Being a midwife is an intensely social experience; you spend much of your work day inquiring about the intimate details of others’ lives, advising, caring, comforting. It is work that I love, but that sometimes leaves me overstimulated and emotionally exhausted. I have found that there’s no better antidote for that flowering hyperdrive of humanity than taking a stroll among the dead.
The clinic is a mess; women double-booked for prenatal visits, overflowing from the waiting room to the hallway. The nurse is loudly protesting the conditions of her labor. I, like a baseball player sliding into home plate, have finished seeing women for the morning just as the medical assistants are leaving for their lunch break. I have 60 minutes before it all starts again: the belly checks; the fetal heart tones bouncing around the room; the vague descriptions of skin rashes, itches, sharp pains. Mostly from women I have never seen before and will never see again.
My car is parked outside; I should eat, but I drive instead. I can’t stand to look at the pale clinic walls any longer, or to wonder what the temperature is outside while we sit inside, shivering in the air conditioning. Despite having come to this clinic every week for almost a year, so many of the surrounding streets are practically unknown to me — I turn left, then right, then right, then straight, seeking unfamiliarity after unfamiliarity. I come to the open entrance of the Hill Cemetery. There is a sign posted that is probably forbidding or limiting my entry, but I can’t be bothered to read it. I slow to graveyard speed, and enter.
Inside is a village of the dead: rolling acres, back streets and main streets. Ostentatious neighborhoods of the wealthy, their resting places built of marble up into the sky; cramped, cement-covered quarters of the modest; dramatic lookouts over the Hudson River, today made only for me and the legions of the unseeing. I wend through the silent hills, absurdly looking for somewhere unobtrusive to leave the car. There is nowhere, so I stop in the middle of one of the streets of the deceased.
After a frenzied morning surrounded by the living, I take peace in the silence of the passed-over. I am alone, and not alone. No one advertises to me, nothing demands my attention, and gentleness is prized. There is finality here — there are no decisions to be made. I move as slowly as possible; the harsh midday sun leaves my body confused, unsure where to hide. The sudden heat of a rapid-onset summer has killed the grass in swaths. Small yellow bulldozers sit halted, dotted across the still landscape.
I become aware of a distant rumble, of a figure riding a motorized lawnmower coming towards me up the path. I make apologetic movements for being in his way, and he motions back to me that I’m ok — and then drives up the hill and around me, narrowly avoiding the headstones. I feel momentarily guilty, reading in his face pity for my status as an apparent mourner. There is no way to explain my presence otherwise.
My mind wanders and when I snap out of it I find that I have walked hundreds of meters down a winding way to a cul-de-sac of graves plotted in a generous circle. At my back are a series of giant, toppled crucifixes, each snapped off at the base in some unknown incident of weather or time. At my feet: a small brick of granite sunken into the earth bearing the capital letters: BABY NAN. To the left, an identical brick with only the dates: JULY 9-JULY 16. To my right, the same diminutive brick again, this one blank.