January 15, 1913
Rose lay in bed, shivering under the thin sheet and quilt. She curled up to conserve warmth, stifling a low moan of pain as she did so. Her apartment had no heat besides the little that her stove generated when she was cooking, due to her inability to afford enough fuel to keep the tiny room warm. She was always cold, even when wearing as many clothes as possible, including Cal’s now badly misshapen and water-stained coat.
To make matters worse, her back had begun to ache the previous day, her muscles tightening painfully at intervals that grew closer and closer together. She was nine months pregnant now, and the baby would be born soon.
Rose sat up in bed, wrapping the quilt around herself. It was still dark outside, but she had splurged on a few candles to light her room when the electricity failed—which was often. Slipping awkwardly out of bed, she tugged on the chain to the single weak bulb that lit her room, then sighed. There had been no electricity for a week, and this morning—or perhaps it was still the middle of the night; she couldn’t tell in the dark—was no exception.
She struck a match and lit a single candle, leaning as close to the meager warmth from the flame as she dared. The clock read three, but she knew that she wouldn’t sleep anymore this night.
After a quick trip down the hall to the bathroom—thankfully empty at this hour—Rose curled up in her bed again, warming herself as best she could. She knew that she should blow out the candle and save it, but she wanted the light now, knowing that the sun wouldn’t rise for several hours yet, and even then it was likely to be dark in her tiny apartment.
Rose bit her lip as another pain began in her back, working its way around to her stomach. She had learned enough about childbirth from some of the other women in the building to know that this was the beginning of labor—but there was no way of knowing how long it would be before the baby was actually born.
Hugging her stomach, Rose wondered what she would do after the birth. She had been unable to find another job after being fired by Wiseman—most employers were put off by her pregnancy. Some had questioned why she wasn’t staying home and letting her husband support her while she was with child. Others had told her that the place of a woman with children was in the home, even when she had pleaded that she was a widow and had no husband to support her. One employer had even suggested that she earn her living the way she had conceived the child—something that had made Rose’s temper flare. She wasn’t a whore, and she had no intention of becoming one.
But no matter what reason—or lack thereof—for hiring her potential employers gave, the answer was always the same—no. No one would hire a pregnant woman who would soon need time off for the birth of her child, especially one who, in the minds of some, could not possibly be anything other than an immoral hussy.
Perhaps she would have more luck after the birth. She would have to find someone to care for the child while she worked—unless she could find a job where she could bring her baby with her, something that struck Rose as extremely unlikely—but at least she wouldn’t be hampered by pregnancy anymore.
She still had some of the money that Cal had left in the coat pockets—she had been very frugal—but buying the things she needed for her coming child had taken quite a bit of it, and the expenses of day-to-day life—especially since her landlord had raised the rent to nine dollars a month—had also taken a good chunk of the money. She could make it last a while longer if she was careful, but she had to find work soon. There would soon be another mouth to feed.
At least she had found someone to help her with the birth. A woman across the hall and several doors down had three living children—and three more that she had lost, two of them at birth—and claimed to be an expert on childbearing. More than one woman in the building and on the block had gone to her for help when their babies were born—she charged far less for her help than a doctor would—though not all of the births had been successful. The woman had admitted to Rose that several of the babies she had helped deliver had died, though that was not unusual. The infant mortality rate, even amongst babies born to the wealthiest women with the best doctors, was high, though it was higher amongst poor women. There were few effective drugs available for treating infection and disease—the era of antibiotics was still a good thirty years away, and most vaccines were still farther away—and there was little that could be done for babies born prematurely or with birth defects.
Rose knew of one woman who had died in childbirth under the midwife’s care—she had bled to death following the birth. The woman’s husband had run out to the street and flagged down a passing automobile to take her to a hospital, but by the time they had arrived it had been too late. Rose hadn’t known her well, but she had been shocked and frightened by her death, especially with her own baby due in less than six weeks.
