Heather Anderson

It was 6:45am when they knocked on my door. The clinic needed a patient—an 18-year- old woman in labor—transported to the hospital in Manzini, an hour away. We helped her to the car and she lay down in the back. Her pain was evident as she winced with each movement. The clinic nurse and I exchanged worried glances before getting into the front seat.

It had rained the night before and the roads were slick with mud. Guiding the car around the puddles and onto more stable ground, I prayed that we would make it to the gravel road 25 kilometers away. Just outside the mission, the young girl requested that we stop due to the increasing pressure on her bladder. When she was ready to proceed to the hospital, she started to lie back down and I turned toward the driver’s seat.

Suddenly, there was a loud thud and the car shuddered. I looked back. The girl was shaking violently, pressed against the corner of the car door and seats. Red foam trailed down from her mouth as her eyelids fluttered. Jumping into the back of the car, we moved the bucket and her small bags away from her, and waited until the seizure stopped. When the young girl started to cry softly, we gently guided her back to a lying position. The nurse and I paused to look at each other as we got back into the front seat.

After several more seizures, we arrived at the hospital, where we transferred the young mother-to-be to the care of the staff on hand. But the staff was overloaded that morning and asked us to stay…and put on gloves. Having only casually considered nursing school and never received training in delivering babies, I was in new and slightly scary territory. The clinic nurse and I exchanged nervous glances and headed for the box of gloves.

As we approached her bed, a contraction hit and the young woman went into to another seizure. Pulling out her IV and catheter, she battled the staff attempting to prepare her for delivery. We held down her legs and arms as they checked the position of the baby. Her screams penetrated the walls and echoed down the outside entryways. Quickly, I realized that I was no longer interested in being a nurse. Almost as quickly, I decided against natural childbirth. I felt like holding up a banner or getting a tattoo across my belly: C-Sections ROCK!

As more help arrived and the young woman was stabilized, our assistance was no longer needed. We peeled off our gloves, washed our hands, and said our goodbyes. The young mother and her child survived and later recovered well. It had been an incredible morning –one with many uncertain moments.

I can say the same about my experience as a volunteer in both Swaziland, Africa and New York City. It was extraordinary—in all positive and negative senses of the word. Every day was a surprise. Overseas, it was the dung-covered floors to keep out the dust…hearing a young man say, “Maybe we have done something to anger God” a month before he passed away…the outline of thorn bushes and bent acacia trees in the dusty afternoon sunlight…the thick smell of burning incense and sugarcane…the absence of children’s rights…dancing, playing and laughing with the orphans at the hostel nearly every evening. Domestically, it was living in a city of 12 million after residing in a country of 1 million…seeing a homeless man or woman on nearly every corner…making a snow-angel five stories above Washington Heights…a crowd of kindergarteners swallowing me whole while happily shouting, “Miss Heeeeeaather”.

In that regard, I feel blessed. There were difficult times, without a doubt, but I always felt “delivered”, recharged each day by the amazing children and their unconditional love. For them, and for my volunteer experiences in Swaziland and New York, I am forever grateful.

Read Heather's letter to the Cabrinian Family

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