I remember that evening. After it my life was different.
“Ouch!”, I had been mending some clothes, and I felt irritated after pricking myself. I put my needle and thread down. I was tired, and this was a sign it was time to stop.
But I found it hard to be idle. I held my hands up to my face and studied them. They were worn and wrinkled, but they were not withered or fragile. They were the hands of a hard worker — a mid-wife who had delivered several hundred babies in her career.
I remembered a time when these hands had not carried so many wrinkles. Back then I had felt differently. I was full of wonder and amazement at the miracles I experienced in every birth. Now I felt detached and apathetic.
I am not sure when or why this sort of apathy had begun. I had not always been this way. When I started out as a mid-wife, I felt the pain and joys of childbirth along with those I was supporting. I often had wept alongside the mother when she had held her infant for the first time. I descended into feelings of darkness and despair for days or weeks after a birth that had not gone as planned; when a mother or baby had not made it or when a child had been born unwell.
It was not just in my work where I felt like this. Sometimes, back then, I felt that I was just going through the mechanical process of living. Not always, but for the most part, I felt emotionally detached from what was happening. I found it hard to be happy for someone celebrating a success or milestone, or surprised by something unexpected. I also found it hard to be deeply saddened by a death or illness of someone I knew.
Preparing
There were some emotions that still would rise up from within me from time to time. One of those was anger, and at this time anger at Caesar. I thought of the poor pregnant women who would have to travel for the census that had been declared. There was no point in wishing that Caesar would make exceptions for pregnant women. Such a man did not have the capacity to understand these women’s states or situations or that such journeys could induce labour. I ensured the mid-wives I had trained were aware and that they spread the word to other mid-wives in the area that birth rates would become higher. There would a lot of women who thought they had longer caught unawares.
In the weeks beforehand, I supervised the preparation of baskets full of essentials for these mothers – swaddling clothes, sheep fat and under-garments. We found women who could assist by making and delivering meals and other essentials to those in recovery. They would need nourishment in their time of confinement. They would be without the comforts of their home and those who would normally be the ones who ensured they were cared for. We also encouraged mid-wives who had not recently practiced to ensure their kits were in order and refresh their skills by attending births with more mid-wives who were more active.
It was nearly mid-night when the wife of a local inn-keeper, Martha, knocked loudly on my door. I had just fallen asleep sitting in my armchair. She let me know there was a young girl, Mary, who was in labour. She told me the couple was in the stables because the inn had been full.
“You will need to help me,” I told Martha, struggling to bring myself out of the grogginess from having been asleep.
“We will need hot and cold water throughout the evening, and I presume there will be none in the stables,” I stated, trying to snap myself back into my practical self.
Martha agreed. Together, we made haste through the night to Mary. My simmering anger at Caesar rose from deep within my gut to my throat as I felt my joints give way a little as I stumbled on some rocks on the road. I remembered how busy my last week had been — one, sometimes two births per night. My aging body needed to rest and this birth we were hastening to was going to be more complicated by the fact that it would not be inside a building with the usual amenities.
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An interesting link: Christmas History—Was There a Midwife at the Birth of Jesus? | Time