Do you believe in angels?

An encounter with a Spanish midwife

Ciruena, Spain

Before yesterday, I’m not sure I could say I believed in angels. My babysitter as a child talked about them a lot, and of course I knew the stories of the encounters Mary and others claimed to have had. But I’d never had one myself. So I couldn’t say for sure.

And then I met Balene.

The exchanges recounted below took place in Spanish, but I’ve rendered them in English for clarity and ease.

One of the agreements of this harebrained adventure is that I regularly consult with my midwives. Every two weeks, we have a scheduled phone call where I can report my blood pressure and generally how I’m doing.

The day before my first check in call, I found myself headed to Logroño, a small city of 180,000 people with lots of infrastructure. Overachiever that I am, I thought I could give everyone in my life some much deserved reassurance by seeing a doctor, to verify that nearly 100 miles of walking hadn’t done the baby any harm. I’ve also been experiencing terrible foot pain for all of the last week, and thought a doctor in a town on the Camino might have some advice.

Wednesday morning, I had planned on a short six-mile walk to Logroño from the small town of Viana. But I figured I’d stop into their health center first, in the hopes that it would be less busy than the bigger city’s. I walked in the door at 8:10am. A kind receptionist said it would be possible to see a doctor at 9:20. This was promising. But then she turned to her colleague and, after verifying with me that my condition wasn’t urgent, she apologized and said I’d have to wait until 1:30pm. Morning appointments were only for emergencies.

If I  waiting until 1:30, I wouldn’t get to Logroño until after 4, which was far later than I’d planned. Somehow I’d convinced myself that walking into a clinic pregnant would get me seen immediately. I considered overstating the condition of my feet in order to make my case more urgent, but it didn’t feel in keeping with the ethical thrust of the Camino experience. I felt foolish and annoyed. Blinking tears from my eyes, I turned and left.

I arrived in Logroño just before noon and walked directly to the health center closest to my hostel. This time, the receptionist was concerned that I needed to see a midwife, and that their clinic didn’t have the “special equipment” to look at the baby.

“I just want a doctor to listen to his heart and take my blood pressure,” I said, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice as I searched my mind for the Spanish word for “stethoscope.”

The reception asked me to hold on a moment while she placed a call. After several minutes of nodding, she hung up.

“The midwife can see you here at 8am tomorrow,” she said.

I was thrilled.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“The United States,” I said, moving to show her my passport.

“Ah,” she said. “You have private insurance?”

“Yes,” I responded.

“Well then you have to go to the private hospital—“ she said the name quickly as she scribbled something on a scrap of paper. It sounded like “Hermano de Manzanos” — brother of… apples? No… that was “manzanas.”

She slid the piece of paper through the slot under the plexiglass window that separated us. What had happened to my 8am midwife appointment?

“So I can’t see a midwife tomorrow at 8?” I confirmed.

“No,” she said emphatically.

I looked down at the name and address on the paper she’d handed me and remembered vaguely seeing it on Google Maps in the southern part of the city.

“This is far away,” I said.

Didn’t she see that I was a pilgrim traveling on foot with a 20-pound backpack?

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “You’ll have to take a bus.”

I was already hungry for lunch. I wasn’t about to get on a bus to an unknown destination. Again, I could feel the tears of frustration behind my eyes. My Spanish is good, but I wanted to make sure we were understanding each other completely.

“So you can’t help me—“ I said, matter-of-factly.

“No,” she said, without hesitation. “With private insurance, you go to the private hospital.”

I looked her in the eye for a long moment, then hoisted my pack on my back and turned and walked out.

Strike two.

I arrived at my hostel a few minutes later only to find that check in wasn’t yet open. I waited, hoping someone would show up, getting hungrier by the minute. I knew I was earlier than I’d said I’d be in my reservation, so I couldn’t be upset. Forty-five minutes went by and by this point my hunger was intense. I left a note on the front desk asking them to call me when they arrived, and went to find lunch.

After I had eaten and my blood sugar had stabilized, I considered my next move. I opened Google Maps to see how to get to the Apple Brothers hospital and noticed a starred location not too far from me. “Obstetrix” it said. I remembered that before leaving, I had done some contingency planning around possibly going into labor on the walk and had starred every place I could find with a maternity focus. This must have been one. The office was closed from 1-4 for siesta (like every other business in Spain) but I decided to pay them a visit when they reopened to see if they could help me.

At 4:20, I knocked on the door. A receptionist opened it and I launched into explaining myself.

“I’m a pilgrim walking the Camino. I’m 30 weeks pregnant and I’d like to see a midwife to verify that everything is okay with the baby. Nothing is wrong! I just want to check that everything is good.”

It was at this moment that a middle-aged short-haired woman in scrubs walked into the reception area. She looked at me intently, and I repeated myself for her benefit.

“I’ve been to two health centers but no one will see me,” I said.

