MARJORY

MARJORY
C 2011 JoJo

MARJORY

When my mother became pregnant with her first child, she and Dad lived in the interior of the State of Pernambuco, Brazil. There were no doctors there, so when Mum started passing blood in her 8th month, neither she nor Dad had any idea that she had placenta previa and it was life threatening. They were both woefully ignorant about pregnancy and childbirth, and assumed that this was a natural progression of pregnancy.

The haemorrhages became worse, each one making Mum progressively weaker.

The word got around the village, as it inevitably does in small towns and villages everywhere, and one day, the town mayor took Dad aside.

“Senhor missionario, I have 6 children and even though I’m not an educated man I can tell you one thing – unless you get your wife to a doctor, she is going to die.”

Mum was too weak to travel.

The nearest doctor was located a two day’s drive from the village, so Dad got into his car, drove two days, and somehow managed to persuade the doctor to accompany him back home. I don’t know how Dad managed it because he didn’t stop to rest, but got back into the car along with the doctor and drove back. I can only imagine that the doctor did some of the driving.

After examining my mother, the doctor took Dad aside. “Senhor missionario, this is a very serious situation. If your wife has one more haemorrhage she will die. I hate to have to say this, but either I save your wife or I save your baby – I can’t save both.”

Dad didn’t hesitate “Save my wife, we can always have other children.”

So the doctor got to work. He had to break the amniotic sac so as to get labour pains started, and this was very painful for Mum. He then had to bring the baby down into the birth canal and deliver her without Mum’s help because she was too weak to push.

This was happening on June 24th – St. John the Baptist Day and a festival which in Brazil is celebrated with bonfires and fireworks going off loudly everywhere. Mindful that Mum’s life hung in the balance, the Mayor forbade any festivities and fireworks being set off. Amazingly, the entire village complied – not one firework was set off. Villagers surrounded our house silently, praying quietly among themselves that Mum’s life would be spared.

Late at night, my sister Marjory was born. Due to the trauma surrounding her birth, plus being premature by a month, the poor wee thing didn’t stand a chance – she was stillborn, just as the doctor had predicted she would be.

Mum was heartbroken, and just to make matters worse, she contracted puerperal fever which I suspect happened because the doctor didn’t sterilize his hands properly. She lay very close to death.

She told me about her experience. “I knew I was close to death, I could almost feel my spirit leave my body, and it would’ve been so easy just to let go and allow myself to die. I’d lost my baby, and was heartbroken about that. The emotional pain was almost as bad as the physical – I was in agony. Getting this fever on top of losing Marjory, was just too much to bear.”

“Then I looked down and saw your father. Exhausted, he sat on a chair, head buried in his arms, folded onto our bed, asleep. I thought to myself what a shock it would be for him to wake up and find me dead. So I decided to live – I had the choice and I made it.”

Somewhere in a remote village in North Eastern Brazil my sister Marjory is buried in a small unmarked grave. I will never know where, but think of her often. Strange though it may seem, I grieve for the older sister I never had.