Fit Pregnancy Goes To Peru with CARE

Day Three, Part Three&mdash:My Biggest Day Ever

Day Three, Part Three—Hogar Materno (Maternity Home)

In addition to running the hospital, the doctors and midwives operate a home for pregnant women to live in during the days and weeks leading up to their delivery; located up a steep flight of stone stairs on the periphery of the hospital grounds. Wimp that I am, I had to hold Dr. Felix’s hand to make it back down. Constructed from cement blocks, wood, stone and corrugated metal, it’s divided into small rooms to accommodate ten nearly-due women, their families, pets, livestock and whoever else they need to bring with them. That’s the deal. They get to bring anyone they want; anyone who needs them. 

Here’s how it works: Prior to 2000, barely anyone delivered in the hospital and lots of mothers and babies died during their home births from hemorrhage, or infection, preeclampsia or inability to push their baby out. Today? Almost all women in the area deliver in hospital. As far into the mountains as we were, we were still miles and hours away from many of the farms where this clinic’s patients live. Women like Simona (42-years old and overdue with her sixth child), walked three hours to a taxi-post, then drove another three hours on dangerous roads with her husband to wait for labor to start. 

Once a week, healthcare workers hop on motorcycles and drive into the mountains to find out who’s pregnant. They provide basic prenatal care and find a way for these women to come to the hospital for check ups. When they’re near their due date, or if there are any complications, they make the trip to Hogar Materno (the maternity house) where they’ll live until they deliver. There’s no other way to guarantee they’ll get to skilled help in time. If they have any serious complications they’re transported by ambulance to Ayacucho’s hospital. When labor starts, they walk down the steep stairs to the obstetric wing: one labor bed, a small delivery room and a 4-bed post-partum/recovery unit. 

The pride of the delivery room is the vertical birthing chair designed and built (for less than $150.00) by the clinic staff. Quechua women feel so strongly about delivering in a vertical position with their feet on Pacha Mama (mother earth), failure to accommodate this would be a deal-breaker. Women would rather risk dying at home than be forced to submit to the previously routine “horizontal, legs-in-the-stirrups” position. The vertical chair allows women to sit for birth with their husband sitting behind them, holding them up. If they get into a big emergency, they can slide stirrups onto the bottom of the bed and change her position rapidly. 

Anyone out there who wants to invest in grassroots microfinance in a developing country, this is your chance. This birthing bed/chair is brilliant in its efficiency and simplicity, its sustainability and symbol of cultural respect. Contact CARE, they’ll hook you up. 

There weren’t any women in labor during our visit so Ricardo demonstrated how the chair worked and even dropped his legs into the stirrups. This was a Kodak moment. Any guy who’s willing to “assume the position” is OK by me. We laughed and joked but this was a serious display of dedication to the job. Whatever it took, even at the expense of his dignity, was fine by him. Clearly, one needs a big heart and an excellent sense of humor to work this gig. Out of 300 babies born in 2008, only two were stillborn. Every mother lived. 

We sat on wooden benches in Hogar Materno and chatted with four women waiting for delivery. I asked basic questions in English while Sarah, my miracle-worker, translated to Spanish. Bascilia translated when necessary to Quechua. Sarah broke the ice by confiding she knew a little Quechua; that some guy had told her she had a Hatun Siqui(fat ass). Really? It’s not that big. She’s kind of tiny. They giggled and relaxed. She’d leveled the playing field and now it was girl-talk. Simona, Emilia, Gloria and Yudita told me their stories. 

23-year-old Yudita was six days overdue with her third child. Her first would have been seven but was stillborn. She’d been at Hogar Materno for almost a month while her four-year-old stayed back at the farm with her family, (a three-hour walk to a three-hour taxi ride). She’d finished primary school (elementary school) but couldn’t afford any education beyond that. She grew quiet after she spoke of her stillborn child. Obviously, it weighed heavily on her mind with another child on its way. 

Simona cried when she talked about her family. She missed them desperately and though she’d had all her other children at home (there’s a 14-year gap between her next oldest child and this pregnancy), at her age she knew the risk of delivering at home was too great. Who would take care of her other children if she died at home?

