The Ends of Kinship. Sienna R. Craig
this particular pattern of cause and effect, but this idea followed her like an echo.
“Is baby position good?” Tsering asked.
“Let’s just take a look, shall we?” The young technician found the heartbeat, hummingbird quick and just as strong. This made Tsering relax. Her breathing slowed as she imagined her child nestled within her waters.
“Hmm.” The technician paused. “Hmm.” She said again. This did not inspire confidence. “Dr. Sharma will be here soon. You just hang tight there for a minute, little mama. Everything will be fine.”
Tsering shot Jamyang a look. It was a look of both fear and incomprehension. His English was better, in part because he listened to harried New Yorkers from the front seat of his cab all night and into the early morning hours. His job was a television serial: fast paced, full of drama and innuendo. She practiced her English with a toddler and a preschooler.
“Is something wrong?” Jamyang asked.
“I am sure everything will be fine,” the technician repeated, her tone now flat. Jamyang reached for Tsering’s shoulder. The technician left. Ten interminable minutes passed before Dr. Sharma came into the room. She smiled at Tsering, her almond eyes probing, generous.
“Namaste! It is good to see you, Tsering. Jamyang. Now, let me take a look.” Dr. Sharma turned her attention toward the ultrasound machine, running the wand over Tsering’s belly, exposing her inner world. She worked for a moment in silence, breathing slowly.
“Yep,” she said. Then, kindly but with a directness that unnerved Tsering, she asked, “Do you have a history of difficult pregnancies in your family? This is your first child. You’re young and healthy. So, what I’m seeing is a bit unusual.”
Tsering stared at her, unsure of how to respond. After a few moments, she said, “My mother had my brother and me. There was no problem from what I know.” Tsering did not mention that her brother had been born on a bus, that she had come into this world on the dirt floor of a village home. “My grandmother died when my mother was young, so I don’t know about her. I never met her.”
“Okay,” Dr. Sharma said. She could sense Tsering’s fear. “Please do not worry. You and your baby are going to be fine. But you will need to take extra care, and you will probably need to have a Cesarean section—an operation to get the baby out.”
Tsering sucked in her breath. Her boss had Lucy by C-section, and Lucy was gorgeous and clever. She knew other women from Mustang who had given birth this way. But she had also heard stories about doctors telling women that their hips were not wide enough to have a natural birth. She remembered her mother and other elder women criticizing those who gave birth by operation. Could they not bear the pain? Were they not strong enough?
“Is operation necessary? Will it make me weak? Is something wrong with my body?” Tsering welled with tears.
“Let me explain what I see.” Dr. Sharma smiled again and reached for Tsering’s hand. “You heard the heartbeat, right?” Jamyang and Tsering both nodded. She took up the wand, turned their attention to the monitor.
“And you see here, how the baby has settled this way, with his bottom toward your pelvis?” The couple strained to see the curve of buttocks, then nodded again.
“This is called breech position,” she explained. “That means that the baby’s head is up, and his bottom is down.”
Tsering had gone to all of her prenatal checkups. She had taken her vitamins. She’d avoided books, but that was mostly a question of literacy, time, and the potent mix of inertia and culture. Some of her friends had also recently become mothers. Nobody had ever explained to her that this could happen, that a baby could be pointed the wrong way. She felt angry. Why was she learning all of this for the first time? Why didn’t her mother, her friends who were mothers—anyone—ever talk about this? She took care of children for a living. How was it that she knew so little about how they came into this world?
“Many babies turn around in their mother’s uterus,” Dr. Sharma went on. The word “uterus” hung heavily in the air, at once distant and familiar to Tsering. “Sometimes they flip and face down before labor starts, all on their own. Other times we can turn the baby.” Dr. Sharma was looking straight into Tsering’s eyes. There was trust between them.
“But I’m also seeing that you have something called placenta previa. It is not as severe as it could be, but the placenta—the sac that helps feed and care for your baby inside your belly—the placenta is covering up your cervix. The cervix is sort of like the lock on the door that has to open in order for your baby to come out. This can be dangerous.”
If spoken words can change the course of things, Tsering thought, then what does naming the cause of this danger do?
“You are at thirty-three weeks now,” continued Dr. Sharma. “That means as many as seven weeks to go for a full-term baby, but your child can be born earlier and still be fine.” She paused before continuing. “I am going to recommend bed rest for a month and then that we deliver the baby by C-section.”
Tsering tried to imagine what “bed rest” meant. Did this mean sleeping later? Taking time to get up in the morning or going to bed early?
“Bed rest means that you need to stop working now,” Dr. Sharma continued. “You need to stay lying down at home as much as possible for the next four weeks. Jamyang, you are going to have to do more things around the house. Can you do that?” The stunned young man just nodded. He would take care of her during the day. They would rest together. He would drive his taxi at night.
“But what about Aiden and Lucy?” Tsering blurted out. Dr. Sharma looked confused.
“The children Tsering babysits, for work,” Jamyang explained.
“Well, I can write you a letter to their parents, so they know what is happening. They should understand.”
Tsering felt panicked. Stuck. Her boss had said that she could have her job back after the baby was born. Tsering had even arranged for another Loba woman who was between jobs to take over for a few months. But this was too quick. “I can’t stop work,” she said.
“If you want to have a healthy baby, you need to.” Dr. Sharma’s tone changed. It was still caring, but she’d lowered her voice an octave. She no longer smiled. The obstetrician set down the ultrasound wand and squirted antibacterial solution on her hands. As she wrung them dry, she repeated, “You will be fine. Your baby will be fine. But you need to follow my advice. I want to see you again in a week.” Dr. Sharma turned to Jamyang, her face stern but kind. “Take care of her, okay?”
“Yes, doctor.”
Once outside the hospital, Tsering burst into tears. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” Jamyang pleaded.
Tsering’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket. Ama. She could not talk with her mother now, even though she’d told her to call today, after this doctor’s visit. The phone continued to pulse, then went quiet. A voice message came through a few minutes later. “Chori, how are you? How was checkup? Have you eaten?” Tsering sent a short voice message in return. “Ama baby is good. I am going home to rest now.”
For the next month, Tsering followed Dr. Sharma’s orders. She lay in bed or on the couch, watching Bollywood movies. When she grew bored with these, she turned to American medical shows: Grey’s Anatomy, ER, House, Nurse Jackie. Anything that could tell her something more about the mysterious landscape of human accidents, illness, and frailty—and the American response to these conditions. Was she crazy to think she might one day become a nurse?
Tsering told only a few close friends and her brother, Tsepten, about her situation. Still, this made her feel vulnerable. Although her community knew how to handle death and acute sickness—showing up with food, prayers, money for funeral fees or hospital bills—they did not do as well with this