The Mother Dies

        In real life this happens; we learn of the cases, usually from a distance. But then a person that we know, who is closer, has this occur to them. Something kills them. A mother's life ends. And we, the survivors, try to make sure the pieces are in place. It happened this week on my street, as a relatively small community of folks that are related, by proximity and common interests. Neighbors and friends, some more than others.

    The baby is just newly introduced to life outside the womb.

    In the United States I have known that statistically women of color, mothers who are Black or brown, like Latinas and native Americans, have worse health concerns when it comes to having children and infant and mother mortality. People, women in communities of color, suffer and die more from giving birth and pushing life into the world.

    This time it happened to a white woman. Race does not matter, in life and death all life and health is precious, but when it comes to the modern age, a wealthy, not totally well-to-do area of the suburbs, where most life giving and sustaining means are given and available to those at hand, the unthinkable becomes reality.

    She collapsed and died of a blood clot. Mere days after the birth. Unsuspected. Totally shocking and out of the blue.

    In the Hemingway classic, A Farewell to Arms, the protagonist falls in love, goes to peaceful Switzerland with his beloved bride and mother of his child, she gives birth, but both the mother and the baby die. The story is sad and sobering.

    The man is left alone in a new world of emptiness, after a challenging and otherwise gut-wrenching life as an ambulance driver in Italy in World War I. Injured by a bomb near the front. Perhaps saved by some Italian troops that took the main blast.

    In war or peace, life and death are of the essence of who we are.

    Whether in terrible increments, as we have seen in the Holy Land since October of last year (2023), or here in the U.S. where more random shooting and murders and overdoses and car accidents occur, we lose our people and sick back and reflect, surviving the losses and assessing the damage, the what comes next, the how do we avoid such tragedies in a better way?

    The prayers and best wishes are uttered. We posit our faith in God, higher powers, the systems that we create at all levels to take care of us. Insurance (the endless commercials! blech!), first responders, doctors, health and nutritional experts and plans.

    The best made plans of mice and men. Hemingway and Steinbeck wrote of women giving birth, sometimes dying, closer to the event itself. Surprising, shocking, but usually related to the time of the exit of the child from the mother.

    Not as a blood clot mere days after. Two weeks? Sudden and final, harsh and numbing, out of nowhere. She was a first-time mom; maybe she did not know some of the distresses and signs of danger were that threatening. I believe that this was the first grandchild, too.

    Today it rains, our world mourns, God and we cry and lament the loss and losses.

    The child lives and needs nourishment and life to continue. And it will. Stories and warm memories will be shared of its benefactor. It is a boy. His life giver. The mother who gave all of herself for the life of this baby, the future generation and the hope of us all.

    The child lives.