midwife fiction

...She never charged, nonetheless, for assisting at a birth. She enjoyed bringing babies into the world: nothing could compare to the moment when the infant's head emerged from between her mother's bloodied legs. She offered her services as a midwife in isolated farms and in the poor areas of small towns, especially Negro neighbourhoods where the idea of having a baby in a hospital was still a novelty. While she waited beside the mother-to-be, she hemmed diapers and knitted booties for the baby, it was only on those infrequent occasions that her boldly painted sorcerer's face grew soft. The tone of her voice changed as she lent support to her patient during the most difficult hours and she sang the fist cradle song heard by the babe she had helped into the world. after a few days when mother and child were well acquainted, she would rejoin the Reeveses, who were camped nearby. As she said goodbye, she wrote he child's name in a notebook; it was along list, but she called them all her godchildren.

Isabelle Allende, The Infinite Plan

I had Petit Pierre at home, in my grandmother's bed. My grandmother, Béatrice, who spent her life fighting for the right of French women to vote. The low wooden bed that was built for the house in the century before last and has never left it. The bed in which my mother was conceived and into which I myself was born.I ate well throughout my pregnancy and went on long walks all over Paris, nearly every day. My father and mother, after overcoming, to a remarkable degree, their normal outrage, racism and shock, showered me with advice and affection...

...I had the most sought-after midwife in France - my competent and funny aunt Marie-Thérese, whose radical idea it was that childbirth above all should feel sexy. I listened to nothing but gospel music during my pregnancy, a music quite new to me, and to France, and 'It's a High Way to Heaven' ('...nothing can walk up there but the pure of heart...')was playing on the stereo during the birth; the warmth of the singers' voices a perfect accompaniment to the lively fire in the fireplace. My vulva oiled and massaged to keep my hips open and my vagina fluid. I was orgasmic at the end. Petit Pierre practically slid into the worked at the height of my amazement, smiling serenely even before he opened his eyes.

My aunt placed him on my stomach the moment she lifted him from between my legs, waiting to sever the chord until he could breathe on his own; and so, our heartbeats continued together as they had while he was in my womb.

Alice Walker, Possessing the Secret of Joy