2,496 words
It was Wednesday, my day for a nice, quite, short hike. I parked my car at the trailhead, picked up my backpack, did my stretches and began the hike. Quiet? Hah!
As I left the main trail, I scrabbled down a steep bank and walked along the dry stream bed. I heard what sounded like a suppressed scream. It seemed to come from a small erosion enclave on the left side of the streambed. I swung the backpack off and took my large hunting knife out of the pack and put the sheath on my belt, flipped the snap on the knife’s holder open and put the pack back on, then walked into the enclave.
A woman was lying on the ground. She was covered in what looked like a cotton blanket. I couldn’t tell much about her except that she looked young. She moaned as she became aware that ‘someone’ was approaching. I supposed that she was Mexican and that she had crossed the border – only 43 miles away – illegally. A shiver ran up and down my spine. ‘Helping an illegal person is a crime,’ came into my mind.
She tried to squeeze even more against the eroded bank and huddle farther into the blanket as I approached.
“Buenos Diaz, Senorita, habla usted Englese? Good day, Miss, do you speak English?” I asked in my limited Spanish, following it with the same question in English.
There was no response to my question, but another suppressed scream followed closely after my salutation. When the spasm passed, she shook her head and whispered, “No Englese, Senor.”
‘Too bad,’ I thought. ‘She does not speak English.’ I was at a loss; my mind was torn between helping her and putting myself in jeopardy with the law.
“Usted malo?” was all I could bring up from the Spanish I learned in high school fifty-some years before; so, I repeated it in English. “Are you sick?”
At that, she uncovered her face, groaned and said, “Yo no malo. Yo prenado. Bebe aqui.” As she pointed to her stomach, her face contorted and she tried valiantly but unsuccessfully to suppress yet another scream.
‘Prenado’ was a word I did not know, but I got the word ‘bebe’ sorted out immediately. I knelt beside her. “Senora, tenga usted bebe?”
“Si, senor. Bebe esta ya voy!” She barely got that out before another pain struck. She writhed and moaned.
I took out a bottle of water and offered it to her. She took it. As she drank, water spilled on the blanket. I took a hold of the blanket and said, “Por favor. Please let me help you.”
She released her hold on the blanket and I pulled it back. The lower part of her dress and the blanket under her bottom and legs were soaked. I had never seen a birth and my medical knowledge was limited to what I had learned in a brief first aide course. But I was pretty sure from its location, appearance and odor that her water had broken; to me, that meant that the baby was on its way. With that, I got up.
“Un momento, Senora.” I took my cell phone off my belt and showed it to her. I put it up to my ear to show her that I intended to call for help.
The woman grabbed at my leg. “No, Senor. No! Border Patrol vayan aqui! No! No! No!” At that point another pain struck. She gasped, writhed and another scream came forth.
“Medico, Senora. Medico para bebe. Medico! Bebe necesito medico!” I pleaded.
She nodded ‘yes.’ She closed her eyes. “Si, bebe necesito medico.”
I took off my backpack and set it beside her, feeling that would indicate that I was not leaving her. I ran to the middle of the streambed. First, I pulled out my GPI unit, clicked it on and waited for the reading to appear. Next, I dialed 911. When they responded, I told the operator what was happening, gave her the GPI reading and explained generally where I was from the west-central edge of Green Valley and the popular hiking trailhead.
The 911-operator wanted me to stay on the line. However, another suppressed scream came from the young woman. I told the operator that I would leave the cell phone on but that I had to attend to the woman.
When I got back, the woman pointed to her stomach. “Bebe ya voy!” she gasped. “Ayuda!”
I knelt and pulled up her dress. As I did so, she spread her legs and grunted. The baby’s head appeared almost at once. It was a small head. I reached in the backpack and pulled out a folded space blanket. I unfolded the space blanket and placed it under her legs and bottom so the baby would not touch the ground as it came out.
Reached in the backpack, I pulled out my first aide kit. I opened it and grabbed the largest gauze bandage, slit open its package with my teeth and got ready for the baby. There was no waiting. The young woman gave a mighty grunt. I gingerly took hold of the baby’s shoulders and guided the baby onto the space blanket as its bottom and legs came out.
The baby was tiny. I surmised that it was premature and remembered just reading the day before that premature babies are much more likely to die than full term babies. I was determined to do what I could to help both the mother and the child survive.
I took a packet of clean wipes out of my backpack, cleaned my hands with one and began to swab the baby’s tiny body and the mother’s pubic area with other wipes. I took a wipe and cleaned the baby’s mouth and nose. I picked the baby up by its feet, swung it upside down and swatted it on the bottom. It let out a lusty cry.
Next, I cleaned my hunting knife with one of the wipes and cut the umbilical chord. After several fumbling tries, I got it tied. That’s when I heard the thump of the chopper. I handed the baby to its mother. She grasped the baby to her bosom. She was crying softly and trying to coo at and comfort the baby at the same time.
“While wiping the mother’s brow, I smiled at her, pointed to the sky and said, “Medico aqui. The doctors are here. Ahora! Now. Un momento, Senora. Wait one moment!”
With that, I got up and ran to the middle of the streambed. The chopper’s pilot was circling slowly, trying to determine if he was at the right location.
As I shouted and waved, the pilot saw me and began to look for the closest place to land. There was a large, open area in the middle of the streambed about 200 hundred feet from where I stood. The chopper headed for that and landed.
I pointed toward the mother and baby and went back to where they were.
Three EMTs, two men and a woman, came running to where we were. Each carried a case of supplies.
