Long before the operation ever started, my parent's entire families were in the parish priest's residence across the street. They trooped there so the parish priest, who was a family friend, can lead them in prayer and to be near my mother in case something happens.
My mother knew very well getting under the knife that morning was actually like kissing life goodbye. But she had no choice. At 29 years old that time and standing at a diminutive four feet 11 inches, there was no way I can be delivered normally. She's been on labor since the day before and, sooner or later, she knew she had to face the inevitable. The only way for the two of us to be safe was for her to endure a caesarian operation without the relief from any form of anesthetics.
It was likely that my mother's audacity inspired the medical team. Dr. Viola, who took comfort from a few shots of gin before the operation, was assisted by a team of nurses and midwives: one senior nurse served as assistant, two midwives were holding each of my mother's arms which were tied to the delivery table so she doesn't move so much. In order to at least console my mother, they opted to make use of the last vials of local anethesia remaining in one of the medicine cabinets. This is the type used by dentists to numb specific areas in the mouth when they do extraction.
So the doctor would inject the local anesthesia and make an incision afterwards, inject and incise, inject and incise, inject and incise, until enough cut was made for safe delivery. From the time the first incision was made, my mother's screaming voice was heard in the hospital hallways and across the street to the priest's house where my relatives were praying that time. Her cry and screams became so disturbingly loud and deafening as the doctor moved to cut the uterus to take me out. It became frightful at times. My father couldn't even finish a prayer.
When finally my baby cries were heard, everything stopped. Prayers ended, breaths were held, jaws dropped, and eyes were shut. All wanted to rejoice but everyone knew they could not. My mother had to endure some more as the doctors started to sew the cut back in.
But God is good. He made sure that the mother and baby were safe. Other than my mother, the only other persons who got physically hurt during the operation were the two midwives who held her. My mother's nails got buried in their forearms as she held them tightly to bear the pain. They bled.
When my mother was wheeled back to the recovery room, she asked to pass by Mrs. Fitero's bed. With the faintest voice she can muster, she wished her well because it was going to be Mrs. Fitero's turn soon after. My mother then slept and rested. When she woke up, she didn't know if she was going to be cheer because she had me or whether she was going to weep louder because Mrs. Fitero wasn't as lucky. She lost so much blood and succumbed, but left a set of twins.
(to be continued)
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