From Valentine's Day to International Women's Day

On Valentine’s Day, as I was walking back toward the hospital after buying a Coke from the Red Cross canteen (a little shop adjacent to the hospital “car park” where they sell snacks, soft drinks, and sadza), a man about my age walked briskly toward me, saying, “Hi doc, I’m sorry to interrupt you but can I ask a personal question?” My mind jumped to: where’s the rash? Instead, he continued, “It’s about my wife. She was admitted to the labour ward for an induction today, but now they’re sending her back to the antepartum ward because she isn’t having contractions.” (The labour ward has a strict no visitors policy, which also means no husbands.Throughout the rest of the hospital, visitors are only allowed for two hour-long periods each day.) 

He went on to tell me about the recent course of his wife’s pregnancy, and I was becoming curious about what the “personal question” would be. After a few minutes, he asked simply, “Do you think she’ll be okay? Do you think the baby will be okay? Do you think it’s okay for her to be transferred?” I reassured him that what was going on with his wife seemed normal and that the doctors caring for her wouldn’t transfer her if they didn’t think it was safe and appropriate to do so. We spoke for a few minutes about what he could expect moving forward before he said, “Do you think you can do one thing for me? When you go back inside could you find her and check on her? Her name is Cecilia. I just love her so much. I want to be sure she’s doing okay.” His words were so heartfelt and his eyes so full of love and concern that I could feel my own eyes brimming with tears. I gave him a hug and promised him that I would find her. 

{entrance to the labour ward}

Fortunately, when I went back inside, Cecilia was still in the labour ward (which has 13 beds compared to 50+ in the antepartum ward). I found her curled up on her left side (all women in the labour ward are encouraged—or perhaps one might say mandated—by the no-nonsense midwives to lie on their left because it maximizes blood flow through the placenta) in one of the cubicles. She was breathing deeply and was clearly very uncomfortable. I passed along the message from her husband and talked briefly with her about her plan of care. Before I left her bedside, I said, “It’s obvious that your husband adores you.” She smiled, and through her tired eyes, I could see that the feeling was mutual. 

{labour ward on a quiet morning}

I tried to find Cecilia the next morning, but I didn’t have any luck (it’s not as simple as typing a patient’s name into the electronic medical record to find a room number). A bit later, when I was getting a ride home from one of the registrars (doctors in training—similar to residents), we drove past the outdoor family waiting area. The husband (whose name I have forgotten but whose kind eyes made a lasting impression) saw me; he smiled broadly and waved. I wish I could say that he was holding a baby in his arms (for confirmation that all had gone smoothly), but he wasn’t. I have taken his big smile as an indicator of a positive outcome (which is probably reasonable given what I had learned of Cecilia’s pregnancy, but it’s certainly not as sure a bet as it might be elsewhere in the world). 

{Dave & me - with a new mama (not Cecilia) & baby,
a midwife, and a nursing student}

I am so pleased to have met Cecilia and her husband when I did—not just because they brightened my Valentine’s Day when I was 63 degrees of latitude away from my husband—but because they showed me a happier example of gender relations than I had been seeing in the preceding days. Recent examples included a woman in her third trimester of pregnancy who had learned a few weeks prior that her husband tested positive for HIV after he had been away on business (it is not uncommon to hear of men "taking multiple wives," which seems to be another way of saying that they are engaging in extramarital affairs), a Bible verse posted in the admissions area of the maternity hospital about how God will multiply a woman’s pain during childbirth yet she will still desire her husband because he RULES (yes, in all caps) over her, and a Shona pejorative (Ngo mwa) which means “completely useless” and is used to refer to infertile women. 

Of course, the concept of gender inequality was not a new discovery to me on this trip, but for some reason it was especially troubling this time (perhaps it’s because I was working in a maternity ward serving a particularly impoverished population or perhaps the disparity is more overt in Zimbabwe than in other places I’ve traveled). I was discussing it with one of the registrars, who said (completely unironically), "I don't really understand why women want equal rights. Why would they want to go to work all day and then have to go home and take care of the kids and the house and cook dinner?" Of course, that led to a longer conversation in which I unsuccessfully attempted to teach him that advancing women's rights is better for everyone - healthier, more fulfilled women; daughters who end up earning more and sons who end up contributing more to the care of their families; reduction of gender stereotypes for both women and men; stronger national economies; and, most importantly, creating an environment of mutual respect that allows members of all genders to pursue a life of happiness and love.

It's been about a month since I met Cecilia and her husband, so now I'm writing my Valentine's Day post on International Women's Day, which also seems appropriate as the story highlights both how far we've come (in some ways) and how far we have to go (in many other ways) in order to advance the rights of women (and men and children!) around the world.

{why not end with a gorgeous picture of the Zambezi River?}