Childbirth: Dangerous Work for Women

This is the first post in Pro-Mama, a 4-part series reflecting on God's gift of life in the first 1000 days of a baby's life--from conception to age 2.

Subscribe here to make sure you don't miss a post. 

Eager “hellos” rang in my ears as I greeted my Fulani friends. I had been absent for over a year during which I gave birth to my third child, a daughter, with a midwife in a birthing center.

I brought with me printed photos of my Fulani friends to give to them. These were still the years before smart phones and photographs were a rare and treasured possession.

Eager “hellos” rang in my ears as I greeted my Fulani friends.

Eager hands reached forward to take the photos. Everyone made comments and exclamations about those in the photos, their expressions, and what was happening. They took delight in retelling the scene in which it was taken.

Another photo was taken off the stack and a hush fell over the group. I asked, “Where’s Mamma?”, for she was the one in the picture. The quiet reply came, “She died.”

I asked, “Where’s Mamma?”

She died as a result of childbirth. She had given birth to her third child just a month or two before. But tragically, probably as a result to hemorrhage or infection, she died a day or two after giving birth. Mamma left behind her husband Hammadi, who suffered crippling depression after her death, and three children.

--

Brilliant stars shone brightly, scattered over the night skies. With no towns or electricity for miles around the stars were magnificent. My husband and I finished our supper and I put my infant son to sleep for the night.

With no towns or electricity for miles around the stars were magnificent.

A friend stopped by and asked if he could use our vehicle (the only one in the community). He explained that his wife just gave birth but she wasn’t doing so well. There is no question, without hesitation we said yes and got ready to become an ambulance service. Then he asked me if I knew how to help his wife.

I had only the knowledge of one who read a great deal of birthing books, dabbled in doula training, and had given birth once myself. However, I hurried over.

Then he asked me if I knew how to help his wife.

I felt helpless and useless, which I was. Not much came from my desperate attempt to offer help. Issata said she had trouble breathing. My language skills were rudimentary at best. I left to give space to the other women and to desperately pray for Issata in my courtyard.

Within hours of the birth I heard the wailing of the women, indicating Issata had passed from life to death. Issata died after giving birth to her seventh child, either from hemorrhage or pulmonary embolism.

We never got the chance to transport Issata to the nearest clinic; her mother refused. The belief is, and it is often true, that the clinic is a place where people die. Issata’s mother wanted her daughter to die at home and in peace.

The belief is, and it is often true, that the clinic is a place where people die.

In all truth, had we taken Issata, she probably would have died during the trip, which would have included a car, a canoe, and a donkey cart. The clinic is not equipped for the emergency case that Issata would have presented. She would have needed the ambulance to take her another 50 kilometers over very bumpy roads to a bigger health center.

Issata’s new born daughter was given to her mother, the grandmother, to care for her. Issata left behind her husband, Hammadi, six daughters and one son.

--

This week I and a group of Fulani believers will face a new experience, a memorial service. These Jesus-following Fulani will take their faith and their culture and blend them together to forge a way to grieve. We will be grieving a young mother and her new born child.

This week I and a group of Fulani believers will face a new experience, a memorial service.

Several weeks ago I received word that my friend Fatumata was unwell and her husband was taking her to a hospital many miles away and across a border. This was the best and closest health care available for this young family. Then I got a message that after a troubled pregnancy, Fatumata had given birth, but her baby had died.

A day later another message: Fatumata had died too. Being too sick to travel, Fatumata never ended up traveling to the hospital. Fatumata leaves behind her husband Brehima and three children.

Being too sick to travel, Fatumata never ended up traveling to the hospital.

Mali’s rate of child mortality is one of the highest in the world. Lack of access to health care is putting lives at risk. Pregnancy and childbirth are dangerous in Mali. Malian families should rejoice after the first 1000 days of life of their children because this is the most critical time in a child’s survival.

As I reflect on my experiences of giving birth compared to my Fulani friends I see so many differences. Most of the differences have to do with access. I had access to good diet and nutrition, taking prenatal supplements and being able to eat lots of protein and fresh fruits and vegetables. I had access to good hospitals and clinics, as I was able to be in the capital city for my births. I could easily attend all my prenatal appointments with ultrasounds that could alert my doctor to any potential problems. I had access to money to pay for all of this care. There is so much disparity between my experience of the health care system and my friends.   

I could easily attend all my prenatal appointments, with ultrasounds.

How my heart aches for these women and their families. Mama, Issata, and Fatumata and her baby are not just another number in Mali’s dismal child and maternal health statistics. They were mothers, wives, sisters, and friends, my friends too.

*World Renew Mali is in the beginning stages of creating programming for a Maternal and Child Health project among the internally displaced Fulani families.

**Names have been changed to protect their identities.

[Image: Mamma, on the left, holding her second child; picture taken by Robin Heppner Entz]