Once a Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  I’m surprised when Daisy answers the door still wearing her red-and-blue bathrobe. “Thank God you’re here! I’m at my wit’s end.” She has the baby on her shoulder, wrapped in a blanket, and she’s patting him frantically. Before I can get my coat off, she plunks the screaming infant in my arms and runs upstairs. Her three other children sit on the sofa, pale and afraid.

  “Is the baby okay?” the boy asks. He has a slight lisp.

  “I don’t know yet. Where’s your father? He’s the one that called us.”

  “Pap had to go down in the mines. He works second shift. Won’t be home until dawn,” a sister answers.

  “Is there somewhere Nurse Becky could examine the baby? Somewhere quiet?”

  The children look at one another. “In our bedroom, I guess.”

  The baby’s still bawling and kicking his little feet against my chest, so I quickly motion Becky upstairs. I brought my hanging scale, so the first thing we do is weigh him. “Five pounds eight,” I say out loud so that Becky can write it in her notes. “He’s lost ten ounces. Not good.”

  Then we lay him down on the bed and watch while he kicks and screams some more. He vomits once, and then I can’t stand it any longer and have to pick him up again.

  “We better ask Daisy what’s going on,” Becky says. I cross the hall and tap on the mother’s bedroom door. “Daisy?” No answer. I tap again louder, getting irritated. Still nothing. “Daisy!”

  Finally, I push the door open and find a familiar scene. Daisy’s sleeping and there’s only one way anyone could sleep through this racket. She’s hitting the Paregoric again. “It’s the opium,” I tell Becky. “I asked Mr. Spraggs to get rid of the stuff, but apparently Daisy got some more. Here, you take the baby. I’ll go downstairs and warm up a baby bottle.” Becky takes the inconsolable infant back to the kids’ room and sits on the bed. Outside, it’s snowing again.

  Little Franklin cries and cries. I’ve never seen anything like it. Maybe there’s something wrong with him from loss of oxygen when he was born. How long did it take for him to breathe? One minute? Two? Three?

  I go back to the mother’s bedroom and shake her awake. “You’ve been asleep a long time again, Daisy, and the baby and the children have been unattended.”

  “I just lay down for a short nap,” the woman murmurs.

  “No, you’ve been asleep since right after we got here at two. It’s now four thirty.” Daisy looks at her hands, which are trembling. When she sees me watching, she hides them between the folds of her robe.

  “Your husband called me because he’s worried about the baby.”

  “Sometimes Franklin throws up and he has diarrhea. He’s stiff like and won’t settle. That’s why I’m tired. He cries and cries and I can’t sleep at night.”

  “Well, I think it’s more than that. I think you’re using the Paregoric again. We shook you and called to you and you didn’t wake up. That’s not normal. . . . Becky, can you come in here with the baby?” I call.

  “It’s the cramps. I have to have something. They’re real bad, Miss Patience.” She glances toward the bureau, where I observe the familiar brown bottle of the tincture of opium.

  “Are your bowels working?”

  “Not very well, but they never do.” I perform a quick exam and find nothing wrong, temperature normal, uterus soft and non-tender. Becky stands at the door, holding the screaming infant. “I think you’re just constipated, Daisy, and the opium in the Paregoric is making it worse. Now, about Franklin . . .”

  “I know what’s wrong,” says Becky. “The infant is going through withdrawal. Both you and your child are addicted to opium.”

  “How could that be? He’s only a few days old,” Daisy argues.

  “Did you take Paregoric all through your pregnancy,” I ask, indicating the bottle on the bureau.

  Daisy looks down. “Maybe. Is my baby going to be okay?”

  “Well, he is and he isn’t,” Becky answers. “Physically he’s smaller than average. He has diarrhea. He’s jittery and having small seizures. He’s going to need round-the-clock care as he goes through withdrawal from the opium.”

  “I’m no opium eater!” Daisy protests.

  “Opium is the active ingredient in the pain medicine you’ve been taking. Opium is in the Paregoric. Didn’t you read the label?” Becky asks.

