Anais:
It was a Tuesday morning when, just as we were about to go home for lunch, Lari came running and said: “My wife is in labor.” All the clinic staff was excited because we had been eagerly waiting for this baby to arrive.

After two hours, the baby was almost out. I was so surprised at how Marsili, the mother, was handling her pain: not complaining, not screaming, not crying, and breathing and pushing calmly. Her beautiful baby was born at 3:03 p.m.

Minutes later, things began to go terribly wrong. Marsili started to have postpartum hemorrhage; her blood pressure was very low, and she was almost unconscious. Her placenta was very attached to her uterus, and there was nothing else we could do here except
to give her IV fluids and take her to a hospital. I ran as fast as I could to call PAMAS (Philippine Adventist Medical Aviation Services) to help us with a flight, but unfortunately, no pilots were available. Our only option was to hike her out. But how? She needed to be in the hospital immediately. Only a miracle could get us there in time. We called some people to help carry her, and Paolo went with them. The nurses and I stayed at the clinic, begging for that miracle.

Paolo:
While Anais was at the birthing house, I went to prepare food, then stayed outside with Marsili’s family, waiting for the baby to be born. In the Palawan culture, all men except the husband must wait outside. When Anais called me, telling me Marsili was unresponsive, I entered the room. We immediately installed an intravenous line to administer fluids and then tried to try to stop the hemorrhagic bleeding.

Then Anais told me that PAMAS couldn’t help and that we needed to carry her to the hospital. The people were already prepared, and we carried her in a hammock on a bamboo pole. We carried her up the mountain and then descended. Never before had so many people helped carry a patient to the hospital. More than 30 people were helping: men, women, students and her husband. Her newborn baby was there, too.

We hurried as fast as we could, even running when possible. Along the way, I silently prayed and encouraged one of the mothers with us to remember to pray. I checked Marsili’s breathing and heart rate and massaged her uterus to prevent the hemorrhage from worsening. At first, Marsili screamed in pain, saying: “My daughter, my daughter! I’m dying, I’m dying.”

Her skin became paler, sweatier and colder. Her pulse was weak. Drops of blood painted the path.

It took us about two and a half hours to reach the base of the mountain, where the ambulance awaited. But we arrived too late. Marsili was already dead. All the CPR in the world could not revive her; there was no blood left in her system.

After 20 more minutes, we arrived at the hospital’s emergency room, where they declared her dead. Even before the doctors said anything, I had already collapsed. I later learned at the hospital that even if there had been pilots, the helicopter had no fuel. That was the last straw. I cried out of sadness and anger.

I composed myself and gave my condolences to Lari, Marsili’s husband, who was carrying his newborn baby. He said he wanted to take his wife’s body back to the mountain for burial the next day. We arranged an ambulance to transport the body to the base of the mountain, but they were going to bury her in a place far from our village.

It was 10 o’clock at night, and I started hiking the mountain alone. With my clothes covered in blood, I carried the oxygen concentrator on my back and a borrowed flashlight in my hand. My mind reviewed every moment, wondering what I could have done differently, asking God why He let this happen. Every time I encountered drops of blood on the ground, it felt like a shot to my heart. Not remembering the way back, especially at night, I prayed to God to guide me on which way I should take.

I arrived at midnight and, after a shower, began to talk with my wife about what had happened. For two hours, we talked before succumbing to a night of fitful sleep.

Anais and Paolo:
The next day, we woke up crying, unable to understand why this happened. For weeks, memories of Marsili’s death plagued us. Marsili was our responsibility. We were the two doctors in charge of her, and we couldn’t save her. This weight crushed us. People around the world started praying for us. Little by little, the weight lifted, and we began to feel better.
But for Lari, now widowed with five children, the healing process was understandably slower. We learned that he even looked for a rope to commit suicide. One memory, we believe, helped him begin overcoming his despair: as Marsili made her way to the ambulance, she regained some consciousness and asked Lari to take care of their little baby.

Days passed, and Lari continued coming to the clinic so Ada, his little daughter, could be bathed and receive formula and so he could hang out with us. Lari became part of the clinic’s family. We were so happy when he began to laugh with us again, even enjoying some meals together. He enjoys spending time with little Ada, and we can see his love for her. We can see his love for the clinic, too.

We cannot see Lari without remembering Marsili and what happened. We know we will never have answers this side of eternity as to why all of this happened, but we are sure of this:

“Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out! ‘Who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been his counselor?’ ‘Who has ever given to God, that God should repay them?’ For from him and through him and for him are all things. To him be the glory forever! Amen” (Romans 11:33-36 NIV).

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