Twenty-Four May 1998
TWENTY-FOUR
I took early leave from work after my fall and stayed close to home during the last month of my pregnancy.
I visited the birthing tree every day with Bingo by my side.
The winter months had been the cleanest, people and their trash locked away from the cold.
The small pond froze over and there was snow piled high on top.
The tree bent under the weight of an ice storm in February and a large branch broke off.
Susan had to come and help me remove it.
We placed it in the bushes to rot, as nature intended.
It would start the cycle of life again with its sacrifice.
By early April, I was walking less, my ankles swollen under the wool socks Miriam had knitted for me; the heartburn was so bad that I slept sitting up in my chair most nights.
And I waited. Waited for this baby who was mine. My girl was going to shine, the way I never did, the way I never let myself.
“Okay, here is your tea and this is mine,” I said as I handed out cups of tea to Susan and Miriam.
“What’s the difference?” Susan asked.
“Mine is preparing for childbirth. Yours is Red Rose.”
Susan took the cup from my hands and I sat down heavily. Everything in my body ached.
“So let’s go over this one more time.” Miriam had her notebook open with every possible detail related to the birth: The order of phone calls to be made—me to Miriam to Susan.
What to do in the event of a medical emergency (Susan would leave the tree and call the ambulance).
What to do once the baby was here. I taught them the few things my grandmother had taught me.
Quiet was required when she came into the world until I could speak to her first. Susan, as my oldest friend, was to bathe her.
I had thought of including Sally, but she was older now and had a hard time getting around.
She understood when I called and told her of my plans.
I had all the herbs and teas ready. And in an envelope tucked in beside the sachet of teas were two photos: one of my Kiju and the one of my mother. They would be there for me, for my daughter.
“These traditions are so beautiful, Aliet.”
“They are. I regret leaving them behind.”
“Are they the same for all Indigenous people?” Miriam asked as she made a note in her book.
“No. They change from people to people. Cree practices will be different than Inuit practices, or the Haida. Even among us, the traditions vary. Kiju added details, like the song, that she felt were important.” I found that I liked talking about these things now, teaching my friends, these almost-sisters of mine, about my knowledge.
In accordance with Kiju’s wishes, I shared only what was allowed to be shared and kept the rest between me and my ancestors.
My due date was a week away and Miriam was concerned that, given my age, I would go into labour early.
She wanted to stay with me, but I protested.
I wanted these last few nights to myself, to take in the silence, to prepare my home for my daughter.
She and Susan both told me later that neither of them had slept those nights, as they waited for the phone to ring.
It was a stormy night when she decided to enter this world.
The wind was strong as it bent the branches of trees and whistled through the cracks in the walls, scattering the fire in the stove as it whooshed down the chimney.
I couldn’t get comfortable. My back was sore, my feet swollen so big they hadn’t fit into shoes in days.
The electricity was out. There was only the flickering light of the fire.
Shadows jumped and danced across the walls, over the floors, and disappeared out the darkness of the windows.
I tried to follow their shapes, but they transformed into nothing too fast.
“I need you now, Kiju, I need you now,” I whispered into the dark when the first labour pain hit. Once it had passed, I got out of bed, wrapped my quilt around me and made my way to the telephone to call Miriam. Within fifteen minutes, both women were at my door.
The same copper bucket Kiju had used sat beside the door, ready for work it hadn’t experienced in decades.
Inside were the herbs for birthing tea, a moosehide moss bag I’d made myself from memory, matches, tobacco to offer the tree in thanks, a new blanket, yellow and green, knitted by my own hands.
A washcloth to clean her when she came out. And Kiju’s knife.
A few weeks ago, Miriam, Susan and I had gathered some wood and stones and made a fire circle by the tree, in the same place it had always been.
“You ready?” I asked them both as I slipped on a pair of Susan’s husband’s rubber boots she had brought since my shoes no longer fit.
“Ready,” they said in unison. I rubbed Bingo on the head and told him to be a good boy then closed the door behind me.