As another contraction tightened her muscles, this one longer and harder, Rose fervently wished that she had sought the help of a real doctor, rather than a midwife with no formal training. But how would she have afforded a doctor, and would she have gotten to him when the time for the birth came? She had no car or carriage to get her to the hospital, no telephone from which she could call the doctor. And, in truth, the care given by the midwife was probably just as good—and maybe even better in some cases—than that given by a doctor. But Rose had been raised in a wealthy family where a doctor was available for any ailment, and trusting something as important as the birth of her child to someone else was almost more than she could bear, if she’d had a choice.
*****
Rose lay in her narrow bed, her hair and nightgown soaked with sweat as she labored to give birth. The midwife knelt at the end of the bed, checking Rose’s progress and shaking her head.
"You should be farther along than this by now," she told Rose, rising from the bed with difficulty and limping to the sink to wash her hands.
Rose stared after her with weary eyes. She had been in labor for sixteen hours now, her body bearing down repeatedly as she struggled to bring her child into the world without success. Blearily, she watched as the woman finished washing her hands and limped back towards her.
The midwife had once been a factory worker, but an accident with the machinery had badly broken her left leg, leaving her with a permanent limp. She had lost her job after the incident and had been unable to find another, but she was fortunate enough to have her skills as a midwife, from which she earned enough money to help support her family. Her children worked, too, as did her husband when he was able to find employment. His heavy drinking interfered greatly with his ability to work.
Rose arched against another contraction, a high-pitched scream of pain tearing itself from her lips. The midwife was at her side in an instant, propping her up and rubbing her back soothingly.
"Is it supposed to be this painful?" Rose gasped, her hands clutching so tightly at the cheap sheet covering the bed that it tore, the damp fabric separating easily under her fingers.
"Sometimes, yes. Every women’s experience is different, as is every birth. But with how long you’ve been in labor, and how close together your contractions are, you should be closer to delivery by now. You aren’t dilated enough yet, though."
Rose turned frightened eyes to look at her. "What’s happening? Is my baby going to die? Am I going to die?"
"Don’t think about that," the midwife advised her, patting Rose’s shoulder. "There are still things I can do."
"Then do them!" Rose hissed, propping herself up on her elbows. "I won’t—I can’t let my baby die. It’s all I have left of my husband."
"I know, dear, but what I may need to do is dilate you myself. It will be painful, and could be dangerous. Such a fast dilation could damage your cervix."
Rose didn’t understand half the words the woman used. All she knew that was that the pain grew worse with every contraction, and she was growing fearful for her still-unborn child. Pains ripped through her rapidly, with less than a minute between them, and her body seemed to bear down on the child with a mind of its own, but still the baby wasn’t born.
The midwife moved back down to the end of the bed, intending to open Rose’s body with her own hands if it was necessary, but stopped when her patient cried out again, wrapping her arms desperately around her distended stomach and bearing down fruitlessly.
Rose threw her head back and screamed, bearing down with all her strength as yet another pain ripped through her. She felt something give way inside her, and a warm gush of fluid soaked the bed beneath her.
"Ohhhhhhh!" she wailed, hugging her stomach as through trying to protect the child inside. She felt an agonizing tearing sensation deep inside, and suddenly the thin mattress was soaked with blood.
It took the midwife only a moment to make a decision. "You need a hospital," she told Rose, limping to the door and throwing it open.
"No! Don’t leave! Please!" Rose begged, but the midwife stepped out into the hall, her voice strident as she grabbed a passing youngster and ordered them to get someone to help her bring her patient downstairs. Rose wasn’t able to get to the street on her own, and there was no way the midwife could carry her.
Rose was hardly aware of the midwife’s return, or of her frantic efforts to stem the bleeding. When a large, burly man from a neighboring apartment came in and picked her up, Rose struggled for a moment, not knowing what was happening, then gave up. She felt curiously light-headed, and she could still feel the blood flowing, running down her legs and soaking her nightgown. The man held her gingerly, not wanting her to bleed on him.
In minutes, they were outside on the street. The young boy the midwife had gotten to help had flagged down a passing wagon.
The driver stared, wide-eyed, as the man carrying Rose put her in the back of the wagon and helped the midwife up beside her. His horses shied at the commotion as he tugged nervously at their reins, not sure that he wanted the responsibility of getting the young woman to a hospital.
