Page 70 - Philly Girl

54 Janice Shapiro

We also worked together at a clinic in Williamsburg,
before that location became the hip enclave it is today. In
the mid-1970s, it was populated mainly by Hasidic Jews,
African Americans, and Dominicans. They lived in the same
neighborhood but kept a wary distance from each other.
And they all loved the “lady midwives.”
The Hasids called us by our last names. “Here comes
Shapiro,” they would say. No man or non-Jew was ever per-
mitted to touch them, so even though I was a secular Jew,
they insisted on being cared for by me. Then there were the
Spanish-speaking patients, who evidently thought I was
hilarious when I tried to communicate with them in my
high school Spanish. When they complained about aches in
their abdomens, I would suggest they use a warm towel to
relieve the pain. But I used the word caballo (horse) instead
of the word toalla. So I was telling the women to put a “warm
horse” on their pregnant abdomens. What could be funnier?
Every time I walked into Williamsburg Clinic, the women
would giggle and point and sometimes convulse in hysterical
laughter. Our Spanish translators never ever corrected me.
On my last day, they admitted that they just loved to hear
me amuse the patients by mashing up their language.
Betty guided me through my own labor with my first-
born son. Three hours of pushing is enough—for anyone.
My baby just wouldn’t come out. Betty, Dennis, the doc-
tor—all were in the room encouraging me, but absolutely
nothing worked. We all stood under the shower, we all got
on the floor, we all screamed and breathed together. I was
fully dilated for three damn hours, but no baby.
The doctor walked out of the room for a second. Betty
started tweaking and pulling at my nipples. That did the job.
“Here he comes!” she said. Then, “He’s crowning!” She ran
for the doctor, but really I wanted Betty to deliver the baby
herself. I knew from watching her as a colleague that she was
so damn good at it. I needed her calm and stoic nature. But