My pay per minute cell phone rings at 2 am. It is Cindi calling, her voice is soft and tired. I’m her doula and she is calling for some moral support. She’s been uncomfortable for a day or so with contractions every 10 to 15 minutes. Unable to sleep she is desperate for the contractions to either stop or really start in earnest. My Spanish is fairly choppy at this hour of the morn, but I am able to reassure her that this long start is fairly normal.
Carlos, Cindi and I walk up to the nurses’ station as the sun rises in the east. A fresh faced nurse welcomes and shows us to the room we will be spending the day labor and birthing in. Cindi immediately settles in, her contractions irritate her every five to seven minutes. Carlos fluffs pillows, strokes back loose curls, sits on the edge of the bed. He can’t get close enough. Her discomfort obviously unsettles him.
As I watch Carlos care for his wife throughout the day, I see his love for her manifested in tangible ways. So genuine is his focus and attention on her. He sits in the closet size bathroom as she showers, his muffled words of love and encouragement slide out under the door. When Cindi walks he guides her from table to bed to window and table again, circling the room. Her cervix holds at 7 cm for hours, testing her endurance. Carlos’s attention is not smothering or controlling, but sweet and soft. I perch myself in the upholstered chair in the corner of the room, an observer. My hands are not needed in this labor.
Nose buried in a cross word puzzle, I give Cindi and Carlos their space. Attentive with a sharp ear, I add a word of encouragement when needed. I am in awe of the instinctual way Carlos cares for his wife. Up to this point my experience with Hispanic partners has been very different. A culture that values macho men who guard their emotions in public often makes it hard for Hispanic men to feel comfortable in a birth room. Carlos has not once put his own interest or needs before hers, something here is different.
As I work my puzzle I realize this scene is oddly familiar. Two months prior, in the same labor room, another couple birthed their second child. It is a few days past Christmas and Guadelupe’s labor is going faster than she can keep up. Her handsome husband Marcos is sitting in bed with her upon my arrival. Her eyes are closed, head cocked to her left resting on his shoulder while he holds her. Their calm appearance is a façade, fear dwells just under the surface. This is the second labor and birth for Marcos and Guadelupe. Their first child, a son, was stillborn: lost to an accident with the cord just before his due date. They now face their biggest fear, hoping that within hours their baby will cross over into their arms alive. We are not alone in the room. Sitting by the small table with her hands folded in her lap and a soft smile on her face, a grandmotherly Abuela (Spanish word for grandma) waits.
Guadelupe moves into advanced labor and starts to stir in bed. Abuela steps in behind her son, Marcos, whispers something in his ear he moves aside. Abuela pours comfort and compassion on her daughter-in-law. Speaking a Spanish motheresse she expertly rubs over her back, down her legs. Marcos looks to me and smiles shyly watching his mother in action. All the sudden I find myself within a moment so full of love I am overwhelmed and have to step out of the room.
I re-enter to find Guadelupe soothed to sleep in bed. Abuela returned to her chair by the table, her son Marcos sits in her lap enfolded in her embrace. How a grown man still fits into his mother’s lap is beyond me. I felt as though I was intruding on a private moment. His head resting on her shoulder softly talking, Marcos, did not seem to mind my presence.
Within the hour Guadelupe and Marcos welcome a small but healthy baby girl. A joyful exuberance of tears fills the room. Abuela wails with relief at the sight of the first girl born to her family in two generations. Marcos and Guadelupe hold each other and weep as their baby Natasha screams pinking with new life.
Back in the moment, I turn to up from my puzzle as Carlos comes out of the steamy bathroom. “No me aguantes (I can’t do this anymore),” comes wearily from behind him. Cindi, hair dripping from the shower, is moaning and swaying against the bathroom sink. Just at that moment, the door to the hospital room opens, in walks Abuela! As all heads turn, she greets us with a gentle loving confidence. Her smile seems to say, “Its ok now, I am here.” Relief washes over the faces of Cindi and Carlos.
Abuela, as it turns out, is the mother of both Marcos and Carlos. How had I missed the similarities? These handsome brothers, both so caring and selfless with their wives, obviously influenced by this strong loving matriarch. Just as she did before, Abuela envelops her children with love- providing a much needed boost in morale. Once settled, she noticed me sitting in the corner, and greeted me with a hug.
The matriarchal family structure is a sociological concept I studied in college. However, I had never really seen it lived out in quite this way. I will never forget the last scene in the birthing room. Within the hour following the birth of Cindi and Carlos’s baby boy, the whole extended family assembles. Marco’s family with baby Natasha and Abuelo enter following hours of waiting in the lounge down the hall. Fading into the background I watch as Abuela introduces the new baby boy to his grandfather, aunt, uncle and cousin. Cheeks wet with celebratory tears. Whispers of blessings and prayers on lips.
Abuela now seated in the rocking chair flanked by her grown sons, their arms rest on her shoulders. She tenderly holds her new grandson. The loving matriarch reigns, on her throne.