Emilia, 33, was expecting her third child. Her four-year-old Denitsa, played in her lap. She’d almost finished high school but couldn’t afford the school supplies and fees for the final year that would have given her a certificate of graduation. Sarah translated, “only one more year and I could have gotten out of here.” Out of here meant life in Ayacucho. 
In addition to running the hospital, the doctors and midwives operate a home for pregnant women to live in during the days and weeks leading up to their delivery; located up a steep flight of stone stairs on the periphery of the hospital grounds. Wimp that I am, I had to hold Dr. Felix’s hand to make it back down. Constructed from cement blocks, wood, stone and corrugated metal, it’s divided into small rooms to accommodate ten nearly-due women, their families, pets, livestock and whoever else they need to bring with them. That’s the deal. They get to bring anyone they want; anyone who needs them. 

Here’s how it works: Prior to 2000, barely anyone delivered in the hospital and lots of mothers and babies died during their home births from hemorrhage, or infection, preeclampsia or inability to push their baby out. Today? Almost all women in the area deliver in hospital. As far into the mountains as we were, we were still miles and hours away from many of the farms where this clinic’s patients live. Women like Simona (42-years old and overdue with her sixth child), walked three hours to a taxi-post, then drove another three hours on dangerous roads with her husband to wait for labor to start. 

Once a week, healthcare workers hop on motorcycles and drive into the mountains to find out who’s pregnant. They provide basic prenatal care and find a way for these women to come to the hospital for check ups. When they’re near their due date, or if there are any complications, they make the trip to Hogar Materno (the maternity house) where they’ll live until they deliver. There’s no other way to guarantee they’ll get to skilled help in time. If they have any serious complications they’re transported by ambulance to Ayacucho’s hospital. When labor starts, they walk down the steep stairs to the obstetric wing: one labor bed, a small delivery room and a 4-bed post-partum/recovery unit. 

The pride of the delivery room is the vertical birthing chair designed and built (for less than $150.00) by the clinic staff. Quechua women feel so strongly about delivering in a vertical position with their feet on Pacha Mama (mother earth), failure to accommodate this would be a deal-breaker. Women would rather risk dying at home than be forced to submit to the previously routine “horizontal, legs-in-the-stirrups” position. The vertical chair allows women to sit for birth with their husband sitting behind them, holding them up. If they get into a big emergency, they can slide stirrups onto the bottom of the bed and change her position rapidly. 

Anyone out there who wants to invest in grassroots microfinance in a developing country, this is your chance. This birthing bed/chair is brilliant in its efficiency and simplicity, its sustainability and symbol of cultural respect. Contact CARE, they’ll hook you up. 

There weren’t any women in labor during our visit so Ricardo demonstrated how the chair worked and even dropped his legs into the stirrups. This was a Kodak moment. Any guy who’s willing to “assume the position” is OK by me. We laughed and joked but this was a serious display of dedication to the job. Whatever it took, even at the expense of his dignity, was fine by him. Clearly, one needs a big heart and an excellent sense of humor to work this gig. Out of 300 babies born in 2008, only two were stillborn. Every mother lived. 

We sat on wooden benches in Hogar Materno and chatted with four women waiting for delivery. I asked basic questions in English while Sarah, my miracle-worker, translated to Spanish. Bascilia translated when necessary to Quechua. Sarah broke the ice by confiding she knew a little Quechua; that some guy had told her she had a Hatun Siqui(fat ass). Really? It’s not that big. She’s kind of tiny. They giggled and relaxed. She’d leveled the playing field and now it was girl-talk. Simona, Emilia, Gloria and Yudita told me their stories. 

23-year-old Yudita was six days overdue with her third child. Her first would have been seven but was stillborn. She’d been at Hogar Materno for almost a month while her four-year-old stayed back at the farm with her family, (a three-hour walk to a three-hour taxi ride). She’d finished primary school (elementary school) but couldn’t afford any education beyond that. She grew quiet after she spoke of her stillborn child. Obviously, it weighed heavily on her mind with another child on its way. 

Simona cried when she talked about her family. She missed them desperately and though she’d had all her other children at home (there’s a 14-year gap between her next oldest child and this pregnancy), at her age she knew the risk of delivering at home was too great. Who would take care of her other children if she died at home?

Emilia, 33, was expecting her third child. Her four-year-old Denitsa, played in her lap. She’d almost finished high school but couldn’t afford the school supplies and fees for the final year that would have given her a certificate of graduation. Sarah translated, “only one more year and I could have gotten out of here.” Out of here meant life in Ayacucho. 
In addition to running the hospital, the doctors and midwives operate a home for pregnant women to live in during the days and weeks leading up to their delivery; located up a steep flight of stone stairs on the periphery of the hospital grounds. Wimp that I am, I had to hold Dr. Felix’s hand to make it back down. Constructed from cement blocks, wood, stone and corrugated metal, it’s divided into small rooms to accommodate ten nearly-due women, their families, pets, livestock and whoever else they need to bring with them. That’s the deal. They get to bring anyone they want; anyone who needs them. 

