Between Life and Death: The Night My First Son Was Born

 Since the assassination of Archbishop Óscar Romero in March of 1980, El Salvador had been under a “state of siege.” The military dictatorship, through the Legislative Assembly, declared measures to suspend civil liberties, strip away basic rights, and instill fear among the population. It was enforced by a strict curfew from six in the evening to six in the morning. Anyone caught on the streets during those hours risked being shot on sight.

That was the context in which I got married, and the context in which my first son was born, in December of 1981.

It was around two in the morning when Ana Maria woke me up and told me the baby was coming.

Neither of us had gone through this before. We were still newlyweds, and this was our first child. Her pregnancy had been healthy, but we had been worried early on due to a previous miscarriage. Under normal circumstances, labor pains might have filled us with nervous excitement. But the curfew, the soldiers in the streets, and the constant threat of violence made that moment terrifying.

At that time in El Salvador, healthcare was divided into three tiers: the national health service, the Salvadoran Institute of Social Security, commonly referred to as the workers’ hospital, and the private sector. The workers’ hospital was funded through monthly contributions from employees, providing a safety net for those who were part of the formal workforce.

Since Ana Maria and I were just starting our careers and did not have the financial means to afford private hospital care, we relied on the National Workers’ Hospital for the delivery of our baby. This hospital was located about six kilometers from our home.

Ambulances were not available; emergency services, like so many other aspects of daily life, had been placed under military control during the state of siege.

As she woke me up, I panicked. Seeing the pain on my wife’s face, and realizing there was nothing I could do, was overwhelming for me. Ana Maria showed an incredible strength I still marvel at. Between contractions, she calmly showered while I prepared our car for the dangerous journey ahead.

We owned a battered 1964 Volkswagen Beetle. It had no seatbelts, no interior light, and a faulty alternator that often left the battery dead. To drive during curfew, I needed to keep an interior light on so that soldiers at checkpoints could see who was inside the car. Anyone moving through the city in darkness risked being mistaken for a rebel and risked being shot. I grabbed a flashlight to serve as our makeshift interior light.

Ana Maria packed a small bag between contractions. Suddenly her water broke. We rush into the car and took the most direct route, from Monserrat Street to 25th Avenue.

The first stretch of road was deserted, no cars, no people, no soldiers. Then we reached the first checkpoint.

I held the flashlight high with my right hand while steering with my left. Shifting gears was a challenge because virtually shifted the flashlight between my hands as I steer the car. As we neared the checkpoint, I saw the glint of rifle barrels aimed at us. I slowed the car and kept the light steady. A soldier signaled for me to stop ordering me to put my hand out the window. I told him I couldn’t, I was holding the light to keep us visible. Ana Maria offered to hold it instead, but I was afraid any sudden movement inside the car could be misinterpreted. We were in the twilight zone between a life about to begin and a death we might never see coming.

I offered to step out of the car with my hands up, but the corporal told me it wasn't necessary ordering me to drive slowly towards where they were.

As we approached the check point, I noticed the soldiers were drunk, something that didn’t ease my already tensed nerves. One of them, clearly in charge, ordered another to inspect the car. Then he told me to open the trunk. I asked if I could hand the flashlight to my wife first; she was now in active labor. I opened the trunk, showing the engine in the rear. That seemed to satisfy them.

The corporal called ahead on his radio, alerting the next checkpoint that we were coming, a huge relief.

The second checkpoint was easier. They waved us through with barely a glance. But just like the first checkpoint, the soldiers there had been drinking too.

Soon we arrived at the hospital. The emergency entrance was locked behind two heavy solid iron gates with a small slot at eye level. I knocked, and a man peered out.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I explained why we were there. He asked me to see my wife. I helped Ana Maria out of the car, her gown soaked, her contractions coming fast and hard. The man stepped back and opened the gate. Two nurses came out with a stretcher and quickly, calmly, wheeled her inside.

I tried to follow, but the man stopped me. He told me I wasn’t allowed in.

Then he closed the gates, literally in my face.

I stood there, stunned. There was nothing more I could do. Returning home was not an option because to have to stop at the check points and explain to the soldiers, who were already drunk, what I was doing driving a car at that time of the morning. If they allowed me to speak at all. A man alone in a car was a different perspective than a couple with a woman in labour. Even though it was not safe to be outdoors during curfew my best option was to wait in the parking lot. 

I moved the car to a nearby parking spot and settled in for the long wait, shrouded in darkness until six o’clock, when the curfew would finally be lifted. Fear kept sleep at bay; I could only manage a light nap, interrupted frequently by sudden noises that startled me awake. Each sound sent a jolt through my nerves, making restful sleep impossible. After about three and a half hours, the sky began to lighten, and sunrise brought a sense of relief. The emerging daylight gradually dispelled the anxieties of the night and reinvigorated my spirit, filling me with new energy for the day ahead.

With the sun up, I walked over to the iron gates of the hospital and knocked, hoping for any update about Ana Maria and our baby. This time, the small slot didn’t even open; instead, a voice from inside informed me that visitors were not permitted until after 10 a.m. and instructed me to return then.

Having no choice, I retraced my route home along the same streets I had traveled earlier. The checkpoints were gone, and the city had awakened, traffic moved freely, pedestrians strolled along the sidewalks, vehicles and buses circulated, and cyclists delivered fresh bread from bakeries to corner stores with the unique modified bikes that allowed them to carry overside baskets front and back of their bikes. Street vendors were setting up their stands, filling the air with the aroma of artisan foods. Everything felt transformed; the familiar route, which I drove daily from work. It all seemed different that morning, as if the town itself had changed overnight.

Upon reaching home, I showered and called my parents to share the morning’s events and let them know I would return to the hospital as soon as I could to meet my first child. I did the same with Ana Maria’s mother. Time seemed to slow down as I waited for the hour when I could finally see my wife and our baby, whose gender was yet unknown, to me a mystery, as technology had not made such revelations possible yet.

When the time finally arrived, I drove the familiar route once more. Unlike the tense early morning journey, which had taken nearly forty-five minutes, this trip lasted less than fifteen minutes, including parking and walking to the now-open iron gates of the hospital.

A friendly receptionist greeted me and pointed me in the direction of my wife and child. As I walked through the hospital corridors, I realized I hadn’t even brought flowers for Ana Maria. My heart raced, and the hallways seemed to stretch longer than I remembered. Eventually, I turned a corner and saw four women holding their newborns; among them was Ana Maria, cradling our first child.

Just a few minutes later, my parents arrived. My mother carried a bouquet of flowers, and my father wore a smile he simply couldn’t hide. What felt like just a fleeting moment was, in fact, nearly an hour. During that time, my father pulled me aside and quietly said, “Now you are a father, the cycle is completed. Make sure your son is always proud of you.”

I was able to say the same thing to my son when his first daughter was born in Vancouver in 2013.