I had a new midwifery experience this month.  I actually almost forsook the call to midwifery for fear of this very experience.  And it was just as painful and difficult as I always feared it would be.  I lost a baby at birth.  He lived outside his mama for one hour, and then he was gone.  His name was Mutuku, which in his tribal language of Kikamba means “rain”, because it started pouring rain during his birth.

I didn’t see it coming.  His labor was long and exhausting, for all of us, but nothing out of the ordinary for a first time mama.  I listened to his heartbeat just minutes before he was born.  It was strong and loud and fast, about 160 beats per minute.  We could see his little kicks on his mama’s belly as she labored and worked so very hard to bring him into this world.

He finally made his miraculous appearance, all wrapped and tangled up in his umbilical cord, which was wrapped 3 times around his little neck.  It took a while for the midwife to untangle him, and then he just lay there.

We worked on him for a long time.  I still remember how he smelled and how he tasted as I tried to breathe and pray life into him.  I remember how his eyes looked empty and blank, like he wasn’t present with me at all.  I remember the shock and horror I felt when I couldn’t hear his heartbeat anymore.  I remember how his little body felt in my hands as I tried to compress his little heart and get it going again.  I remember how helpless and desperate I felt as nothing I did changed anything.  I remember how badly I wanted him to come back.  I remember how warmth started to leave his body.  I remember how beautiful and perfect and peaceful he looked as his precious little body laid there, devoid of his spirit.  I remember everyone looking at me, expecting me to perform a miracle, and how guilty and ashamed I felt when I failed to do that.  I couldn’t even say the words.  How could I look them in the eye and tell them he was gone?

I’ve never felt so numb and so broken at the same time.  I managed to keep it together pretty well until I got home.  It didn’t seem fair that I got to come home to my beautiful babies and Mutuku’s mommy’s arms were empty.  I wept and wept for a long time.  I was feeling so very lost.  I didn’t even know how to begin processing this.  I am for the one-millionth time so very thankful for my precious Charis family to whom I was able to reach out to and receive immediate help to begin that journey.

The following morning I got a call from the midwife’s landlord.  He was irate and said that he wanted her out of her house by the end of the day.  So apart from the pain and process we were all already going through, we also had to deal with that extreme stress.  Thankfully Mutuku’s family was so gracious and kind.  They even called the landlord and asked him not to punish the midwife for what happened because it wasn’t her fault, it was just a normal part of life and they believed their baby would have died no matter where he would have been born, which I also believe is quite possibly true.  I later found out the father (who wasn’t at the birth) is a Muslim and so the baby had to be buried within 24 hours.  It also meant there would be no autopsy, which I was selfishly disappointed about, just because I long for answers and the closure they might help bring.  I know, however, that so much more important than my own pain and struggle is my responsibility to minister to Mutuku’s mommy and family, to the midwife, and to the young American girl who was also present with me at the birth.

It’s ironic that as afraid as I was of this experience, and as excruciatingly painful as it has been, I haven’t considered giving up midwifery even for a second.  Instead I am more inspired, determined, and desperate than ever to become the best, most knowledgeable midwife I can possibly be, and to pass that on to other midwives across the continent so that all women and babies can safely and joyfully make their birth passage into being a happy, healthy family.

For some reason, God wanted me there at that very birth…and death.  For some reason He wants me involved in Mutuku’s mommy’s life, and knew ahead of time that she would need my presence and love and the hope I can offer her in Jesus.  For some reason He didn’t answer my desperate pleas to let Mutuku stay or to bring him back to us.  I’ve realized that I don’t get to know or understand all these reasons.  A dear friend of mine reminded me that I am just the hands, voice and heart of Jesus...He is the One who has control over everything else.  I just have to trust and obey Him.

“Death is swallowed up in victory.”
1 Corinthians 15:55