The Hospital By the River

This is the Prologue to a very good book entitled The Hospital by the River. It is a bit lengthy, but very insightful. It touches a cord in my heart that yearns to bring the Good News to those such as these.

I shall call her Enatenesh, a common name in Ethiopia. It is evening. She crouches by the fire burning in the centre of the hut, somewhere out in the country far away from the nearest town, preparing food for her husband. Three cows, their entire wealth, stand and chew their cud quietly in the shadows. Outside the hyenas howl.

There is barely enough wat to feed them. Enatenesh and her husband break off peices of injera which they use as a scoop. As ever Enatanesh takes the smaller portion, and when the meal is over they are both still hungry. They accept this as normal. A little hunger is better than starvation, which they have expereinced all too often when famines ravage the countryside.

There is no light in the tukul except for the flames. They cannot afford a lamp. No furniture. The bed is a goatskin spread over a raised section of mud floor against one wall. There are a few blankets, old and threadbare, to keep out the bitter cold of two cooking pots, some large clay jars for fetching water from the well half a kilometre away- these are their possessions.

Enatanesh could be fourteen or fifteen- married with her first child. They are exhausted from their long day working the little plot where they grow a few vegetables. They have no books. They could not afford such things, and anyway, they are illiterate. The is no radio. Television is unheard of. They wrap themselves in their blankets and curl up on the mat to sleep.

In the middle of the night Enatanesh feels her first contractions. She welcomes them but is also afraid. She has heard bad stories. But for better or worse it must be endured, for she is a woman and without children she is nothing. She offers a prayer to Christos, the Jesus of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, to maker her labor an easy one.

By morning the contractions are coming at closer intervals. After her husband leaves for work for the day, his mother who lives in the same compound, comes to stand by. She is experienced in these matters. She has had ten children of her own, four of them, by the grace of God, still alive. She tells Enatanesh to get out of bed and crouch. It will help the baby be born. All that day Enatanesh squats, straining in agony, but the baby does not come.

The contractions continue throughout the night, and by the morning she is very weak. The day wears on, the pain constant now. On the morning of the third day the child inside her dies. Enatanesh knows it with certainty. Yet the contractions continue. Four days. Five. In the late afternoon of the sixth day, the child is finally expelled- a dead little being who will never know the world. A tear trickles down Enatanesh's cheek as she rolls herself in her blankets and sleeps the sleep of utter exhaustion.

Late next morning she awakes. But what has happened? The bed is wet and smelling. With alarm she sees that she is lying in urine. Her first instinct is to hide in shame. Perhaps if she keeps absolutely still, with her legs together, whatever has happened to her will heal before her husband comes home. She pulls her knees up and lies on her side. She prays to God to maker her whole.

But there is no hiding her condition. Usually the tukul is fresh with the smell of burning eucalyptus leaves, but now there is another smell and it is offensive. Despite the difficulty of keeping herself clean, the sorrow of losing her baby and the shame of her condition, she tries to be brave, to greet her husband with a smile, and prepare his meals. But it is no use. She is ill, weak, and wretched. Soon he moves out.

The long, obstructed labor has left Enatanesh with terrible internal injuries. She stays like this, forlorn and alone for months. Or years. Or a lifetime. She is fit only for work in the fields. The village women shun ehr. She is abandoned to her shame.

Sometimes in her unhappiness Enatanesh asks, "Why has this happened?" She believes she is cursed by God for some misdemeanor, and that only a miracle can cure her. She is unaware that far away in Addis Ababa, the capital, there is a place where healing is possible.

Most likely she spends the rest of her life in misery. But occasionally her story ends with joy. Somehow she hears about the hospital. Somehow she begs the fare or persuades a relative to take her on the long, frightening journey to the unimagineable confusion of the capital.

The hospital is quiet and clean, set amongst flowers. People treat her with kindness. She is bathed and experiences the stange luxury of a soft bed with clean sheets. And the miracle she has hardly dared to believe in happens. After a time she returns home, cured, to begin life anew.

In various versions I have heard Enatanesh's story 20,000 times. Each one is a part of my story.

To learn more about the plight of these destitute women, as well as the new life they have found through physical and spiritual healing, visit www.fistulafoundation.org/hospital.