I dream of Jina. Part 2

It has been over three and a half years since I wrote the first part of this blog. By now the memories of my last days in India somewhat blur together, but the memory of this one story stays with me as strong as ever. It is the story of Jina.
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I pried my fingers from the grieving mother I was with because another mother was being placed on the empty metal bed next to her. Normally I wouldn't leave one women for another so quickly, most of all one who just lost her baby, but this new mother was seizing and I was needed to help hold her down. She was so young; her baby bump was very elongated and easy to hide behind a sari, which was surprising for her small figure. As I held her down her skin felt to me hotter than the temperature of the day, which was exactly the case. Her seizure was being caused by a fever of 106.2 F. As she was held down by my instructor, Rachel, and I, we called to the doctors for some medications to bring down the fever, but the doctors ignored our calls in the misted of the chaos. After the mothers seizure ended Rachel left me and another student, Lindsay, to care for the mom as she went to get the needed medications herself. The mother was unconscious at this time, so I left as well to gather up some cleaning rags and hand washing bowl. I rinsed out the bowl and rags as best as could before filling it with new water. I rushed back to the moms side where Lindsay and I starting placing the few rags over the mom as best we could. It was at this time that we noticed the moms belly was tightening, and then relaxing… she was in labor.

Rachel returned and administered the medications as we let her know that the mother was in labor. So she slipped on a glove and checked the mother for dilation, she was a full 10cm! I immediately checked for the baby’s heartbeat. After a quick palpation and some moving around of the pinard, I heard the sweetest sound, the song to midwives ears; a strong heartbeat! As I lightly nodded my head to the beat while watching the seconds of my watch tick, my excitement changed. The baby’s heart rate was pushing 176 BPM. If this baby was going to have any chance it needed to come out now! But with an unconscious mother, no amount of fundal pressure was going to get the baby out soon enough.

Rachel grabbed the attention of one of the doctors and upon explaining the situation asked the doctor to please bring the forceps and deliver the baby. The doctor looked at all of us trying so hard to help this one woman and said to us “Look, this is a waste of your time. This girl is 17 and no one in her family knows she is even pregnant. She lives alone with her father as her mother passed away many years ago. Her father will beat her if she returns home with a baby. She is better off if the baby dies.”

We didn’t become upset with the doctor because we knew too well how this was normal for their culture, but we also were not going to let the culture be the reason why the baby lost its life. So we didn’t give up. Rachel asked every doctor there, she even asked to perform the forceps delivery herself. Meanwhile she continued to find medications as needed, and I continued to refresh the water and rags as much as possible as Lindsay stayed by to help among helping as many other women as possible.

One hour went by... Her temperature had dropped to 105.4 F and the fetal heart rate was 172 BPM.

Another hour... Temp was now 104.8 F, fetal HR was 168 BPM

Another hour... Temp: 104.2 F, FHR: 132, Mother was still unconscious.

After three full hours we had not left her side. There was so much work to be done that Rachel convinced the first doctor we asked that if she would just deliver the baby that we would move on to help with other things. So the doctor agreed to help us. After all, if the baby was still alive after this long there may be a better chance of survival than she had originally assumed.

In preparation of this forced delivery we all gathered around and positioned ourselves so that we could hold the mother in place, pull back her legs and apply fundal pressure all on the doctor’s command. Before beginning, the doctor reached inside the mother to manually break the bag of waters. As the bag of waters broke the doctor yanked back her hand and started shaking it as if she had just touched a hot stove. The yank of her hand was followed by a think yellow fluid that steamed as it spilled onto the metal bed; meconium. FRH: 122… and dropping fast. Through a mass amount of teamwork the mother was pushed and pulled until the doctor was able to bring out a beautiful baby girl with a head full of dark dreamy Indian hair. I took one look at her and called her Jina.

The name Jina had two meanings. In Tanzania Jina meant Name, and in India I leaned from one of the nurses that it meant Loved. If anyone deserved to be loved and given a name, it was this little girl.

We cleaned her and suctioned her as best we could, but her heart rate was now only 96 and her limp body refused to breath. Rachel and I immediately began CPR as we prayed over and over for the life of Jina. Her heat rate continued to drop as her unconscious mother was being stitched up. After five minutes of CPR Jina’s heart was now beating at only 60 BMP. By 10 minutes, only 30 BMP.

At that moment the cleaning lady came in and motioned for us to give her the baby. As Rachel handed her Jina she explained that the baby was still alive and that it needed to be taken to the NICU; which in this case was a long walk up three stories and on the other side of the hospital. The cleaning lady bobbled her head and giggled at us -as they often did because she most likely didn’t understand a word we said but found our American ways funny-. She walked out of the ward with Jina held up over her shoulder in one hand and a bucket of cleaning supplies in the other. I never saw either of them again.

The mother was cleaned up and left alone as we went on about finishing up our work for the afternoon. In just a short while the workload slowed and it was time for everyone in our group to leave. As our last day at the hospital; we never saw the mother regain consciousness, and although presumed dead, I never saw Jina again.

I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for the young mother to wake up. One moment hiding a pregnancy, the next moment waking up in pain, without so much as one look at her baby. Whether she wanted the baby or not, I knew there would be no support for her. No one to tell her what happened, and no one to tell her how beautiful Jina was.

Had Jina survived and the mother been conscious, and still not wanted her, I would have certainly adopted her. I often dream of what my life would like today if I had a beautiful little girl from India who would soon be turning four years old.

The story of Jina doesn’t stay with me because it was tragic; it stays with me because it reminds me every day of what God has created me to do. 
To love those who may not understand love and to fight for those who cannot fight.