What was it like to have a baby in Africa? Part Three

I am not completely sure whether Paul was born at 37 weeks or 40 weeks. Before we left for Africa, I had an ultrasound in America. We found out that Paul was a boy (yay!) and that based on his size, his due date should be December 27. When I got to Africa, the doctor told me that they didn't base due dates on the size of the baby according to ultrasound, but on the menstrual cycle alone. That put my due date at December 9. We had an ultrasound in Africa, and the doctor said that his size, although not very big, was perfectly fine for a healthy birth. The doctor even told me that if I didn't go into labor by December 9, he was going to induce. It made me a little nervous, wondering if it was really too early to be inducing, since the American doctor had given me a different due date. That last week the doctor also gave me a prescription for a pill that was supposed to help me have contractions, which I obediently took without thinking too much about whether or not that was a good idea.

Midnight, December 6. Bill and I were kept awake by people singing loudly in our neighbor's house. Apparently, there had been a death in the family. It was impossible to sleep, but eventually they stopped and we drifted off. 1:30am: I woke up with a jolt and a strong pain. I sat up, and Bill did, too. For a few seconds I couldn't answer as Bill asked me, "What is it?" I told him I thought I had felt a contraction. Seven minutes later, I felt another. They were strong and unmistakable. Bill said, "I'm calling Yawo" (our stand-by taxi driver.) "No," I said, "I'm supposed to time them for an hour before we do anything." "But they were only seven minutes apart. What if Yawo is late, or there's a problem on the way to the hospital? This is Africa; anything could happen. We are NOT having a baby on the way to the hospital--I don't care if we're early," Bill told me.

During our year in Togo, we didn't own a car. We didn't ship a container to Africa, like other missionaries, because we didn't own any furniture and decided to just ship the essentials and buy furniture when we got there. It was a pain, but it was cheaper and worked out. Our African pastor friend owned a car, and we told him that we would pay for repairs and gas if we could use it when we needed it. However, that car was a piece of junk. For the first couple of months, we kept paying for its repairs, and it kept breaking down. We could never use it when we needed it, because the pastor was using it (if it wasn't broken). We always had to buy gas for it, even though the pastor was using most of the gas we bought. We held out for a while so that we would have a car to get to the hospital, but finally we said it wasn't going to work anymore. The repairs were just too expensive; it wasn't worth it. Bill got the phone numbers of some taxi drivers in our area, and the closest one (Yawo) was told to be ready at any time of night or day. Our house was not near a big road, where we could easily find taxis, and at night there are very few taxis passing by even the main roads anyway. When Yawo picked us up for various errands during the day, he was often late. But Bill explained to him that he was not allowed to be late if we needed to go to the hospital for the delivery! Bill offered him a bonus if he could be at our house on time, and an extra bonus if he could be at the house in five minutes.

I was still getting dressed when Yawo arrived, jumping out of his taxi as he pulled on his shirt. It had only taken him a couple of minutes to get there (that bonus was a good idea!) We called the hospital and got in the car. The streets were completely empty. I don't know if Togo has a curfew, but people definitely don't go out much at 2:00 in the morning. On the way we were stopped near the airport by a couple of soldiers with guns. It was a little scary, but we just told them that we were on the way to the hospital to have a baby, and they let us go.

By the time we got to Clinique St. Joseph, my contractions had stopped. I had only had four of them. The nurses checked me out and called the doctor. Then they told Bill that he would need to go pick up the doctor on a certain street corner, by the grocery store. Bill told them that we didn't have a car, and the taxi had left! But the doctor didn't have a car either, and it's hard to get taxis at night, so Bill called Yawo again and they went to pick up the doctor. Bill likes to talk about how in Africa, hospitals are BYOD (bring your own doctor.)

