The Longest Minutes .....

 That day in prenatal clinic, when I met her, I knew she was mine. The darling 16 year old girl sitting on my prenatal bed needed to be adopted by one specific caregiver, and as I asked her questions about her health, I knew I would be the one. I gave her my number, wrote my name on her chart, and committed to taking care of her throughout her pregnancy. I would be the one by her side as she birthed her baby into the world, and I would be the one who did checkups for her and her baby in the days following birth.

Good morning!

She sent me text messages 3-4 times every day, asking how I was and wishing me a good evening/morning/afternoon/coffee break.  My heart became increasingly endeared to her throughout her pregnancy, and I prayed regularly for and with her in the weeks leading up to the birth. I prayed that she would give birth before I left on an outreach trip into the country. Then, one prenatal appointment, she told me she'd been having contractions. I felt the beautiful curve that was her belly as it tightened into another contraction. Sure enough, it seemed she was in early labor. I encouraged her to eat and drink and rest so she would have strength for The Big Event.

Sakit Kaayo, mam Melissa.

She texted me all that afternoon and evening, keeping me informed on how much it hurt, and how she was coping. I decided to try to catch a few hours of sleep before The Big Event. I slept fitfully, my phone clutched in my hand, and my dreams filled with labor and birth. I woke every few minutes and checked my phone. At 2:30 am I got the text that I should meet her at the clinic. It was time. I scrambled out of bed and into my scrubs, praying for wisdom and protection.


Click.... click.... click, click, click, click....

"Breathe Jade" I told the little mamma-to-be. Breathe for your baby. The baby's heart beat was dipping uncomfortably low as labor intensified. This last stage of labor was really difficult, but Jade was not giving up. Her young determination was a beautiful thing to witness. We prayed together for her and for her baby. She used all her strength to bring her baby into the world.

Baby out! Floppy.

As I laid the new little one on her mother's tummy, I knew all was not well with this baby. I was praying in my head as we suctioned out the lungs. "1 minute apgar score" called out the charter. The answer was 4. 4 of 10 points. Points that indicated the baby's vitality and immediate chance of survival. The supervisor called for the baby's heartbeat. Urgently I grabbed the stethoscope with my blood-covered gloves and shoved it into my ears. I started taking heart beats.


170....160.....160...180....170

I called out the heart rate every 6 seconds, praying that God would give the breath of life to this little one. 2 minutes and still no breath. Only 2 minutes, but they passed by more like hours. A mask was fitted over the baby's mouth and nose, and my co-workers pushed air into those tiny lungs.

3 minutes.... 3.5 minutes...

 And then, finally, the answer to our collective prayer was manifest in the form of a gasp and a slight cry. That first little pioneering wail was followed by several more, stronger cries. By 5 minutes after her birth, the Apgar score was 7 out of 10.

Salamat sa Ginoo!

Gratitude was all I felt as I thanked God in her native tongue. The mother and father held hands and thanked God with me as their little girl made her presence known. We all knew clearly that He had sustained this little life, and given her breath.

Those were the longest minutes.

When someone who should be breathing, wasn't. I realized yesterday just how long a minute can last. Sunshine Melody, they named her. I will continue to care for this little family in the next few weeks. I will continue to share God's love with them, and marvel in the grace He has bestowed on them in the form of this tiny, new life.

All glory be to God, the Giver of Life.

On Making and Entrance....

I met a little boy the other night. He was one minute old when I met him. What stood out to me, was how he already had mastered the art of a Grand Entry.

The night wasn't so busy. We had one birth, and the mommy and baby were well, stable, and in the hands of a capable midwife. We were sitting around the midwife lounge area, occupying ourselves in various ways, when suddenly we heard it.


Beeeep! Beep beep BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!


Immediately four midwives jumped to their feet and ran out the door, grabbing various things on our way out. As the first out the door, I was putting on gloves, ready for anything. The taxi doors opened as I ran out the gate, and out piled three kids, one husband, a taxi driver, and one Lola (grandmother). I was a bit taken aback, because I couldn't imagine anyone else could've even fit in the taxi, but as I jerked open the back door, I was met by the frightened face of the mother and her sister, and the shocked first cry of the tiny baby lying on the seat.

Baby out, crying!
 

I'm trying to communicate our situation to the midwives behind me. Someone hands me a blanket, and I pick up the brand new little man, wiping his face and making sure he's ok. Another midwife pokes her head in the door from the other side, and in the dim light filtering out from our clinic windows we are trying to clamp and cut the umbilical cord and make sure the mother isn't bleeding too much. The guard shows up behind me with a wheelchair for the mother.