  “I don’t read so good,” Daisy says.

  “Well, be that as it may,” I interrupt, “you have to stop using it. I asked your husband to get rid of the bottle, but before we leave this time, we’ll search the house.”

  “You can’t do that! Earl won’t let you.”

  “There’s no shame in this, Mrs. Spraggs.” Becky comes in. “Many people become habituated to patent medications or even ones prescribed by their physician. You will have to go through withdrawal too. It will take a few weeks. The baby is going through withdrawal already. It will be hard.”

  “Where do you get the medicine, anyway?” I ask.

  “Doc Burch, on Rock Forge near Delmont,” she answers, lifting her chin as if to dare us to say anything bad about the old healer.

  “Well, you just have to stop taking it. In addition, I think I should take the baby home and care for him until he gets well.”

  Daisy’s eyes widen. “No!”

  17

  March 18, 1942

  Substitute Mom

  The children were delighted when I brought Franklin home. They love babies. Sunny and Sue lost their infant brother in the wildfire of ’35. (He drowned when their mother dropped him as she slid into the creek to hide from the flames, a tragic event.)

  Now here I am, a substitute mom, sleeping with the Spraggses’ infant in the Baby Cabin while his mother and he go through withdrawal. I give him drops of laudanum on a graduated schedule that Dr. Blum prescribed. The mother is going it alone with just her sister to help her.

  Daniel was furious when I first brought the little one home, but when I described the scene with the inconsolable screaming baby, the drugged mom, and the terrified older children he got over it. Daisy and Earl visit on Sundays and it’s nice to see the mother acting halfway normal. At least she’s not nodding off.

  With caring for Baby Franklin and the rest of our brood, my house is a wreck and March is almost gone. The girls are helping me wash the eggs, but we couldn’t get into town to sell them last week and they’re starting to mount up. Not only that, I’m only sleeping about five hours a night.

  On Sunday, Bitsy comes over to help me so I can get some housework done, but we end up sitting in the Baby Cabin together while she rocks Doodlebug. That’s what we call the baby now, Franklin Delano just seemed too grand.

  “How’s Willie?” I ask. “Does he like school? Does he like his teacher?”

  “He’s doing okay, but he’s so quiet and shy. I wish he could be around more fellows.”

  “Oh, I doubt they think he’s so quiet and shy. Did you hear about him punching some big boy who was making fun of Susie at Christmas?” (I tell her the story and she smiles.)

  “Maybe not so backward and shy, then? It’s good to protect someone who’s getting bullied, but he still needs some male friends,” Bitsy thinks out loud.

  “He has Danny, though he’s two years younger. I’ll speak to Dan. Maybe he and Dr. Blum could get him involved in the vet work. How did you end up taking Willie away with you anyway?”

  Bitsy laughs, because I’m always digging to hear her story. “Well, remember, I just made it out of Paris as the German army advanced. The first place I went when I returned to the States was to Katherine’s. I was shocked when I got there. Katherine had died just a month before. Miss Jones, the new nanny, was leaving. Someone needed to take care of the boy.”

  “What about Katherine’s family? They were wealthy, why couldn’t they take care of him?”

  “They’d passed before we went to Paris. Her father died of a heart attack and her mother died of breast cancer a few years before.”

  “What happ
ened to Katherine, was it cancer like her mom?”

  “No, she drowned in the bathtub.”

  “Drowned in the tub. Oh, Bitsy! Suicide?”

  “No, the coroner determined she had a brain tumor. He thought she’d had a fit from pressure on her brain and slid into the water.”

  “A brain tumor! I’m so sorry.” We sit for a minute paying silent homage to the beautiful blond woman who, though she grew up wealthy, had such a hard life. Money doesn’t protect us from suffering. Death and loss come to everyone.

  Outside the children play army on the greening lawn and their laughter comes through the open window. Too bad real war isn’t as much fun. “Do you mind holding Doodlebug, while I feed the kids and do some laundry. I’ll send Willie back with a sandwich for you.”

