The Eldest Born Under the Kerosene Lamp

Day by day passed, my belly slowly grew, and the day of birth drew nearer.

The first time being a mother, I understood so little. I went to ask Mrs Wang, and she warmly taught me how to prepare things for the baby.

A young neighbour’s wife, educated under the Japanese, saw that I was having my first child and would surely have no experience; warmly she brought from home a pregnancy guidebook and lent it to me. That book helped me greatly on the night I gave birth.

On the evening of 27 December in the fortieth year of the Republic, a little past six, after supper I gnawed a section of sugar cane. The kerosene lamp gave a dim light; with nothing to do I wanted to sleep early. My husband was doing his lessons, so I went to bed first to rest. I lay a while; then my belly hurt once and then stopped; after ten-odd minutes it hurt again—three times in a row. I felt something was wrong and told my husband, “My belly has hurt three times; something seems wrong—is it labour?” He laughed at me: “You ate before bed, of course your belly hurts.” So I said no more and let it hurt.

At first the pains came every ten-odd minutes. By past eight in the evening I truly could not bear it and asked my husband to fetch Mrs Wang, but he would not, because my due date was still half a month away; he feared calling people and then not giving birth—it would be embarrassing.

By past nine at night the contractions grew closer; I truly could not stand it and urged my husband to ask the landlord’s nephew’s wife, Sister Ah Yun, to come and have a look.

In the middle of the night my husband knocked on her door, woke her, and told her why. When she heard, she came at once with my husband to our home to see me. She was already mother to three children, so very experienced. One look and she said, “This is serious! You’re about to give birth! You’ve prepared nothing—hurry and find a midwife!”

On the mountain there was no midwife. Outside a fine rain was falling; the village had no street lamps—pitch black.

The two of them, one hand with a torch, the other with an umbrella, went out to find the village head’s wife. In the village when people had babies they all called on her.

Unexpectedly she refused, because: thirty days remained until New Year’s Eve; she had to worship the heaven god—from today until the new year she could not deliver babies for anyone.

Ah Yun and my husband, hearing that, were both anxious and helpless; they had to find an older woman with less experience who did not need to worship the heaven god.

The midwife was found. Ah Yun asked me, “In your wedding dowry is there fine hemp cord?” I said there was not; she had to run home and find in the wardrobe a leftover fine hemp cord from when she gave birth. The fine hemp cord was for tying the umbilical cord. Sister Ah Yun told my husband to bring sesame oil; she rubbed the fine hemp cord with sesame oil for disinfection and kept it ready.

In the small hours of the next morning, under the dim light of the kerosene lamp, the child was born smoothly—a boy, so lovely. The old woman brought him to my side; seeing his dear face, a whole night’s fear and dread vanished at once.

“Meizi” was my husband’s nickname, because he was honest, steady, and quiet, and very serious at work. Meizi’s family had gained a boy; colleagues and classmates were all glad for him and came to the house to congratulate.

On the seventh day after the birth my husband came home from work and told me he had received orders to go to Lukang to test radar and prepare the “High Mountain Plan”; he had to be away on duty for a week. I asked him, “Why were you chosen?” He said, “This is the most important work; each squad picks one most outstanding person with the strongest ability to help—I was chosen. I can only ask you to do your month of rest at home alone. You’ve had a hard time!”

Hearing that, I felt a little bitter: the child was only a week old and father was leaving us for work elsewhere; but thinking again that my husband had been chosen to do such important work for the country, I also felt rather proud.

In the week after he left, I—a first-time mother with no experience—every day had to light the stove to cook and boil water; when dark I still had to light the kerosene lamp. When the baby cried I was flustered and clumsy.

The tense week finally passed; my husband returned safely. I was like a deflated balloon; my whole body relaxed. Seeing mother and child safe, my husband was also very glad.

On the third day of the full month the child received new orders—this time reassignment to Pingtung in southern Taiwan, for an indefinite period. His superiors told him to be mentally prepared: he must report within a week.

The two of us faced each other a long time without speaking. A soldier must obey orders; a wife must bravely face the fact that her husband may be posted away at any time.

On the day the child was forty days old, my husband picked up his luggage and left us mother and son once again.