were blank-faced, neutral. As far as they were concerned, this was how it was.
“Isn’t there another way?”
“Oh sure,” the resident said.
Down the hall were more rooms. No rubber bassinets here, just ordinary hospital beds with women panting and groaning, with the occasional cry of pain. Most of the beds had IV lines hanging from them.
“Now, here, these women get an epidural, a slow spinal drip, for pain. And they maybe get a little Demerol, and they just work with the pain.”
It seemed much better here, much more human.
“Yeah. Whatever,” the resident said.
There were more rooms down the hall.
“Down there,” the resident said, “is where we have the girls from the Home.”
“The Home?”
“The unwed mothers,” he said, and named the home where they came from.
We walked down there.
“You gotta keep an eye on the nurses here,” he said. “If you’re not careful, they won’t give the girls anything for pain at all. Sometimes they let ’em get all the way to the delivery room with nothing at all. Sort of punishment for their sins.”
I expressed disbelief. I was back in Dante’s hell.
“Yeah, well, it’s Boston,” the resident said.
We went into this room. It was incredibly tranquil. Four or fiveteenage girls, panting and breathing and counting contractions. Only one nurse to attend them, and she was out of the room a lot. Some of the girls were having a great deal of pain, and they looked frightened, to be alone, experiencing this pain. I stayed in the room with them.
One girl, named Debbie, was red-haired and pretty. She was glad for some company and told me all about the Home, and the nuns who ran it. Debbie wasn’t Catholic, but her family had been angry when she got pregnant. They had taken her to the Home five months earlier. They hadn’t come to see her since. A few friends from school came to visit, though not many. Her sister wrote letters, but said her father wouldn’t let anyone from the family visit Debbie until it was over.
Debbie said the nuns were okay if you didn’t pay any attention to their lectures about sin. She said the Home was okay. Most of the girls were fifteen or sixteen. They all worried about missing school. Debbie would have to do her sophomore year over.
Debbie had read a lot of books about childbirth, and she told me how the baby developed in the uterus, how at first it was like a pinhead but then a couple of months later there was a beating heart and everything. She told me about breaking water and about contractions and how you had to breathe with the pain; she and the other girls had practiced the breathing. She knew they weren’t going to give her painkillers. She had heard that. The nuns had told her.
From time to time as we talked, she would stop to go through the contractions. She asked to hold my hand during the contractions, and she would squeeze it hard. Then she would let go, until the next time.
Debbie explained that the girls talked a lot about keeping their babies, that most of them wanted to keep them, but a lot of the girls wouldn’t be fit mothers in Debbie’s opinion. She herself wanted to keep her baby, but she knew she couldn’t, because her father would never allow it, and anyway she had to go back to school.
“Can I have your hand again?”
Another set of contractions. She looked at the wall clock. She told me they were only three minutes apart. It wouldn’t be too long now, she said.
I talked to some of the other girls in the room. They were all the same, all right there with the pains, paying attention, going through it. Most of them said they didn’t want to see the baby after it was born: they were afraid that it would be too hard if they saw the baby. They were experiencing intense physical pain, and they were talking about intense emotional pain, but they were all right with it. They all had a calmness and a dignity.
* * *
Meanwhile, back in the high-class rooms, the private patients, the respectable
“Isn’t there another way?”
“Oh sure,” the resident said.
Down the hall were more rooms. No rubber bassinets here, just ordinary hospital beds with women panting and groaning, with the occasional cry of pain. Most of the beds had IV lines hanging from them.
“Now, here, these women get an epidural, a slow spinal drip, for pain. And they maybe get a little Demerol, and they just work with the pain.”
It seemed much better here, much more human.
“Yeah. Whatever,” the resident said.
There were more rooms down the hall.
“Down there,” the resident said, “is where we have the girls from the Home.”
“The Home?”
“The unwed mothers,” he said, and named the home where they came from.
We walked down there.
“You gotta keep an eye on the nurses here,” he said. “If you’re not careful, they won’t give the girls anything for pain at all. Sometimes they let ’em get all the way to the delivery room with nothing at all. Sort of punishment for their sins.”
I expressed disbelief. I was back in Dante’s hell.
“Yeah, well, it’s Boston,” the resident said.
We went into this room. It was incredibly tranquil. Four or fiveteenage girls, panting and breathing and counting contractions. Only one nurse to attend them, and she was out of the room a lot. Some of the girls were having a great deal of pain, and they looked frightened, to be alone, experiencing this pain. I stayed in the room with them.
One girl, named Debbie, was red-haired and pretty. She was glad for some company and told me all about the Home, and the nuns who ran it. Debbie wasn’t Catholic, but her family had been angry when she got pregnant. They had taken her to the Home five months earlier. They hadn’t come to see her since. A few friends from school came to visit, though not many. Her sister wrote letters, but said her father wouldn’t let anyone from the family visit Debbie until it was over.
Debbie said the nuns were okay if you didn’t pay any attention to their lectures about sin. She said the Home was okay. Most of the girls were fifteen or sixteen. They all worried about missing school. Debbie would have to do her sophomore year over.
Debbie had read a lot of books about childbirth, and she told me how the baby developed in the uterus, how at first it was like a pinhead but then a couple of months later there was a beating heart and everything. She told me about breaking water and about contractions and how you had to breathe with the pain; she and the other girls had practiced the breathing. She knew they weren’t going to give her painkillers. She had heard that. The nuns had told her.
From time to time as we talked, she would stop to go through the contractions. She asked to hold my hand during the contractions, and she would squeeze it hard. Then she would let go, until the next time.
Debbie explained that the girls talked a lot about keeping their babies, that most of them wanted to keep them, but a lot of the girls wouldn’t be fit mothers in Debbie’s opinion. She herself wanted to keep her baby, but she knew she couldn’t, because her father would never allow it, and anyway she had to go back to school.
“Can I have your hand again?”
Another set of contractions. She looked at the wall clock. She told me they were only three minutes apart. It wouldn’t be too long now, she said.
I talked to some of the other girls in the room. They were all the same, all right there with the pains, paying attention, going through it. Most of them said they didn’t want to see the baby after it was born: they were afraid that it would be too hard if they saw the baby. They were experiencing intense physical pain, and they were talking about intense emotional pain, but they were all right with it. They all had a calmness and a dignity.
* * *
Meanwhile, back in the high-class rooms, the private patients, the respectable
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