Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [30]
The need to push came again, and Jane closed her eyes to concentrate. It did not hurt exactly; it was more like being incredibly, impossibly constipated. She found it helpful to groan as she strained, and she wanted to explain to Rabia that this was not a groan of agony, but she was too busy pushing to talk.
In the next pause, Rabia knelt down and untied the drawstring of Jane’s trousers, then eased them off. “Do you want to make water before I wash you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She helped Jane get up and walk behind the screen, then held her shoulders while she sat on the pot.
Zahara brought a bowl of warm water and took the pot away. Rabia washed Jane’s tummy, thighs and private parts, assuming for the first time a rather brisk air as she did so. Then Jane lay down again. Rabia washed her own hands and dried them. She showed Jane a small jar of blue powder—copper sulfate, Jane guessed—and said: “This color frightens the evil spirits.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Put a little on your brow.”
“All right,” said Jane; then she added: “Thank you.”
Rabia smeared a little of the powder on Jane’s forehead. I don’t mind magic when it’s harmless, Jane thought, but what will she do if there is a real medical problem? And just exactly how many weeks premature is this baby?
She was still worrying when the next contraction began, so she was not concentrating on riding the wave of pressure and in consequence it was very painful. I mustn’t worry, she thought; I must make myself relax.
Afterward she felt exhausted and rather sleepy. She closed her eyes. She felt Rabia unbutton her shirt—the one she had borrowed from Jean-Pierre that afternoon, a hundred years ago. Rabia began to massage Jane’s tummy with some kind of lubricant, probably clarified butter. She dug her fingers in. Jane opened her eyes and said: “Don’t try to move the baby.”
Rabia nodded, but continued to probe, one hand on the top of Jane’s bulge and the other at the bottom. “The head is down,” she said finally. “All is well. But the baby will come very soon. You should get up now.”
Zahara and Rabia helped Jane stand and take two steps forward onto the earth-covered plastic sheet. Rabia got behind her and said: “Stand on my feet.”
Jane did as she was told, although she was not sure of the logic of this. Rabia eased her into a squat, crouching behind her. So this was the local birthing position. “Sit on me,” said Rabia. “I can hold you.” Jane let her weight settle on the old woman’s thighs. The position was surprisingly comfortable and reassuring.
Jane felt her muscles begin to tighten again. She gritted her teeth and bore down, groaning. Zahara squatted in front of her. For a while there was nothing in Jane’s mind but the pressure. At last it eased, and she slumped, exhausted and half asleep, letting Rabia take her weight.
When it started again there was a new pain, a sharp burning sensation in her crotch. Zahara suddenly said: “It comes.”
“Don’t push now,” said Rabia. “Let the baby swim out.”
The pressure eased. Rabia and Zahara changed places, and now Rabia squatted between Jane’s legs, watching intently. The pressure began again. Jane gritted her teeth. Rabia said: “Don’t push. Be calm.” Jane tried to relax. Rabia looked at her and reached up to touch her face, saying: “Don’t bite down. Make your mouth loose.” Jane let her jaw sag, and found that it helped her to relax.
The burning sensation came again, worse than ever, and Jane knew the baby was almost born: she could feel its head pushing through, stretching her opening impossibly wide. She cried out with the pain—and suddenly it eased, and for a moment she could feel nothing. She looked down. Rabia reached between her thighs, calling out the names of the prophets. Through a haze of tears Jane saw something round and dark in the midwife’s hands.
“Don’t pull,” Jane said. “Don’t pull the head.”
“No,” said Rabia.
Jane felt the pressure again. At that moment Rabia said: “A small push for the shoulder.” Jane closed her