I feel like a celebrity.

As I walk back into the clinic I pass the awe-filled faces of three older siblings, and auntie, a grandmother, a father, and a traumatized taxi driver. I turn the little guy in my arms and tell the little kids to say 'hello' to their new brother. The poor taxi driver is standing there, a mixture of relief and bewilderment on his face as he surveys the mess that covers his back seat.

Bless his heart.


At post-partum appointments, little Patrick's older brother, Adrian, came to help mommy take care of him. He was so proud of his new little brother. He looked at me in wonder as I put the stethoscope in his ears, and let him listen to the heartbeat of the little guy. Such a proud little man, looking out for his mother and little brother. 

Practicing to be a good daddy.


Baby and mother turn out to be just fine. They didn't have any prenatal care with us, and I honestly think the taxi driver just drove them to the first place he knew of that could catch babies. The little guy continues to thrive. I'm not sure, he may have a future in performance... Because if nothing else,

He knows how to make a dramatic entrance.

My Only Desire...

My only desire is to bring Him praise.

This is what I sing. It is what I tell myself, and it is what I tell Him. I wish to believe this about myself. I wish it to be true.

But it isn't true.

When I'm perfectly honest with myself, I see that I have so many desires. Many of them fall in categories like "good", "noble", or  "harmless". And to be perfectly honest, many also fall into categories like "selfish", "prideful", or "fleshly". My lips sing that I want nothing more than to know Him, but my actions tell a different story.

I want pure motives.

Honestly, though, I have a hard time knowing where the boundary is. Sometimes I want things, but I'm really not sure why. Is it because it sounds exciting or fun? Is it because I know it is the heart of God? Is it because I will be well esteemed for making that choice? Is it so others will know God? Is it a desire due to the changes God has worked in my heart?

Oh God! Search my heart!

  How often am I telling myself God is my everything, but when I evaluate my desires, I realize that so many of them are only my own.I don't even know the difference. And I know, that even if I start something with good motives, my heart can be swayed. So again and again I ask God to purify my heart. To give me clean hands, and a right spirit.

Do I love the work of God?

Sometimes I catch myself being interested in someone because they are interesting. I find myself taking time to know someone because  they have a tragic story, or an interesting life. But do I care about their souls? Is that my motive? I realize again and again how human I am. How incapable I am of doing good, apart from God.

How much I NEED Him.

I realize that the more I make God my only desire, the more I will have to give to others. The sooner I crucify my flesh, the more the life of Christ will be evident and desirable in my life. The more God directs my passions, the sooner my motives will be corrected, and my heart set straight. And so I sing again....

Be my Only Desire.

The Battle of My Heartsong...

I forgot I was fighting a war.

I fought a few battles and won. Then I lived so long in the victory, that I didn't notice how my enemy had sneaked up on me. Before I even realized I was in danger, he had a well laid siege.
A full out battle would've been too obvious.
And now, in the words of the song, he's really been trying.

   Killing me softly, with his song...
....and with his distractions... and his busyness... and with all the little things that aren't bad or wrong, but they eat up all your time.... and strumming my easily distracted heart with his fingers, all the while singing a gentle lullaby designed to sooth me to sleep. He taught me to sing a bridge when I should've been singing the chorus.

Suddenly the tap tap tap... of the Conductor's wand on the music stand caught my attention.
Or was that knocking I heard at my heart's door? And I realized I was playing the wrong part, fighting the wrong battles. This wasn't the work of my Composer I was playing. My heart was screeching out  a harmony line to someone else's tune. It didn't fit so well with the Symphony I claimed to be playing for.

It had been a while since I allowed my heartstrings to be tuned to His pitches, and my bow poised, filled with His arrows.  Too long since the battle cry rang true and strong, and the sound of my life gave purpose and vision rather than humming a soothing lullaby. Too long since I listened to the voice of the conductor call out a battle plan, and I simply reported for duty.

Instead of charging the enemy that surrounded me, I set up my picnic and sang along with his song. I limited my sound track to the genre he pointed out, singing his covers when my Comander-In-Chief had written me originals. Because the live performance was hard, a nap didn't hurt like battle wounds.

And all the while I forgot I was fighting a war.

The new song I'm singing is one of victory, and the chorus sounds heavenly. I have interrupted the good-night kiss-of-death with the battle cry of worship. Neither I nor my fellow soldiers will be casualties of this war, but together our lives will blend into a new song. And at the end of our piece, when we take our bow, we will also cast our crowns before the throne of the great Composer.

On Healing Births....