  Two hours later, I’m back in the Baby Cabin, only now Willie is rocking the baby. He’s singing a song by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, low and sweet, and the baby and Bitsy have both fallen asleep. “Happy trails to you, until we meet again. Happy trails to you. Keep smilin’ until then.”

  “That’s beautiful, Willie.” He smiles and keeps singing and I join in.

  “Some trails are happy ones. Others are blue. It’s the way you ride the trail that counts. Here’s a happy one for you.”

  18

  March 21, 1942

  Peepers

  When spring comes to the Appalachian Mountains it comes with a rush. One week the daffodils are poised half-frozen at your doorstep and the next they’re a graceful battalion of yellow. One week the buds on the apple trees are carved at the end of what looks like dead branches, and then the whole tree turns pink.

  Doodlebug is gone. In the middle of the week, Mr. and Mrs. Spraggs came over and demanded their infant. What could I say? The baby was doing well and only had a few days left of his laudanum.

  Daisy acted quite normal. She was off the Paregoric, promised to never to take it again, and mostly I believed her. One thing Mrs. Kelly taught me is . . . you can’t do a woman’s labor for her. That’s her work. And you can’t live her life for her, either. I just hope the baby and the other little kids do okay.

  Now at last we can get our normal lives back, what’s left of normal since our country’s at war. The first thing I do is get out the new Burpee’s seed catalogue and try to decide what to plant. I’ve dried and saved tomato and bean seeds, but my squash seeds all rotted. We have leftover potatoes sprouting in the root cellar that I can cut up and use for seeds, but I have a craving for some collards and lettuce, sweet peas and kale, fresh healthy things!

  This morning, Dan took the tractor over to Wild Rose Road to turn over Becky and Isaac’s garden. It’s on a slope and better drained than our farm. We have to wait for our soil to dry before he can plow our bottomland. Hungry for greens, I decide, while he’s gone, to go out and find some. There must be dandelions growing somewhere. I’ve seen a few flowers.

  Carrying a clean bucket, I carefully cross the wet field. Only a few years ago, I walked this land without thinking about tripping, but now, because of my knee, I must be careful and I don’t like it. I’d rather be looking up at the swift-moving clouds tumbling over Spruce Mountain. I’d rather be gazing at the new red buds on the maple trees or looking for birds.

  Yesterday at the bird feeder, I saw a purple finch, a nuthatch, a redbird, and a chickadee. These are names I have learned from Mrs. Kelly’s worn copy of Birds of Village and Field published in 1898. I know there are newer guides, because Becky has one called The Field Guide to Birds, but they cost a small fortune. Anyway, my old book has served me just fine.

  As I follow the stream, my eyes become sharper and I find dandelion leaves everywhere. Then I catch sight of a tiny blue bird high in the treetops. “Zee zee zee zizizizi eeet!” it calls with a trill. You know it is spring when you hear the first cerulean warbler.

  For dinner I made the dandelion greens and the family gobbled them up. I had no idea how hungry we are for fresh food. After Dan and I put the kids to bed, we sat on the porch in the mild evening air.

  “Listen!” Dan whispered.

  “What?”

  He put his warm hand on the back of my neck and turned my ear toward the creek. That’s when I heard it, the ringing of a thousand tiny silver bells. The peepers are back, little frogs that live in wet places and peep at night, another sign of spring.

  I have thought this before about the four seasons. A year is just long enough to forget some sign of nature. Then all of a sudden, it’s there; the sound of thunder before an afternoon storm, the smell of a rose, the vision of yellow leaves against the blue sky, the tickle of the first snow on your nose or the peepers of spring.

  March 21, 1942

  Equinox

  Sunday evening, to celebrate spring, we asked everyone over to our house to play Charades.

  From youngest to oldest, we all took turns, with Mira acting out Little Orphan Annie to Mr. Roote doing Stars and Stripes Forever. The talk, when we took a break for refreshments was all about the war.

  “We’ve been checking the records of the boys at the CCC camp and making sure they’re all registered for the draft,” Isaac Blum says. “We had to drive a few of them over to the draft board in Liberty and help them fill out the forms.

