The Midwife of Hope River Read Online Free PDF Page A

if you’ll help us and maybe a few other women from the camp.”
    Izzie shakes his head no. “The women won’t come. I’ve already asked them. They don’t like dagoes. They think we take their men’s jobs.”
    I frown. When I was working with the Wobblies in Pittsburgh, I’d thought that all workers would stick together, but I am naive; people have told me this. With the gradual failure of the economy, there has been less need for steel and even less for coal, and the unions have all but disbanded. To cut costs, the mine owners bring in cheap labor, immigrants from the North and blacks from the South. Local men live in fear for their jobs, and their women try to protect them.
    â€œOkay . . .” I think for a minute. “Then I’ll need you and the oldest boy to help. Tell him he won’t have to look.” The man throws his hands into the air and spits out a few words in Italian. It’s clear he doesn’t like this. The girl argues back in their native tongue, and he slams out the homemade oak door.
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    At last, reluctantly, Mr. Cabrini and his son of about nine return and we’re ready. While he was gone, I straightened the bed, propped up the limp patient, and laid out my oil, sterilized scissors, sterilized string to tie off the cord, clean rags, and a pan of warm sterilized water.
    â€œMother.” I address the woman through her daughter, reminding the patient, by the appellation “Mother,” what her suffering is about. “The baby’s head is too high and the cord may be wrapped around his or her neck, so we won’t have much time.” I wait for the translation.
    â€œYour children will help you sit up, and I want you to pull back on your knees and push as hard as you can. Push with all your might. Your husband will use his hand on your abdomen to guide the head down.” I take Izzie’s hand and show him how to palm the baby’s head through his wife’s flesh.
    â€œI’ll have my fingers inside to feel if it’s coming. If there’s a cord, I’ll try to push it aside.” This all sounds so complicated, but Antonia, using her hands to illustrate, translates quickly. “Once the head is in the pelvis, I’ll want you to squat, but don’t stop pushing for anything, don’t let the head slip back.” Delfina nods that she understands, and I see by the light in her deep brown eyes that despite her exhaustion, she has plenty of grit.
    When we’re ready, I look up at Jesus and make the sign of the cross the way I’ve seen Mrs. Kelly and the Catholic women do, and the whole family follows. The minute I feel Delfina’s womb get hard, I nod and we get into position. Izzie cups the fetal head, and the round orb begins to slide down. The mother pulls back her legs and strains forward. The children, Antonio with her eyes wide and the older boy with his eyes scrunched shut, support their mother from the back.
    At first I feel nothing—no cord, no limb protruding, then just the tip of something hard. “Yes!” I shout. “It’s the head. It’s coming!” What I lack in expertise I make up for in enthusiasm. This is where my two years on the stage at the Majestic come in.
    Delfina takes a deep breath and strains down again. We don’t wait for another pain; I’m afraid that if she stops, the head will slip back. The children push their mother up a little higher each time, and Izzie, with the wisdom of a gentle man, keeps the head steady. He knows he can’t shove this baby out, though no doubt he would like to. With each maternal effort, I feel the skull lower until it fills the floppy cervix and then comes through. I could check the baby’s heartbeat, but that would take time, and besides, what would I do if the heart rate dropped? No! We keep on.
    â€œIt’s coming!” I shout.
    Izzie hollers something in Italian that I think must mean