So, my last post on here was kinda sad. Let me tell ya, it hit me hard, feeling death so close. It is so contrary to what the theme of this profession really is. And yet, so in keeping with it all at the same time. It took me a few days to shake the really heavy sadness I felt following the miscarriage of my patient. A few days before it was not the only thing I could think about.

Sophie, her sweet mother, and myself

 
I asked a housemate of mine, who has been here longer and been through more, how she heals. And she told me about healing births. Sometimes, after a really tough situation, God gifts you with a really great birth, and it really helps you heal. It had been quite a while since I took my place at the end of the bed, so I was excited for my shifts last weekend, hoping....praying for my healing birth.

 

Sophie managed a little smile for me

Saturday night was exciting. I walked through the clinic door, knowing I was first in line for a baby, and hearing the words "4-5 cm head visible". Time to shift into gear. I popped my hair up, changed shoes, and within 30 seconds I was running into the cubicle, pulling gloves on. I barely got them on in time for "head out!" I worked quickly, to make sure the umbilical cord was not around the neck, and then, about a minute after I walked into the door, the baby made her grand entry. Then came the blood.
Lots of blood.
And more.
And more.
 Our team worked frantically to help the mother stop bleeding, praying in our heads, our communication fragmented; walkie-talkie style. And suddenly, it stopped and everything was fine. I cared for her through the night, but it felt more like a whirlwind than a healing birth. I thought it would probably be a while before I welcomed another baby, because shifts have been a little slower of late.

Tuesday night I prayed for wisdom and skillful hands as I prepared for shift. I was first up again, but who knew if there would be any labors. Again I was summoned to a cubicle immediately. This little mamma was exhausted at the tail end of a 29 hour labor. She was really close to giving birth, but she was really tired, and having a difficult time working with her body. It looked like it would be a while, and everyone but me left to meet for endorsements. I watched my poor, little mamma trying so hard, and making no progress. I spoke encouraging words to her, and prayed for wisdom.

Momma, Daniella and I

 At once I knew what to have her try. With her next contraction everything changed. I called for help, and within about three minutes, her squalling baby girl was in her arms. As I cared for her through the night, joy filled my heart. I knew that THIS birth would be one I'd remember. One where I'd asked God for wisdom as a midwife, and He granted it.

Me with Daniella, my healing birth

 I realized that this birth was custom made for me. My heart began to take joy again in the glorious miracle of pregnancy and birth. My spirits were lifted, and my hope, renewed. This was exactly what I had asked God for.


This was my healing birth.

On Hearts Day....

It was a beautiful Monday morning in Davao City. I rode my bike to the clinic FAST... I had to make up for the few extra minutes of bonding time I'd shared with my pillow that morning. My shift was clinic and there were about 68 woman waiting for their first prenatal that morning. The women were in the next room having devotions and orientation while my co-workers and I started filing out their information on charts. Anabelle P... "Hey Annabelle!" I called to one of my co-workers, "Here's another Anabelle. Maybe you'll be her midwife." But that didn't end up being the plan.

The word 'midwife' means 'with woman'. Traditionally, we think of a midwife as the one who is with a woman during birth... One who helps to guide her baby into the world. Historically, however, midwives were intricately involved with almost all woman's health issues. Literally from birth to death. They were with the woman, offering advice, wisdom, and health support throughout her life. This is what I'm learning to do.

As I picked up the next chart from the stack, I scanned the faces of the women waiting in the room. "Anabelle?" I was tentative, not knowing who I was calling. She stood, beaming at me. "Ako si Melissa" I introduced myself. Her first baby, and she was 26... same as me. She had a bunch of questions, and I did my best to answer them. I reciprocated with my own list of questions. When I suggested that she try to drink a glass of water every hour throughout her pregnancy, she was super eager. "Oh yes mom, I will just set the alarm on my cell phone every hour!" My heart was just joyful as I noticed how happy she was about this baby within her.

I asked Anabelle  to lie down on the prenatal bed so I could check her baby's heartbeat. Strangely, I could not find it. I grabbed another Doppler, hoping that I just had a bad battery..... Still nothing. An emotion that lives next door to dread began to close it's hand around my heart. I asked my supervisor to check... I hopped so much that maybe it was just lack of experience on my part. Nope, there was still no heartbeat. After a positive pregnancy test confirmed that she was, indeed pregnant, we sent her for an ultrasound. Maybe she was just not quite as far along as she thought. My heart was finding ways to hope. When she returned with her ultrasound, I told her, she should ask for me.