As we moved toward the tree, the wind began to settle. The clouds moved quickly across the night sky, obscuring the stars, obliterating the moon. Both Miriam and Susan carried flashlights. I carried only myself and my girl.
The shelter of trees that grew along the tracks made it easier to walk, protecting my clumsy body from the swirling wind.
As I approached the trail that led to the tree, I bent over in pain.
Miriam coaxed me and encouraged me through it.
I remembered Sally experiencing the same thing so many years ago, which brought me tremendous comfort.
As we approached the tree, the clouds parted, and the half moon illuminated its branches.
As I lowered myself down between the two strong roots that would hold me, another contraction hit.
The pain was intense, but I let it take my breath, let it remind me of the responsibility I was about to embark on.
When my breath returned to normal and the pain subsided, I started my birthing journey.
It was odd to be in this position, watching as Miriam meticulously laid out everything she would need—the moosehide, the knife, the herbs—something I had witnessed Kiju do so many times.
Susan was busy making a fire and scooping water from the pond to boil.
Those had always been my duties. I understood then, this was my new family, or maybe I had known it for a while.
These were the women who my child would call Auntie, these were the women who would love her almost as much as I already did.
Then, as I clenched through a particularly bad contraction, I raised my head and looked beyond the fire, past these women working silently, and there in the light were Kiju and my mother.
And so many other women who I recognized but did not know because they had left this world for the next.
I saw them watching me and I knew they were really there, they were present for my daughter’s arrival.
Susan handed me a cup of tea and wiped the damp hair away from my forehead. I was aware that Miriam was pressing on my abdomen, making sure the baby was facing the right way.
“All good down here,” she whispered just as my water broke. “Whoa!”
She moved back down and lifted my skirt.
Despite the chill in the air, I was hot and threw the quilt off my shoulders.
I tried to sit up, to find some comfort, but another contraction pushed me back against the roots of that tree.
I didn’t scream, but I took a deep breath, then I let it out.
I looked up, smiled up at the leaves of the tree, and then I started to hum.
I had been so sure that the tune had been lost to me, but there it was, just when I needed it most. And with it came tears of joy.
Another contraction. Susan topped up the cup of tea that now sat beside me.
“Drink,” she whispered, and I drank.
I watched Susan pour the last dregs of tea into the ground and replace the water.
Before my next contraction I could smell beech and pine, steeping and ready to bathe my baby girl when she arrived.
The next pain came, one much deeper and more forceful.
I looked back to the fire, where the women had begun to fade.
Only Kiju remained bright, and I knew that my daughter was ready to be born.
“Push, Aliet, she’s anxious to meet you.” Miriam took her place, ready to catch my daughter as she entered the world. I clenched my teeth and pushed my chin into my chest, crying out in pain and relief.
Then I heard nothing. The only sound was the beating of my own heart.
Susan and Miriam, true to their word, stayed silent.
I fell back against the tree. I was looking up into the branches, coming alive with spring buds, when I heard her cry.
I looked down at this tiny thing my body had created that Miriam held in her arms. Susan, without a word, used the cloth, dipped in the warm beech water, to wash her face, before Miriam placed her on my breast. The pain had vanished, replaced by euphoria, as I looked down into her tiny face, scrunched up and wrinkled, pink in the faint light from the fire.
I kissed the top of her head and let my lips stay there.
Beneath me, her water and my blood mixed with the blood of my mother, another generation watering the roots of the birthing tree.
Miriam handed me the knife. She held the cord taut and I cut, separating my daughter’s body from my own. I handed the knife back to Miriam and whispered into my daughter’s tiny ear.
“Kesalul, my girl.”
I looked to the fire, and all the women were gone. Kiju and my mother had returned to the other side.
As the night faded behind the tree, I wrapped my daughter in the blanket and held her close to my chest, my heart beating to the rhythm of her breath.
As I gazed at this beautiful human I had helped create, I knew that I would be okay, that everything that had happened was in the past and would stay there.
Healing takes time, and if there was ever a cure, this was it.
There, in my hands, the only daughter of an only daughter of an only daughter had mended all that was broken.