The following post was written by our co-worker Lyndy Henrickson, and was originally posted on her blog (http://mkteacher.blogspot.com). Lyndy teaches the missionary kids of the Mara Cluster and we hope she's still around when Zarya is old enough to attend school! This blog post is Lyndy's personal experience from this past August and, I will warn you in advance, is not an easy read. I think it is a sad and true insight into life and the worldview where we serve.
On Tuesday, August 28th, a little baby boy was born. On the side of the road, just outside my gate.
It was right after school, and my teammate Chris Gilmore had just come to pick up her son. She recalls seeing a woman slide off the back of a motorcycle taxi onto the grass. As she drove out the gate a few minutes later, she saw that the woman had just given birth! She must have been on her way to the hospital, not far from my house, when the baby decided he couldn't wait even a minute more. (Can you imagine riding side-saddle on the back of a motorbike while in labor?!)
Chris quickly stopped the car and got out to help, calling for me to come, too. The baby was alive... but not crying. She tried to clear his mouth and nose, and could feel him responding to her touch, but he still hadn't started breathing for himself. Feeling completely out of our depth, we lifted the young mother and her baby into Chris' car to rush them to the hospital.
The odd thing was, we seemed to be the only ones who felt any urgency. The woman who had come with the mother, as well as a couple others who had joined us in the street, acted somewhat surprised by our concern. The mother herself, poor thing, was exhausted--and already past hope. We learned that she had given birth to one other baby, who had also died. She didn't resist our efforts; she was just completely passive. So Chris told me to rub the baby's gums, to continue stimulating him, as we rode to the hospital. I could feel his jaws move.
Unfortunately, once we got to the hospital, the scary situation turned into a nightmare. Chris ran inside to get help... and was laughed at. Eventually, she persuaded people to come out, although they certainly took their time in coming. The mother was helped onto a simple metal gurney, and a nurse cut the umbilical cord and examined the baby. With Chris standing there, pointing out the signs of life, the nurse started to wrap the baby in a cloth, ready to pronounce him dead. When Chris protested, insisting that he could be saved with help, the nurse grudgingly made some attempts--including holding the baby upside down by his ankles and shaking him so hard he was whipping back and forth! I can't get that image out of my mind. They wheeled the mother and baby inside, Chris following to see that they received treatment. (I stayed in the car with Chris' son Braden, who was patient throughout the ordeal. It's not the first time his parents have suddenly turned into ambulance drivers.) We waited and prayed. When Chris came out later, she was visibly upset. She kept saying that the hospital ward was the most traumatic thing she'd ever seen, that she was so glad I hadn't come inside, too.
She said the lack of facilities and training was horrifying. Everywhere there were women in labor, screaming, with very little being done for them. There was a single oxygen tank being used for four little newborns, with an attendant moving the mask from one to another, in turn. And Chris said the man in charge knew even less what to do than she did. She kept after the staff until someone brought a stethoscope, and they heard "our" baby's heart beating. "He's a fighter," she said. "With the right help, he could make it."
However, as she composed herself to go back inside, her expression told me she wasn't confident the baby would get the help he needed. Even the man in charge did not know CPR. Chris said she listened as the baby's heartbeat grew faither, and she felt his spirit leave him.
As we left the hospital, Chris mourned the prevailing attitude even more than the lack of training and facilities. Everyone she saw thought she was crazy for caring about this baby. Even the other mothers in the ward were laughing at her efforts. The hospital staff, she was sure, wouldn't have taken action at all, if not for her pestering them to do this or that.
Also, we were disappointed, to be honest. We know that God's plans are greater than our plans, but we had hoped He would step in, and that everyone there would see His power and care. We had publicly prayed for the baby to live, wanting to see God reveal Himself and get the credit. Instead He chose to have that baby experience only an hour of this life and then took him straight to heaven. He knows best, and we have to trust that, even if we don't understand.
Meanwhile, Chris and I were left with a strong impression of the fatalistic society in which we're living. "If it's meant to be, it will happen, and if it's not meant to be, there's nothing you can do." This thinking drives Tanzanian behavior, just as ours is driven by cause-and-effect thinking, that we can influence outcomes by our actions. I imagine that Tanzanians' fatalism helps them cope with their very difficult lives. But, as we witnessed, the laid-back mentality has a dark side.
