The faces of "Maternal Mortality"

I am back now, in Canada, in the arms of my family and have some final reflections to share - written on the plane back from Uganda.

We are so separate from maternal death in Canada. In Uganda, it is a tangible spectre that haunts everyone involved. The staff, the women, the families.

We say in Canada that our biggest goal is "healthy mom, healthy baby." In Uganda, it is "live mom, live baby."

On our way to safari, we chat idly in our Canadian way, trying to build some camaraderie via reports of our terribly busy and important work. Our tiredness and hard work is constantly commented on by the hotel staff (who are up long before we are and work late into the night, long after we are in our beds).

We say to our driver (because we are headed on safari and we feel we deserve it. We work so hard, we see unspeakable things, we crave a swimming pool and a change of scenery)... we say we have "had a hard week. A mother has died of bleeding after childbirth."

Our driver says "yes, that happens here. That is how my wife died. Five years ago."

We die a little inside.

"I am so sorry"

"It's okay. It's okay," he says, going to fill the safari van with diesel and rocking the van to get the tank really full.

We sit with our hearts beating, the weight of reality pressing down on us.

It's not f---ing okay.

Of course not. But he is okay. He survives. He has not taken another wife because his children are still too young, he feels, and a stepmother will mistreat them. But he hopes for another wife one day. Maybe four.

I picture the woman who works at the hotel working the buffet. One day, I see her half-hidden behind the pillar, picking up one foot, and then the other to relieve the tiredness. I'll bet I sit more that she does in my daily work.

She is a sunny person. I often catch her quietly watching us. watching me, smilling at our banter and jokes. "You are well?" she asks. "We are burungi!!" [fine]

One evening she comes to our table. Sadness roles off her like fog. Carole says "are you okay??"

She pauses... it hangs in the air. Says ".......................no" and steps back just a little. It's that moment where you ask someone how they are and the surface cracks like glass at your tone or your body language and you get a painfully honest answer.

"My sister died."

"Oh no, I am so sorry"
"What happened?"

"Hypertension"

I look at this young woman standing beside me.

"Was she...pregnant?"

"Yes"

"Oh. no.
"Does she have other childen?"

Turns out her sister was 33 years old, leaving three older children and was buried on Sunday.

The connect is lost and she backs aways from the table like a ghost and doesn't meet our eyes for the rest of the night.

We feel the weight pressing down on us and look up pregnancy-induced hypertension in our texts at the table.

Thinking "....... Why?"