Here’s how it works: Prior to 2000, barely anyone delivered in the hospital and lots of mothers and babies died during their home births from hemorrhage, or infection, preeclampsia or inability to push their baby out. Today? Almost all women in the area deliver in hospital. As far into the mountains as we were, we were still miles and hours away from many of the farms where this clinic’s patients live. Women like Simona (42-years old and overdue with her sixth child), walked three hours to a taxi-post, then drove another three hours on dangerous roads with her husband to wait for labor to start. 

Once a week, healthcare workers hop on motorcycles and drive into the mountains to find out who’s pregnant. They provide basic prenatal care and find a way for these women to come to the hospital for check ups. When they’re near their due date, or if there are any complications, they make the trip to Hogar Materno (the maternity house) where they’ll live until they deliver. There’s no other way to guarantee they’ll get to skilled help in time. If they have any serious complications they’re transported by ambulance to Ayacucho’s hospital. When labor starts, they walk down the steep stairs to the obstetric wing: one labor bed, a small delivery room and a 4-bed post-partum/recovery unit. 

The pride of the delivery room is the vertical birthing chair designed and built (for less than $150.00) by the clinic staff. Quechua women feel so strongly about delivering in a vertical position with their feet on Pacha Mama (mother earth), failure to accommodate this would be a deal-breaker. Women would rather risk dying at home than be forced to submit to the previously routine “horizontal, legs-in-the-stirrups” position. The vertical chair allows women to sit for birth with their husband sitting behind them, holding them up. If they get into a big emergency, they can slide stirrups onto the bottom of the bed and change her position rapidly. 

Anyone out there who wants to invest in grassroots microfinance in a developing country, this is your chance. This birthing bed/chair is brilliant in its efficiency and simplicity, its sustainability and symbol of cultural respect. Contact CARE, they’ll hook you up. 

There weren’t any women in labor during our visit so Ricardo demonstrated how the chair worked and even dropped his legs into the stirrups. This was a Kodak moment. Any guy who’s willing to “assume the position” is OK by me. We laughed and joked but this was a serious display of dedication to the job. Whatever it took, even at the expense of his dignity, was fine by him. Clearly, one needs a big heart and an excellent sense of humor to work this gig. Out of 300 babies born in 2008, only two were stillborn. Every mother lived. 

We sat on wooden benches in Hogar Materno and chatted with four women waiting for delivery. I asked basic questions in English while Sarah, my miracle-worker, translated to Spanish. Bascilia translated when necessary to Quechua. Sarah broke the ice by confiding she knew a little Quechua; that some guy had told her she had a Hatun Siqui(fat ass). Really? It’s not that big. She’s kind of tiny. They giggled and relaxed. She’d leveled the playing field and now it was girl-talk. Simona, Emilia, Gloria and Yudita told me their stories. 

23-year-old Yudita was six days overdue with her third child. Her first would have been seven but was stillborn. She’d been at Hogar Materno for almost a month while her four-year-old stayed back at the farm with her family, (a three-hour walk to a three-hour taxi ride). She’d finished primary school (elementary school) but couldn’t afford any education beyond that. She grew quiet after she spoke of her stillborn child. Obviously, it weighed heavily on her mind with another child on its way. 

Simona cried when she talked about her family. She missed them desperately and though she’d had all her other children at home (there’s a 14-year gap between her next oldest child and this pregnancy), at her age she knew the risk of delivering at home was too great. Who would take care of her other children if she died at home?

Emilia, 33, was expecting her third child. Her four-year-old Denitsa, played in her lap. She’d almost finished high school but couldn’t afford the school supplies and fees for the final year that would have given her a certificate of graduation. Sarah translated, “only one more year and I could have gotten out of here.” Out of here meant life in Ayacucho. 
Got a question for Jeanne? E-mail it to <A HREF="/src/compose.php?send_to=labornurse@fitpregnancy.com">labornurse@fitpregnancy.com</A> and it may be answered in a future blog post. 

This Fit Pregnancy blog is intended for educational purposes only. It is not intended to replace medical advice from your physician. Before initiating any exercise program, diet or treatment provided by Fit Pregnancy, you should seek medical advice from your primary caregiver.

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