My contractions had finished, but the doctor said the baby was in position, low, and ready to go. He told me that we were going to have a baby that day! I was given a bed to rest on, and I fell asleep for a few hours. Bill wasn't able to sleep, since the people at the hospital kept changing which room we were going to stay in, and he had to move our things around a couple of times. In the morning I woke up, and was taken to the delivery room. A monitor for the baby's heartbeat was strapped around my belly, and it recorded the heartbeat on paper with lines, like an earthquake monitor. At some point the doctor came in and broke my water. I was going to be given some form of Pitocin to speed the labor along, and the nurse asked Bill where it was. He was a little confused. She said he needed to go to the pharmacy next door and pick it up (in Togo, the hospitals are BYOI--bring your own injections.) Bill paid one of the nurses to go pick it up, since he didn't want to leave me. They gave me a shot of Pitocin, and I soon threw up. The midwife was mad at me, since she said I needed to have it in my system for it to work. I think I also had an IV at this time. Eventually contractions did start, and they hurt. I tried to roll around on the bed, to find a comfortable position, but the midwife kept scolding me and told me that I had to sit up a certain way so that the gravity would help the baby move down. Sometimes I listened to her, and sometimes I didn't care. One of the most difficult things was that I was absolutely parched, and the midwife wouldn't let me have a drink. She was afraid that I would throw up again. But in Africa, it's hot, even in December, and I needed water! I didn't care about not being able to eat anything, but my baby book had said that usually women are at least given ice chips during labor. Eventually the midwife told Bill he could give me little capfuls of water. That made things so much better! Maybe being bothered about my thirst made the contractions not hurt as much. Or maybe it was just double suffering. But I made it through.

The doctor assured me that the baby would be born that day, but the hours seemed to drag by as though time had stopped. The midwife had put a CD on, and the music was a nice distraction. But labor is still miserable. Finally I was told it was time to push! (That was one of the only words the midwife knew in English--"poosh!") It was frustrating that the doctor kept telling me that the baby could come out in just one more push, but it took a lot more than one push. Still, the entire process of labor was not as bad as it is for many women, and Paul had arrived! It was exciting for me that just as Paul came out, and most of my pain was instantly relieved, the singer on the CD started singing, "Yeah, yeah, God is good!" (It's from a song called "What if God was One of Us"--not one I had heard before, but now if I hear it I think of that incredible moment when Paul was born!) Paul was placed onto my chest immediately, and the doctor started prancing around a little singing, "Yeah, yeah, God is good!" with the CD. Before I had a baby, I would probably have told you that I would want the baby to be cleaned up before he was given to me. Who wants to hold a messy baby? But when Paul was handed to me, the most beautiful emotions I had ever felt flooded over me. It was amazing; a taste of heaven. The pain was mostly gone (although I still had to get stitched up, which wasn't very pleasant) and the joy had arrived. Someday maybe I will find some poetic way of describing those emotions, but for now I'll just stick with the fact: I LOVED holding my baby. The thought that a human being could be created and developed inside of my body is mind-boggling. I seriously don't understand how any mother could be an atheist. The science behind babies just doesn't explain half of it; there is so much more to humans than the physical! It was also beautiful to see my husband crying when Paul was born. My husband doesn't cry much; I think he has only cried twice in our nine years of marriage. This was one of those times.

Paul was taken away to be cleaned up, and I listened to Clay Walker Christmas while the doctor finished stitching me up. Paul was born at 3:16pm on December 6, and he weighed 2850 grams. (That's 6lb 4oz.) Soon after the delivery, I walked over to the room we were staying in. (There were twin beds, and I had one and Bill had the other.) Paul was wheeled to me in a bassinet, and the doctor and nurses left me alone. I think I had an IV in during labor, that was taken out after the delivery. The hospital pretty much left me alone with the baby almost the whole time that I was there, from Thursday through Monday. Every morning the nurse woke me up around 7:00am to check my blood pressure and temperature, and a janitor came in every day to mop our floors. He also tried opening the door to the patio every time, although we kept closing it and insisting that we didn't want it open; there were no mosquito screens and we had a newborn baby! There might have been a few more visits from nurses, but not many.

