If your baby is born on a Friday, look out!
And other things I learned while living in Benin
Five years ago today I sat in the courtyard of a hospital in Cotonou, Benin, waiting to hear if my good friend Anie had given birth yet. On this Throwback Thursday, here is an excerpt from my journal on that day. (Quick note: I was a Fulbrighter in Benin, so I need to let you know that this is not an official Department of State article and the views and information presented are my own and do not represent the Fulbright Program or the U.S. Department of State.)
Friday, May 21, 2010
The baby was born today! For a few weeks now Anie has felt like the baby was coming, but each time we went to see the doctor he told her that the baby wasn’t ready yet. So when Anie called today and told me she was at the hospital I kind of figured it was a false alarm. Or hoped, really, because I was supposed to have friends over for dinner and had just run out of gas for my cooker. I ran across the street to ask the mechanic if he could fix my tank and hailed a zem (motorcycle taxi) to swing by the hospital. I arrived about as unprepared as a person could be, which was unfortunate because I was the garde-malade.
What is a garde-malade, you ask? Good question. It’s something I learned the hard way. Basically it is someone who helps take care of the needs of a patient at the hospital. Typically it would be a member of the extended family or a friend. It might also be a person who is prepared for a long stay in the heat, with a piece of cloth to spread out upon which to sit, who has thought ahead to bring food and beverages to sustain herself during the vigil. This person might even bring enough money to go out and get something to eat if she needs to. Or a book to read as the hours stretch on. Or she could arrive completely unprepared, which is exactly what happened.
I expected to meet Anie in the clinic where she and I had gone on prior visits but when I went to the desk the men working there said that they had no record of her. After a nice half-hour conversation during which none of us came to any consensus about naming conventions, they determined that I was using the wrong name. Yes, that’s right. Anie and I are great friends but I have no idea what her full name is. It’s long and she doesn’t use the full name in conversation, but apparently when you go to the hospital to have a baby they like to get all technical and use the name on your identity card. Sticklers.
I was directed to another building that housed the maternity ward and thankfully when I went to the door (with her full name spelled out on a piece of paper) I was told she was inside. I expected to go in to a waiting room, but instead was directed to the courtyard full of people. I looked around and found a spot to hang out near some women speaking Yoruba. I figured it would give me a chance to practice — or at least practice eavesdropping to see if I could catch any words I knew. Anie called me a few minutes later to let me know she was “sur la table” I was a bit surprised. I guess, as someone who has never been in labor, I find it amazing that she would have her phone on her. I asked if I should do any thing, she said no, just to wait and the nurses would call me when they needed me. Needed me for what? I’d find out soon enough.
The time stretched on and I had a chance to check out the families around me. Some groups looked hopeful, others bored, and still others worried. One such group was sitting close to me and there were many family members around. At one point a new member of the group arrived and they all walked to a semi-secluded area and held hands while a pastor led them in prayer.
It was while I was watching them that a woman sitting nearby yelled out “yovo” (European/white person). I swung my head around and she indicated that the nurses were looking for me. I went up to the door and they explained that Anie was in labor and needed medication. Ok, sounds good to me. I looked at them. They looked at me. I wasn’t sure what was expected of me, but at this point I think it’s safe to say that I was drawing some attention. My skills in the French language are constantly in need of improvement, which typically leads to much gesticulation and raised voices when I hold a conversation with someone. Throw in medical and/or culturally specific terms, plus a third language (Yoruba or Fongbe, depending) and I think you get my drift. Lots of miscommunication with maybe a touch of frustration thrown in for good measure.
Anyway, at this point I called Bienvenu (Anie’s husband) to see where he was and if he could help me understand the situation. He was stuck at work administering an exam and was trying frantically to get someone to cover his class. He told me to stay there, give the nurses some money and ask them to find someone who could actually perform the duties of a garde-malade. So far I was pretty much falling down on the job. In every way. Oh yeah, and I was supposed to bring Anie’s overnight bag that she kept at my house but I forgot that too.
I sat down to wait again, and reflected on another looming task. About a month ago Anie asked me to give the baby a name. Helping to name a child is significant, it means that there should be a lasting bond between us. I’d mulled over potential names but nothing seemed right. For a while I thought that a Yoruba name would be good, until I mentioned it to Anie last week and I could see in her face that she wasn’t too keen on it. She told me that she’d prefer an American name. The only problem is that American names don’t have meaning.
Thankfully my brainstorming session was cut short by another phone call from Anie. “I’m close, I’m really ready,” she told me. Yes! Fantastic! Where is Bienvenu?! A couple minutes later I was called up again and the nurses let me know that the baby had been born. Where, they asked, was the poe? Excuse me, what is the poe?
Much gesticulating, pointing, and pantomiming later I realized it had something to do with the placenta.
What on earth could I possibly have in my possession that would relate to a placenta other than my belly button!? Fortunately, at this point they realized that I was completely clueless and enlisted the help of a young woman sitting nearby. She told me that she knew where to buy the plastic lidded pot (oh, the French language and those stupid silent letters). And so it was that another stranger had to come to my aid.
At this point I really needed some food (and let’s face it, a beer as well). The nurses told me to wait there. Meanwhile Anie called and told me that the baby had arrived and she was a healthy girl! Bienvenu also arrived right then and we were able to greet the baby together when the nurses brought her out. She’s beautiful! I’m so happy to have been a part of this day in my own inept way. Bienvenu was beaming as he held her, and he didn’t want to give her back but the nurses insisted. Anie was going to have to stay at the hospital overnight and we weren’t allowed in to see her so we’d just have to leave. We called Anie and congratulated her, she sounded really tired and happy to be able to rest.
Bienvenu and I grabbed a bite to eat and he explained a couple things to me. First, the reason we needed a pot was to transport the placenta so that it could be buried. Typically that is done under/near a tree in the family home as a symbolic gesture of the circle of life (from what I could understand). But babies who are born on Fridays are known to be a bit wild. One way to curtail the bad behavior in advance is to throw the placenta (in the pot) into a body of water so that it is carried off — hopefully taking along some of the bad behavior. Sound bizarre to you? It did to me until I started thinking about some people who were born on a Friday. Makes perfect sense to me now. If only there was a retroactive placebo ceremony we could do for them.
So now I’ve decided on a name to give to the baby. I realize why I was having such trouble figuring out a significant name — I thought the name needed to be meaningful in and of itself. But really, what makes the name is the symbolic nature of the process. I’m giving her the name Heather, the name that my mom was going to give me until the second she saw me and decided I was a Marcy instead.