  “The whole camp would volunteer in a minute if they weren’t already enrolled in the Civilian Conservation Corps. Washington is trying to get that straightened out. These kids can read now and they’re in top physical shape and used to army discipline. They’d make darn good soldiers.”

  “I’d go in a minute if I were old enough,” Danny says.

  I look over at Daniel as he stares at his hands. He hasn’t taken a bite of cake and I notice his little flask of rum is right by his side. Isaac takes a nip and the men all pass it around. When it comes to Daniel, he tips it back hard.

  “The whole county is in a panic,” Dan growls. “Everyone’s wondering what will happen next. Will the Japanese bomb Los Angeles or San Francisco? Or will the Germans come from the other direction and go for Washington, D.C., or New York? One thing, it’s not going to be Union County.”

  “Can you say that for sure, sir?” Willie asks. “West Virginia has coal; the nation needs coal to make steel and we need steel to make guns, tanks, and airplanes. Also, there’s the munitions plant in Torrington.”

  Daniel looks at him fondly. “I’m pretty sure we’re safe, Will. There are a lot bigger targets less than a hundred miles from here. That’s the trouble when people panic. They’re like a deer in the headlights. Their brains shut off.”

  “What are you saying, Daniel? That you think the war is a mistake?” Mr. Maddock asks. “We have to fight now. The Japanese attacked us, and Hitler is a madman. He’ll stop at nothing.”

  “Let’s play some more Charades.” Becky changes the subject before the men get in an argument. “Come on, now. Who wants to be next?”

  I volunteer, hoping to get us back in the party mood, but just as I begin to act out the book The Secret Garden, the phone rings.

  Luella

  Is this the midwife?” a soft voice asks when I answer, and I can’t tell if it’s male or female.

  “Yes. It’s Patience Hester. Can I help you?”

  “My mom said to call.”

  “And who is your mom?”

  “Luella Bonnet of Burnt Town. She’s expecting a baby and she’s awful sick. She says come quick.”

  “Is there someone with her, a woman or your father?”

  “No, just my little brother. I have to go now.”

  Lord, I think. That wasn’t much of a report. I know Luella, but she’s way over on the other side of the county and she didn’t even tell me she was pregnant or come for a visit this time. I delivered her last baby four or five years ago and you’d think she would at least call.

  Everyone looks up when I come back in the room. “I guess I have to go to Burnt Town for a delivery. Anyone want to come with me?”

  “I’ll come!” says Willie.

  �
��Oh, ech!” says Little Dan. “I’d rather watch a sheep give birth than a lady.”

  “Dr. Hester and I will take you with us during lambing season, Willie,” Isaac Blum says.

  I turn to Bitsy. “How about you?”

  “I could do it. The plant is closed while they bring in new equipment tomorrow.”

  Dan walks me to the door and looks out. “The sky’s clear. No sign of a storm and the roads should be good. Take the Model T, the tires are better.” He pulls my knit cap down over my ears.

  “Keep a lid on the booze, okay?” I whisper.

  “Right, boss,” he says, and he kisses my nose.

  On the way through Liberty we stop at the Texaco station for gas. This is one of our big expenses. With Daniel’s job he often travels at least ten miles a day, and with fuel at twelve cents a gallon it mounts up. Sometimes, I’ve had to drive twenty miles to a birth.

  “Hi, Loonie, Give me five” I say when the attendant runs out of the gas station wearing a Texaco uniform, complete with the hat. (Loonie isn’t really Loonie. That’s just his nickname. His real name if Louis Tinkshell.)

  “Five greenback dollars of gas,” he kids.

  “No! Five gallons of gas and not a drop more, sixty cents’ worth.”

  “You know, gas will probably be rationed soon,” he informs me.

  “I guess we’ll face that if it happens.”

  Just as we’re leaving, a blue Ford sedan drives up, pulling a small travel van. A colored man gets out and asks where they might camp. He’s wearing clean new coveralls and is almost as big as Mr. Hummingbird. The woman who gets out with him is pregnant. Two children watch from the backseat.