An Advent prayer from the community at Iona
Her name was Mary but I've always called her Mary of Portland.
I was working on the High Risk Maternal and Infant Team in Portland, Maine. I had a patient who worked the day shift at the bar in a local hotel – was it The Madison or the Monroe or the Montpelier? – something like that with an “M” but not on Monjoy Hill.
Munjoy Hill was the section of town where she lived. At that time, the neighborhood was kindly described as “tough and scruffy” but now, I understand, it’s very hip and, of course, very pricey. The hotel was “downtown,” just a short 15-minute bus ride away from “the housing projects” where she lived. I think I remember he name was Helen.
I would meet Helen at the hotel in the late afternoon and sit at the end of the bar. When I could, in between customers, I’d check her blood pressure and measurements and then do some teaching and answer her questions.
It was Helen who asked me to look in on her, the young girl whose name was Mary but I’ve come to name the Sad Madonna. She had recently moved into one of the rooms upstairs. “She’s awfully young,” Helen said. “No, wicked young. And,” she said, lowering her voice, “she’s very pregnant.”
“I’ve tried to talk with her and she’s starting to warm up to me, but . . . man! . . . she’s a tough cookie for one so young. I think her mother kicked her out of the house. Which was probably not a bad thing, if you can imagine it. I don’t think she’s had any prenatal care. She doesn’t go to the clinic, I don’t think. So, like, maybe you could stop in on her, just to check her out? Really, she’s wicked young.”
I told her that of course I would check in on her, if she’d let me. The next week, Helen said that the young girl had agreed to see me, in fact she was up in her room now – Room 11. Up to the fourth floor, take a left, second door on the right. Sorry, but the elevator is on the fritz again, but the stairs are in the hallway to the right as you come in the door.
I got to her room and knocked on the door. I heard her feet shuffle across the room and then heard the locks unlatch. She opened the door, looked at me for a long few seconds until I said, “Mary? Helen sent me here to check on you.” She opened the door silently and then, without saying a word, walked to her chair.
I closed the door behind me and stood in front of her and introduced myself. “Would you like me to check on you and your baby?” I asked. She nodded slowly, not making eye contact. I pulled over the only other chair in the room, which was in front of a small table which I assumed was where she ate her meals.
Except for the big, overstuffed chair she sat in and the small table and chair, there was a double bed with a mattress that was sagging with age. There was a small galley kitchen with a sink, a hot plate, a small refrigerator and some shelves with a few cans of soup and peanut butter and cookies. It was spare, but, the apartment was neat and clean.
She clearly wanted me there but was very hesitant to talk. So, I began slowly, complimenting her on her neat and clean apartment and then how nicely she had braided her hair, before asking her how she was feeling. The conversation was painfully slow but gradually, she came to trust me and, by the time I left, agreed to come with me to the prenatal clinic on Munjoy Hill.
She clearly wanted to do the right thing but no one had told her what that was. Over the weeks as trust built, she slowly started to tell me her story: how her father had left the family when she was a baby, how her mother struggled working two jobs and she had to care for her three younger children.
Eventually, she told me the truth: That her mother was a prostitute and an alcoholic. She had gotten her daughter into what she called “the family business” but after only three months, she had gotten pregnant. At that point, her mother kicked her out of the house. An aunt was paying for her hotel room and tried to help her, but it was hard.
She delivered her baby in the hospital and then returned to her apartment after three days. I saw her the day she came home from the hospital. She was so excited. So pleased with all she had accomplished. She was almost 15 but she had plans and dreams for her baby girl. She was going to go back to school. Her aunt had said she could take her baby with her through a new program at the junior high school.
The baby looked healthy and well. The road ahead would be long and not without many challenges, but filled with promise.
The next morning I got a call at home just as I was heading out the door. It was the Program Director. The police had called. I needed to get to the hotel immediately. There was a problem with the baby. The mother was asking for me.
When I got there, the room was crowded with EMTs and Police. The crowd seem to part as I walked through them to see Mary, looking sad and small, holding her dead baby. There was real confusion about how the baby had died. Was it SIDS? Did the mother do something? Intentional? Was it neglect?
The police were very anxious to talk with me – and Mary. I told them my primary concern was my patient. I asked all unnecessary personnel to leave the room so I could talk with her. The police were very reluctant to leave but my inner ‘mamma bear’ rose up and stood firm. They told me I could have 15 minutes and then they wanted a formal statement from me and then Mary.
When we were alone, Mary said she remembered feeding the baby a bottle around 4:30 AM. The baby fell asleep on her chest. When she woke up around 7:30, the baby had slipped off her chest. Part of her body – up to her chest – had slipped between the chair and the cushion. The baby’s face was near her thigh. It was blue. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t breathing. Mary remembers screaming and then she remembered she called 911. Everything after that was a blur.
Several weeks later the Medical Examiner ruled the death SIDS. There was no evidence of abuse or neglect. That didn’t stop Mary from blaming herself. Or, the police from being suspicious. One policeman said he wanted to “scare some sense into her so maybe she wouldn’t get pregnant again, and, if she did, she’d be more careful next time.”
I politely suggested to him that what he was doing could be considered harassment. Which he initially scoffed off, but then looked at me and knew I was being very serious. He stopped soon after that, but that didn’t help Mary.
I only saw her for six weeks after that. I did my best to get her the help she desperately needed, but she looked like a woman walking through fog. She blamed herself for her baby’s death. I suspect that, despite my best efforts, she went through the rest of her life carrying the burden of that judgment.
The last time we met she took my hand and thanked me. She said, “You keep telling me that God loves me. I don’t know how I can believe that but I believe that you believe that and that brings me the only comfort I’ve had through all of this. I know you believe in me and that’s what has kept me back in school, to try and build a new life for myself.”
I heard she moved out of the hotel shortly after that and moved in with her aunt. And, I heard from her aunt that she was in school and loving it.
Every Advent, her memory comes to me. I don’t know where she is today – if she’s alive and well or has died an untimely death. She was 14 when I met her so she’d be in her mid to late 50s today. I don’t know if she ever went on to make a good life for herself, found herself a mate and partner in life, created a family, and engaged in meaningful work that helped to support herself and those she loved.
I don’t know about the life
of Mary of Nazareth after her son died any more than I know about the life o
Mary of Portland after she lost her daughter.
I know this much to be true: Life is a gift but it doesn’t come wrapped up in a pretty bow. It can be hard and even cruel. The beginning of the story doesn’t necessarily predict the way it ends because there are too many variables, too many things that are not in our control – many of them are simply out of our control.
The thing that can make the difference is one person believing in you, believing so much in God’s love for you that, even though you can’t believe it yourself, you can at least believe that someone believes that for you.
And that, ultimately, is what makes life – especially new life – possible, no matter how fragile or strong, how long it lasts, or when it begins.
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