A baby is born. Immediately he is whisked away to be poked, prodded, chilled, blinded, and confused by strangers. He is wrapped in a thin blanket and placed alone in a plastic bed. When he squalls he has a strange plastic thing shoved into his mouth out of which comes far too much food for his tiny stomach in hopes that he will remain contentedly alone for longer. He is strapped into a hard, fabric covered device for transport to a new location, where his parents, exhausted and confused, continue administering far too much food at a time, placing him alone in a large empty space for long periods of time, strapping him into various moving and noisy devices, and isolating him from all outside contact. On occasions when his parents find it necessary to take him in public, he is strapped and covered so that no one can possibly engage. He cries with confusion. The parents weep for lack of sleep, struggle to maintain the normalcy even of cooking and cleaning, plan daycare arrangements, and spend their workdays pumping coffee and feeling only overwhelmed loneliness.
A baby is born. He is immediately placed on his mother’s chest where her arms encircle him and her lips touch his forehead. Grandmothers and aunts wrap both in warm blankets and create a cozy nest for snuggling. A tantalizing smell draws him to suckle the first taste of his mother’s warm milk, just enough to soothe his newly hungry body and send him to sleep in his mother’s arms. They rest together while sisters and friends cook nourishing meals and put the house in order. When he wakes he suckles again, then is carried in the arms of a grandmother to be cleaned up, rocked, and sung too while his mother rests. When not suckling or sleeping by his mother’s side, his heart rate and temperature regulated by her warm, steady beat, he is held and kissed by aunts and friends who take turns ensuring his mother rests, eats, and heals. His father hovers nearby whenever possible, taking frequent turns at tending his newborn child and imparting whispered promises of the future. When the time of healing and bonding is complete, he is carried in soft folds of fabric against his mother’s chest as she goes about her daily tasks, rested and strong. Her voice sings softly to him and her lips continually find his cheeks. When she is tired a sister takes her turn at carrying, cooing, singing, and kissing. He rarely cries.
A woman is dying. She long since ceased to be able care for herself. Her children, caught up in the business of their own lives, found themselves unable to fill the gap. They lived too far away and lacked the time and resources to provide for her increasing needs. Her house with all its memories had been sold, and she lies in a colorless room beneath the handful of treasures the nurses half-heartedly leaned on the lip of her plastic headboard. Electronic beeping is the only sound in the room. A nurse just checked her vitals and won’t be back for an hour; she has too many others lying in similar rooms to spend much time here. Her children have trickled in and out all week, having driven hours to pay their last respects. Their visits were brief and devoid of contact because policy cannot allow any possible contamination. A long ragged breath leaves her and the beeping lengthens into one endless note.
A woman is dying. The quilt she made for her granddaughter is tucked under her wasted arms although she no longer feels its warmth. Her son’s hand strokes hers and he sings softly, the lullaby with which she so often sang him to sleep so many years ago. Great-grandchildren play in the next room, unsure why the adults wipe quiet tears but happy to see cousins. A neighbor drops in with a pot of soup and prays with the family before slipping away next door. Friends come with hugs and memories to share that trigger tearfilled laughter. Her daughter gently slides a faded gray wedding photograph under a limp hand as a long ragged breath stills every other sound.
It takes a village to love.
The Word Worker 