Thursday started a lot like many other days. I slept late, following a late night, then I headed down to the clinic to learn about herbs that can be helpful when pregnant. Afterwards, I grabbed my bike, intending to take my computer in or repairs. When I ducked under the doorway of the clinic and excused my way through the group standing just outside, I heard my name called. There she was, my smiling little Anabelle and her husband, ultrasound results in hand. It took me a second to place her face, and as I did, I took the results from her and opened them, not thinking. The words glared at me:
                                EARLY FETAL DEMISE
 Angry, horrible, devastating words. "Ma'am Melissa, I don't know what it means." By now my hands are tingling as if they are asleep. I've never felt a dread so physical before. My mind is racing now, as I try to calm myself. I suggest we go into the clinic to talk. Back through the group of people still standing in front of the door and down the long hall.

 "God, I don't know how to tell her this.... God help me. God help her. Oh God! What do I do?! How do I tell a woman I hear only her heartbeat, when I should hear two? How do I give her this information that will destroy her dreams and break her heart? God help me!"

I wanted to find a private place to tell her. To be with her. To help her cope. To midwife for her. Every cubicle was full. I wanted to just take her in my arms. I didn't want to tell her. I stalled, making notes in her chart, photocopying the ultrasound results.... praying all the while. Feeling increasingly desperate, and choking back my own tears. Finally I sad down next to her.
"Here it goes"
"So Anabelle, these ultrasound results... the news is not so good....."
She looks at me, searching my face.
"It says that your baby has died already, inside of you."
"Ma'am, why? Is it normal?" She is trying to understand what one can never fully understand.
"No" I say, "It is not normal. It is normal for babies to live and be born healthy. But it is common." I explain to her how as many as 1/3 of pregnancies end in miscarriage. But she's halfway through her pregnancy so it seems so much harder now.

The supervisor explained to her what she now must do. Anabelle was brave, asking questions, keeping that smile frozen on her face. I asked her if I could pray for her before she left. She was so thankful for the offer. She had to walk through a hallway filled with new babies and new mothers to leave the clinic. A devastating reminder of what was not to be hers. I left the clinic soon after she did, and caught up with her on the road.
"Anabelle."
She turned from telling her husband the news, and gave me her brave smile. But she was sniffing now, the kind of sniffling that comes from tears that have been blinked back. I was sniffling too. I gave her my number, and told her to text if she needs to talk, or if she ever needs anything. I gave her a hug and told her that I was sad with her. "Maybe it is not yet my time to have a baby. At least I  know now." she said. I tried to force a brave smile, but failed miserably. Then I turned and walked away, tears now freely running down my face.

It was 'Hearts Day' here in the Philippines. Everywhere I went, people kept wishing me a Happy Hearts Day. I could think of at least two hearts that were not happy at all. Two hearts that were grieving this loss. I marveled at how we could hurt so, over a little person we'd never met. How our hearts would forever hold the memory of this precious little one who never breathed a breath.

At how two hearts would never be the same, because one little heart would never beat again.

A Few Strokes...

I'll probably never see her again.

She was a beautiful person... I could see it in her eyes. The smile on her face and the crazy, untamed  curls that framed that smile only served to confirm my initial impression. The way she danced and the way she worshiped... the way we hugged as though reunited after a long separation... I knew our hearts were being shaped by the same Hands. Her crazy, colorful outfit and the way she gasped at the beauty of the necklace I wore bore witness to the fact that we were kindred spirits.

I don't even remember her name.

I was introduced to about 35 people that night, and in the jumbled 2 hours we spent in the same room, my memory didn't even lock down a name to go with her pretty, German face. Between the worship and the games and the shaking of hands we exchanged a few words. But there was so much more to be said.

I couldn't explain how I knew.

But sometime during the worship it became clear in my heart that the necklace I wore belonged to her. The time of our visit drifted away like the fast-forward slow motion of a helium balloon that will never be recaptured. We were thrown together again in the jostle of the crowd heading down the stairs. I took her arm in mine and we each shared a snapshot of our missionary stories. She froze, mid-sentence when I slipped the strand of shells over her head. Her eyes told me what her words could not.

Why?

Every time you see this necklace, you must remember that God loves you. He took the time to show you that through a random stranger, and this little bit of beauty. This is so you will never forget. She hugged me for an answer.

I was an answer to prayers, they said.

As the group pulled away, I felt desperate to hold onto her. I really cannot be sure how or why a string of shells could possibly answer a prayer, but that story is not mine to know. I thought of her today, amazed at how The Artist would so masterfully employ his brushes on the canvass of both of our lives. And though I find it sad to let go, I understand that sometimes certain brushes are only needed for a few strokes. Maybe come heaven she and I can compare canvasses and enjoy those few short strokes He used each of us to paint on the other.