I knew that I wanted to breastfeed, so I tried it right away. It was hard to figure it out without a lactation consultant. I read my pamphlet on nursing over and over, trying to figure out why the baby wouldn't latch on. Was there a problem with my baby's lips? I didn't know. His mouth looked a little funny to me, but I wasn't very familiar with babies. I knew that it was not terribly important for babies to eat right away, but at times he would cry and I couldn't get it to work. I was also extremely exhausted, and felt like the lower part of me was on fire, especially if I moved my legs at all. When I later had a baby in America, I was given an anesthetic spray that totally relieved the problem. I wish I had had that in Africa! (If anyone reading this is thinking about having a baby in Africa, make sure you pack some of that spray.) Bill was also exhausted Thursday night; he hadn't had a wink of sleep the previous night, and I had been able to rest for several hours when we had arrived at the hospital. I know labor is harder on women than their husbands, but Bill really went through a lot of stress that day as well. Thursday night a nurse gave Paul something in a syringe that made him stop crying. I didn't know what it was, but later when he was crying again and I couldn't get him to stop, I asked Bill to find someone to give him that syringe again, if possible. (I found out later that it was sugar water. But at that point, I figured it couldn't be too bad!) A male nurse came in and said that Paul shouldn't have too much of what was in the syringe; maybe he was crying because he was hungry. I was in tears as I tried to tell him that the baby wouldn't eat and I didn't know what to do. I don't know if African women are better at figuring out breastfeeding than I was. The male nurse showed me how to hold the baby and hold my breast to get him to latch on. (I mention that it was a male nurse, because yes, it was embarrassing. But at that point I was so grateful to get Paul to eat, all of my modesty went out the window.)

The next day I was wearing my ugliest T-shirt, shorts, glasses (which I hate), and no makeup, and I hadn't taken a shower. I figured that it didn't matter, since no one was going to see me. But we did get visitors! Not long before, we had met up with some missionaries that were staying in Togo and had a wonderful American-style Thanksgiving meal. Those missionaries heard that our baby had been born, and came to visit us. It was very nice to see them--one of the couples even brought a pizza! They took pictures to e-mail to my mom, and I was very grateful for their visit. (I just wish I had gotten showered and dressed that day!) Our African friends came to see us as well, and brought a very tasty meal. It was delicious and much-appreciated since I was starving, but I felt bad because I couldn't finish all of it and we had no refrigeration, so I had to throw a lot of it away. Bill took a couple of trips back to the house, where he got supplies like soap (in Togo hospitals, you have to BYOS) and picked up delicious meals from the restaurant Aicha, which was close to the hospital.

Paul did learn how to breastfeed, and he went from being under-average weight to the top of the scales in only a few weeks. His skin was a little yellow at first, but that went away quickly, and he was very healthy. I remember one time holding him in the hospital and sobbing because of all the wonderful emotions I was feeling at being a mother of this little boy. I had never thought about whether I would want the baby in the room with me the whole time in the hospital, or whether I would want the nurses to take him and give me a break. I didn't have that choice in Africa, but I was very happy to have him with me! (If I had only had that anesthetic spray, it would have been perfect.)

In West Africa, people are often named according to the day of the week on which they were born. The boy name for Thursday is Yawo (same as our taxi driver.) We had fun telling people that Paul's name was Yovo Yawo (Yovo means "white person.") That always made people laugh.

Paul is technically a US citizen and not a Togolese citizen, because we never got the paperwork processed for him to become Togolese. Bill tried to ask in government offices what kind of paperwork we would need to do, but no one seemed to know and it did not seem very important. Paul didn't need a visa to be in the country of Togo, until we left Togo to go to Benin and tried to re-enter Togo. One government official had insisted that he wouldn't need a visa, and the people at the border said he did, so we had to get one. It was pretty confusing. People tried to tell us, "He can't be a Togolese citizen just because he was born here! If I was born in America, I couldn't be an American citizen!" We tried to tell them that that's the way it worked in America. But we went to the American embassy soon after Paul's birth and got an official certificate of his birth, and his American passport, with a tiny little baby passport photo. It's fun to be able to tell people that my child was born in Africa, and I know that Paul will always have a special place in his heart for Africa. He is a little upset right now that it will be a while before he will be able to go back, but he loves any connection to Africa in picture books or movies or music. It will always be one of his homes. I am extremely grateful for God's blessing in our lives for giving us this little boy and for taking care of his health. As I watched him sleep as a baby, I used to pray fervently for his health in a dangerous country, and pray that he would one day trust in Christ as his Savior and follow Him. Paul does believe in Jesus as his Savior, and we have seen the difference it makes in his life as he talks about and asks questions about God, and as he tries to do what is right. As our doctor in Togo told us, "Mawu y ri na mi"--"May God bless us!"