They surrounded the mother and began to talk with her. They all spoke Spanish. The young mother was terrified. She kept saying something about the Border Patrol. Finally, the EMTs got her settled down.
One of the EMTs inserted a needle in the mother’s arm and started and IV. Another was cleaning the baby. Once she had the baby clean, she wrapped the baby in a small blanket and handed it back to the mother.
The third EMT finally turned his attention to me. “You the father?” he asked.
“No,” I said and then quickly explained how I came to be there.
“I’m Trevor. Come with me. We’ll get a stretcher while Dave and Lori are dealing with the mother and the baby. We need to get her on board and to the hospital ASAP. Can you help us?’
Of course I could and did.
At the hospital, I repeated my story to one of the ER nurses and, later, to a Border Patrol officer. It was the Border Patrol officer who took me back to the birthing place and, after that, to my car.
When I got home, I realized that I was ‘hungry as an old bear just out of its winter den,’ as the saying goes. I fixed myself a dinner of roast chicken, veggies, bread and, for desert, cake. I even stepped out of my usual routine and had a cup of herbal tea with the cake. I figured I had earned it.
The next morning, I called the hospital and was told that the mother and infant were doing fine. The baby was probably at least six weeks early, the nurse said, but otherwise appeared to be normal and healthy. The nurse remarked that if appetite were any indication, the baby would do well. It was always hungry and was requiring more milk than the mother’s breasts could supply. The nurse said that the baby was given ‘Jesus’ as a tentative name. Since Jesus is a common name in Spanish- speaking countries and given the circumstances, that sounded entirely appropriate.
I was told that I could visit both mother and baby after 2:00 p.m. I went to one of the local supermarkets and bought some flowers and a pre-prepared basket of fruit and other goodies. The mother was sitting up in bed and nursing the baby as the nurse led me into the room. The mother covered her breast and the baby with a small blanket; she was obviously glad to see me. The nurse that accompanied me into the room took the flowers and came back a few minutes later with the flowers in a large, attractive vase.
While the nurse was gone, I set the basket of fruit on the bedside stand and indicated that it contained ‘frutas and ‘otro golosinas’ (goodies). The mother smiled and said, “Gracias, Senor.”
She asked if I spoke Spanish. Only a little bit, I informed her. In Spanish, she said that she did not know any English. I told her my name was Hal. She responded that her name was Dolores. When I asked for her family name, she did not respond. I did not press her for her last name.
In Spanish, I asked her why she came to the United States, alone and pregnant.
I did not understand all of her answer. I gathered that she was part of a large group and that the guide (the coyote) left her behind when her labor pains began. She indicated that she had family in the Tucson area.
At that, I perked up. Family? Is there some way I can get in touch with them was my next question, in halting Spanish.
She did not answer. She looked away and busied herself with attending to the baby, which had ceased to nurse and was asleep.
I assumed from her silence that she feared the immigration officers would deport her, the baby and any and all illegals that she led them to. She seemed determined to protect them at all costs. So, I asked for information about her family in Mexico. This, she gave to me readily, including a phone number. I assured her that I would call her family in Mexico that very day.
From the nurse, I learned that Dolores was not married. The father of the baby had preceded her to the United States by several months. However, neither the mother nor the father’s family had heard from him. He had, as so many illegals do, simply disappeared. It was his disappearance that provided the motivation for Dolores to cross into the United States even though she was seven months pregnant. She wanted to find and to marry the baby’s father before the baby was born.
After formally promising to keep the address for the local family a secret, she gave it to me. I also promised that I would be back to see her as soon as I had made contact with her family members on both sides of the border, I got ready to take my leave.
She asked for my last name. I took out a business-type card with my name, my summer and winter addresses, my phone numbers and e-mail address and handed it to her. She studied it for several minutes.
“Muchos gracias, Senor. Por favor, Senor, usted voluntario llegar el padrino para mi bebe? Muy importante!”
I had no idea what she meant. I asked her to repeat it. Just as she did so a nurse came into the room.
I turned to the nurse. “Do you know what she wants?” I asked the nurse. “It seems to be important.”
“Important? I’ll say it is important. She wants you to become the godfather of her baby. That would certainly be a big help to her, if you agreed to do it. In Mexico, a godfather is sometimes as important to and as involved in the life of the child as the blood relatives.”
“Can you tell her I will consider it?” I asked the nurse.
The nurse and the mother talked for several minutes. Finally, the nurse turned to me. “She understands how much she is asking of you. She will wait for your answer and hope that it is favorable.” As she said this, the nurse turned back to the mother and spoke briefly.
“Do you think I should consult an attorney? What I mean is, are there legal steps to take? Is such a thing done verbally or in writing by attorneys, in Mexico?”
“I suspect both,” the nurse countered. “Talk to an attorney if you think it is important and if you think you might undertake all of the responsibilities.”
I said good-bye to the mother, Dolores, and patted the sleeping baby lightly on its back. I told the mother that I would back, in halting Spanish and in English.
It took some doing, but I finally got through to the family in Mexico. As it turned out, the phone number was that of a neighbor. But I finally got through. And, since I had worked out the sentences to use, I got the message across.
Next, I tried to find the local address. No luck. Apparently there had been some miscommunication along the way; it could have been that, or Dolores did not remember the address correctly. Either way, it turned out to be a dead-end.
Over the next several days, I consulted with the immigration officer that was in charge of Dolores and the baby. He finally agreed and I took Dolores and the baby, now my godson, back to Mexico and to their family.
I admired this young, small-town Mexican woman, girl, really, for making such a long and arduous journey while pregnant, and for the fact that she got as far as she did.