour, and that I should indeed be sleeping. As I remember that night, and realize that it was my last, I feel tears begin to creep over my eyes. Can this truly be over? Sunday night I felt as if I could not possibly take in enough. It was as if I wanted to remember every inch of that ward, that ward that had broken and captured my heart. That ward where I experienced things I could never again retell. I saw life, I saw death, I saw pain, anguish, victory, and miracles. The place where I learned what it was to truly be a midwife, to “be with women”. I have five stories for every metal slab they call beds. The smells once poignant and unbearable have become familiar, hardly noticeable, and maybe even a bit nostalgic. My legs that once shook and wandered aimlessly around “uncharted territory”, now stand strong, walk confidently (most of the time), and feel at “home”. The doctors so intimidating just months ago have become friends. I like to make them smile. I used to be afraid to address them. There I was, Sunday night, my last night, and I was mourning.

It was around 2 am when I walked over to Post natal ward to try to get some paper work. The “coolness” of the night brought relief to my ever so sweaty body. For the first time in 5 months I found myself completely alone. There were no families to step over, no passing doctors, no giggling student nurses, no scheming diamas, I was alone. For a moment I felt my heart begin to creep into my throat, then I heard them… the bats. There are hundreds of bats living in the trees surrounding the hospital. Usually I see them hanging from there homes in the branches, sleeping upside down, but this time they were flying, and talking. To whom, I can not be sure, but I found comfort in the company. I watched them as I wound around the corners, through the court yard and over the cracked and uneven pathways. I remembered once being so confused by these hall ways, terrified of where they would lead and what I would see if I followed them. Now there I was, navigating myself alone, in the dark, under a bat filled sky. I noticed much more in the dark. As I walked past the Septic ward I looked into a dimly lit window to find a woman sitting, with a tiny baby lying across her crossed legs as she carefully spoon fed him milk. I imagined she had HIV, and was protecting the wee one from the virus by giving him formula. I felt for her as spoon feeding a baby is no easy task. I saw another woman, baby in hand, fanning herself and the tiny new addition. “They are real people, they continue on, even after my shift ends…” I made it to Postnatal after quite a refreshing little journey, only to find the old, rickety doors chained together and locked. I peered through the bars and saw the nurses sleeping on the station benches, women sprawled out on beds and the floor alike, each with a small, breathing bundle in hand. I was disappointed I could not obtain my paper work, but experiencing this peaceful little scene was worth it.

I delivered my last two babies that night. Acacia Michelle, and Marta Rehab. My last delivery was one of the most amazing I’ve ever conducted. Darcy, my staff, was with another student anticipating the delivery of a woman, when I noticed a G3 (third pregnancy) woman looking very close to delivering herself. The duty doctor came on her rounds, checked her, said “she will deliver”, and went on her way. I checked her as well, and before I could even brace myself a baby was coming. It was so peaceful. My 32^nd and last delivery on the Birth Attendant School. Despite the fact that I have nervously welcomed so many before this, I have fumbled, I’ve made mistakes, I have been utterly terrified, this delivery seemed so natural, as if I’d been doing this my whole life. It was so fluid, so graceful, I felt so connected to the movements, so comfortable with the “steps”. There wasn’t a single complication, nor a single comment or command from anxious on lookers. It was as if for one moment in time, one single moment, the entire world was right. And then I realized I didn’t have scissors. By this time Dacry had come over and was joyfully welcoming this new human into the world. As the student nurse ran off to find clean scissors which can be much harder than it sounds, I cleared out her little airways, and encouraged her to breath in the hot, sweet Indian air. Darcy struggled to get gloves on as I awkwardly tried to suction and hold the baby in place on the mother’s still very round stomach. The nurse ran back with the scissors in hand, as Darcy continued to struggle with her gloves. I put the bulb suction down in order to maneuver the clamps. How one does this while holding a slimy baby steady at the same time remains a mystery to me, and I called out to Darcy to support the baby. Somewhere in between clamping and cutting the very slippery baby slowly began to slip from her warm little nook on her mother’s belly. Darcy and I lunged at her in slow motion before she was able to slip too far. Once again safe and secure, we began to laugh. It was a beautiful end to a beautiful birth and a beautiful birth to end the Birth Attendant School.

I went to the slum on Wednesday; however there were no pregnant women. We ended up doing heaps of primary health care teachings, and praying for those in need. There was a ten year old little girl, thin as a rail recovering from Jaundice. The doctors said she would die a few weeks ago, but the man we work with in slum prayed for her, and she has slowly but surly made a come back. Though she is recovering, she was still shocking to look at. Tiny as can be, expressionless, and lethargic. We prayed for a young woman with a bad leg from polio. She was “unmarriable” because of this bad leg, despite her beautiful face and kind heart. She could not carry the water from the well, so there for she would not marry. The girl sitting beside her, no older than 23 was left by her husband three years back. Her husband (and cousin) was forced to marry her, but left her because she was too thin. She asked if we had any injections to make one “stout”. Both of these women are unable to marry in a society based around marriage. Both beautiful, young women.

I’ve found myself lost in a paradox lately, as I try to understand how this is all supposed to make sense. In a few short days I will return to the “west”. I will return to “normalcy”, to friends and family, and to a future. I know I am to return to the states, I have felt called to the “inner city” for years, but I struggle in leaving this behind. I have seen poverty, I have seen injustice, I have seen pain, and yet I return home. I have been trying to understand what it means to be the body of Christ; to truly be the body of Christ, the one they talk about in Romans 12. If this is honestly how it all works, then my leaving should be no problem. You see because if the body of Christ truly is a body, with separate members doing different things, then my problem is solved. I just can’t seem to wrap my head around being simply an “arm in America” when I know there needs to be “legs in India”. One of my greatest struggles in the last few years has been my desire to be all parts of the body, at all times, in all places. I’m finding that to simply be impossible. I’ve been an “Arm in America” in India for the last five months. I’ve learned so much, experienced so much, and wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world, but alas, I did not accomplish nearly as much as a leg would have, given my place. Why? Because I am an “arm in America”. So the question remains, can I leave here knowing what I am leaving behind? If we really are called to be the body of Christ, then I must because America is desperately in need of arms. Perhaps my problem lies more in mistrust and pride than in conviction and calling. Do I believe that I will save the world, or do I believe something far greater than I will? Do I want to live in India and have the influence of mother Teresa as well as the name, or do I want something greater to receive the glory? So, I will go back to America. Still, the images imbedded in my mind will remain forever. I think I will always have “the nations” pumping through my veins as I learn how to be an “arm in America”. This, I am beginning to think, can either be my greatest strength, or my largest downfall. I do believe I’m a bit nervous to find out.

So, my last “Indian update”. Tuesday, May 15^th will be the best and worst day of my life.

If you are a woman, I think you should do the Birth Attendant School. Every woman in the world should do this school. I am changed forever. I really am changed forever.

"You are worthy, our Lord and God,
to receive glory and honor and power…”