New Life

Although it is dark, the purposely placed lights around my neighbor’s home highlight their grandest possession so all can admire their skillfully manicured lawn 24 hours a day.  Except I don’t.  I think of my own multicolored lawn and hope it goes unnoticed.

The kids are tucked into bed and I lay in my own, thinking of my day.  A firing of thoughts is splashing before my closed eyes. I analyze my interactions with people and how I should have said “this” or I shouldn’t have said “that.”  My long to- do list was barely touched.  My last thoughts are how I haven’t spent enough time with the kids before sleep takes pity on me and steals me away.

After a restless night of sleep I make my way to my job at the hospital registering patients in the emergency room. Here I find solace from my own thoughts. The constant challenges that other’s face make mine small in comparison. I find much needed consolation in this.

My day is almost over when a nurse escorts a Hispanic woman in labor to my empty chair.  She hands me her public aid card and I.D. No need to look at the I.D.  The card provides me with the information I needed.  Names and more names struggle to find their place on the card.  Number five didn’t stand out anymore than number one.

My interrogation of the unsuspecting Marisol begins, disguised as the registration process. I hope my eyes don’t give away my reaction to her unmarried status; I quickly drop them down to the floor where a brightly colored diaper bag awaits.  In contrast to everything else Marisol owned it is shiny and new.  I wonder why the need for a t-shirt that says “Baby on Board” despite the bump that spills over her bright red pants.

“Would you like me to direct your coach to Labor and Delivery when they arrive?” I ask.  For the first time, but not the last, Marisol surprises me by informing me that she doesn’t have a coach.  Marisol is on this mission alone. I’m not sure how to proceed. I’m frozen and shamefully I think of all the things I need to do at home once I leave work, none of which includes helping a stranger I met in the emergency room.

I decide that the least I can do is to take her to her room and get her settled. I’m pushing the button to the fifth floor before reality sets in where I’m heading with this young woman. As the elevator rises to its destination so does my sense of doing the right thing.

Once the prodding and poking from hospital staff ends, which Marisol patiently endures, she sits up in her sterile bed.  I’m amazed to find Marisol speaks fluent English, although, as the pain intensifies, so does her Spanish.  Marisol’s pain becomes too much for me to bare. She eventually gives in to my pleading for her to except the nurses offer of pain relief. This was to be her first pain-free delivery.  As the meds swirl around inside her small body to my relief, she then begins telling her story.  She speaks openly and with joy about her life.  When she talks of her children her plain face takes on a beauty I hadn’t noticed before.

Marisol explains how not too long ago her and her children faced hunger, homelessness and having the last of their belongings stolen to cross the border to come to America for a better life.  She left behind her own mother and nine siblings. Finally, after all she overcame; her two bedroom apartment was her victory.  Where she came from, women didn’t have any purpose other than to produce children and care for their husbands. Because her mother didn’t have a formal education she was forced to except her husband’s beatings. I was held hostage by the woman’s artfully spoken words, and we both almost forgot the circumstances that brought us together.  Marisol had taught herself English and was proud to be starting classes at her community college soon. If Marisol hadn’t taken the risk she had, she would have continued to follow her mother’s life path. This baby was Marisol’s first in her new life and I was witnessing its birth.

After a quick visit from a nurse, the doctor rushes in ready with his commands, but thoughtful warm words are forgotten or apparently saved for another, more deserving patient. Marisol sits up and does what she has to do to bring forth life with a meaningful push.  Her effort is joined with a tiny wail.  I watch in awe as the doctor lifts the baby up for the mother’s inspection. Through tear filled eyes, I grab the camera from the side table and snap pictures of this 26 year old mother and soldier of life.

Marisol’s bravery made me question my own life.  I never finished high school.  I dropped out of school when I was 16.  I had my first baby at the age of 17, and second at 18.  Maybe I wasn’t so different from Marisol as I once thought. Until this moment, education never occurred to me. It was only for those with the pretty houses and the beautifully manicured lawns.

There isn’t much verbal communication between us after this point.  Anything that needs to be said is told through a genuine hug or kiss usually reserved for family. I leave reluctantly, without exchanging phone numbers.  Both of us know it will be in vain. As I walk away, I think, “If Marisol had a lawn, she would light it up for all to see whether it’s green and plush or brown and patchy.”