"Well, don’t sit there and stare!" the midwife snapped, helping Rose into a more comfortable position. "She needs a hospital! Get moving!"
"Yes, ma’am." The driver threw them one more wary glance, then shouted to the horses, moving them into the street.
"No…my baby…please, don’t let it die…" Rose mumbled to the midwife, who had covered Rose with the quilt snatched from her bed and was still working to stem the bleeding.
"You’re going to be all right, Mrs. Dawson," the woman told her, patting her hand reassuringly. "We’ll get you to a hospital, and you and your baby will be just fine…"
Rose looked into the midwife’s eyes, seeing from her expression that she didn’t believe what she was saying.
Her eyes filling with tears, Rose looked at her pleadingly. "Help me…" she murmured, her words trailing off as everything went black.
*****
Rose awoke in a brightly lit room. She was covered by a white sheet and light blanket, and the air was filled with a harsh medicinal smell. Four other women were in the room with her, three lying in beds like hers and one standing at the window looking out.
A moment later, a woman in a nurse’s uniform came into the room. She looked at the patients in the row of beds, smiling when she saw that Rose was awake and looking at her.
"Good morning, Mrs. Dawson," she said, looking at the chart that was hanging at the end of Rose’s bed. "I see you’ve decided to come back to us."
Come back? Have I been somewhere?
"What?" Rose tried to speak, but her mouth was parched, her lips painfully dry. The nurse saw this and poured her a glass of water.
After a few sips, Rose tried again. "Where am I? What happened?"
"You’re in St. Luke’s hospital, Mrs. Dawson. You were having a difficult birth, so your midwife brought you here."
Suddenly, everything came rushing back to Rose. The hours of laboring…the tearing pain inside…the gush of blood that wouldn’t stop. She put her hands on her stomach, realizing that, though sore, her stomach was now quite flat.
Her eyes darting around frantically, Rose pushed herself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain that tore through her lower torso as she did so. She gazed around the room, searching, but there was no sign of a baby.
"Mrs. Dawson, please. You have to lie still. You’ll open your stitches if you try to move like that." The nurse pushed her back down, Rose still too weak to resist.
"My baby. Where’s my baby?! How long have I been here?"
"You’ve been here since about 8:30 last night—so about twelve hours. And your baby is fine—she’s in with the other newborns."
"She? I have a daughter?"
The nurse nodded. "Yes. But—"
"I want to see her."
"You’ll see her, Mrs. Dawson. But the doctor needs to examine you first and talk to you. Then she’ll be brought to you."
"Is there something wrong with her? Is that why I can’t see her right away?"
"She’s fine, Mrs. Dawson. Healthy as can be. The doctor just wants to make sure you’re all right before you hold her."
"Can’t I see her? Just for a moment? Please, I—"
"Mrs. Dawson, the doctor will see you in a few minutes. You’ll just have to be patient…"
"Please, just let me look at her. I won’t do anything to injure myself—"
"How is she doing, Nurse Radcliffe?"
Rose looked up as a doctor came into the room, a clipboard in his hands.
"She’s awake, Dr. Peterson—awake, talking, and desperate to see her baby."
"I see. Not at all unusual, especially under the circumstances."
Rose looked up at him. What circumstances? I had a difficult birth, but it seems like he means more…
Dr. Peterson pulled the curtain beside Rose’s bed closed, shielding her from the eyes of others. Nurse Radcliffe moved away quietly, going to check on the other patients in the room.
"Doctor, what do you mean by under the circumstances? I know I had a difficult birth, but…"
"Your womb tore before you were brought here, Mrs. Dawson, probably from straining to expel the child when you weren’t fully dilated. You lost a great deal of blood, and we almost lost you. The baby was delivered by Caesarean section…"
"What’s a Caesarean section?" Rose interrupted, wondering what had been done to her.
"It’s an operation where the womb is surgically opened and the baby removed. It’s done when woman is unable to give birth the usual way." He pulled up her nightgown, carefully pulling away the bandages covering her abdomen and checking the incisions for infection. Satisfied, he dabbed on some sort of liquid that made Rose wince in pain, then rebandaged her stomach.
"Mrs. Dawson…"
"Can I see my baby now?" Rose asked, eager to see and hold her child. Her stomach was sore, but the thought of her newborn made the pain seem insignificant.
"In a few minutes. Mrs. Dawson, there’s something else I need to tell you."
"What is it?" Rose looked at the doctor’s grim expression, her heart beginning to pound with dread.
"We were unable to stop the bleeding from the tear in your womb. The tissue and blood vessels were too badly damaged, and so we had to perform a hysterectomy in order to save your life."
"A what?"
"We had to remove your womb."
Rose gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth. "But…but that means…"
"You won’t be able to have any more children, Mrs. Dawson. Your ovaries are still intact, so you won’t experience the symptoms of menopause, but you won’t be able to have more children. You won’t have your monthlies anymore, either."
"Oh…oh, God…" Rose’s eyes filled with tears. Jack, you said that I was going to make lots of babies and watch them grow, but you were wrong. My daughter…our daughter…is the only baby I’ll ever have.
"Mrs. Dawson, if you and your husband want more children, you can always adopt them. There are orphanages full of children needing good homes."
Rose shook her head. "I’m a widow. My husband is dead. He’ll never know that I can’t have more children."
"You might remarry, then, perhaps even to a man who already has children, who you could raise as your own…"
Rose pulled up the sheet, wiping her streaming eyes with it. "I…I can’t think about that right now. Please, I want to see my baby. She’s all I have left…"
"Of course." Dr. Peterson stepped out of the curtained-off cubicle. "Nurse Radcliffe, please bring Mrs. Dawson her baby. I believe seeing and holding her child is the best thing for her right now."
Rose curled up in the bed, hugging herself and rocking gently. A hysterectomy…I’ll never be able to have another baby. I won’t be able to marry, either—what man wants a woman who can’t have children? My daughter is the only child I’ll ever have. If I hadn’t had a baby from that night with Jack, my life might be so different…but I can’t resent my daughter. From the moment I knew I was pregnant, I loved her and wanted her. It isn’t her fault that something went wrong…she’s just a baby.
"Mrs. Dawson?" Nurse Radcliffe pulled back the curtain, a tiny bundle in her arms. "Here’s your daughter."
Rose carefully pushed herself into a sitting position, swallowing back her sobs and ignoring the pain as she gazed at the blanket-wrapped infant in the nurse’s arms. One tiny fist escaped from the blanket, waving as the nurse placed the baby girl in her mother’s arms.
Rose looked at her newborn daughter, touching the tiny fist gently and smiling a little as the baby wrapped her tiny hand around her finger. She cradled her closer, rocking her gently as she whimpered slightly.
Pulling back the blanket, Rose examined the tiny hands and feet of her newborn, a hint of amusement entering her eyes when she touched the sole of a tiny foot and felt it flex, trying to curl around her fingers as the hand had moments before. She stroked the baby’s cheek, cuddling her as the baby turned her head towards her, her little mouth working as though she were nursing.
The infant had a tiny, perfect mouth, like her mother’s, a stubborn chin, a legacy from her grandmother, Ruth, and brilliant blue eyes like those of her father. Her head was nearly bald, with just a few strands of blonde hair on the top of it. Rose rocked her gently, wondering if her hair would be blonde or red. She, too, had had blonde hair as a baby, but her hair had turned red by the time she had been three years old.
Nurse Radcliffe watched Rose holding her baby, glad to see that her tears had stopped. "She’s a beautiful baby," she ventured, looking at the tiny girl that Rose was gazing at so raptly. "Have you chosen a name for her yet?"
Rose looked up, nodding, her slight smile fading as a hint of sadness returned to her face. "Yes."
"What is it?"
Rose looked down at the infant, stroking the soft head. "Charlotte. That was the name of my husband’s mother."
"That’s a pretty name."
"Yes." Rose nodded, then told her the rest of the name. "Charlotte Josephine Dawson."