“Tranquila,” she said. “It’s okay—you’ve found us.” She could clearly sense my frustration and anxiety. Her voice was like a slow, warm hug.

I smiled.

“Wonderful,” I said. “Is it possible to make an appointment?”

“How about tomorrow morning? Or later tonight?”

I nodded. “I can do later tonight. What time?”

“How about 7:30?” she asked.

“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll see you then.”

I turned to go and then stopped myself.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“I’m Balene,” she replied. “See you soon.”

She closed the door.

I spent the next three hours running errands and returned at the appointed time.

The receptionist had me fill out an intake form and a few minutes later, Balene came into the room.

“Okay, Alicia,” she said. “This way.”

I followed her into her office and sat across from her at her desk. I handed her my stack of medical records for her to review. Somehow I felt the need to explain myself, so I launched into the story of wanting to walk the Camino, the invitation to Galicia, finding out I was pregnant.

She looked up, nodded calmly, and smiled.

“You know when it’s time,” she said.

I was surprised at how simply and clearly she had summarized my feeling.

“Yes… exactly,” I said.

“I’ve done the Camino five times,” she said nodding.

“Oh!” What luck. “So you understand!” I said.

“Of course,” she said, continuing to nod slowly in deep understanding.

She finished reviewing my paperwork and made some notes on her screen. She weighed me and took my blood pressure, both of which were normal and consistent with my past measurements.

“I’m going to do an ultrasound just to make sure everything is perfect,” she said, pulling out a long piece of paper toweling to tuck into my pants.

She checked the baby’s position, his skull, and the umbilical cord, and then clicked on the 3D rendering so we could see his face and hands, something the sonogram tech at the hospital in Connecticut hadn’t even done, presumably because it cost extra.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

I’ve learned this is a normal question here in Spain and to avoid the complexity of explaining the American custom of waiting until birth to share the name, I told her.

“Look how he smiles when he hears his name,” she said.

I wasn’t sure I had seen a full smile, but I liked the idea.

“He’s already two kilograms,” she said offhand as she wiped the sonogram gel off my stomach and beckoned me to follow her out of the room. I did the conversion, pretty sure that 4.4 pounds was more than the Baby Center app projected for week 31.

On a different examining table, she strapped an eco-monitor around my belly and turned it on. Apparently this was her preferred mode of listening to the baby’s heartbeat.

We chatted casually about the Camino while the monitor whirred in the background. Two she had done with her husband. One, with her daughter. In 2020 and 2021, she’d completed the Camino by bike. I complained that the biggest problem I was having was terrible pain in my feet.

“Yes,” she said, nodding knowingly. “I will make you a cream.”

I told her I was considering sending my backpack between hostels, but that it felt like giving up the real pilgrim experience.

“You’ve already got a backpack in your belly,” she reminded me.

I laughed and nodded, feeling somewhat more justified in the decision to arrange to ship my pack the next day.

She walked to a cupboard and pulled out a sterile urine sample cup, into which she began spooning different creams from at least three different containers.

When she had finished, she mixed them all together, explaining each of their various uses. She put on the lid and handed it to me.

“Put this on your feet at night,” she said. “It will help.”

I marveled that I had managed to find a health professional who could do such a thorough examination of the baby and also help me address the problem I was having with my feet.

“A gift from God,” I said, only half joking.

Balene smiled. Maybe the long days of walking and consecutive nights in a sleeping bag in an albergue bunk bed had made me more sensitive, but I couldn’t ever remember feeling so well taken care of by a healthcare provider.

A few minutes later, she returned to check the monitor and confirmed that the baby’s movement and heartbeat were normal. She printed out a summary of the visit and placed it along with the printout from the monitor into an envelope as she walked me back to reception. I paid my bill and folded the invoice into the envelope with the rest of my medical records to submit for reimbursement.

As I prepared to leave, I turned to thank Balene, fumbling for words to express my gratitude. I’d gone from feeling hopeless and frustrated to reassured and cared for.

“Thank you,” I said. “Truly, you’ve been wonderful.”

She smiled.

“Buen Camino, chica. Cuídate y tu bebé.”

“Good journey. Take care of yourself and your baby.”

As I left the building, I shook my head at the experience I had just had.

Was she an angel? I wondered.

I know that Balene is a real person, one who likely helps hundreds of Spanish women feel equally cared for before, during, and after birth. But she reminded me that we all have the ability to be angels to each other, if we want to. We can look at what the people around us need and consider how we can give it to them. It could be giving change to a homeless person, or lending your phone to someone with a dead battery who needs to make a call. Or something more involved. It’s tempting to think it’s my personal responsibility to soldier through on my own. But asking for, offering, and accepting help are all vital to surviving life on planet Earth.

Sometimes you have to be willing to keep knocking on doors until one opens. But we can also be on the lookout for people in need, and raise our hands to offer help when we see it. As I contemplate the realities of becoming a new mother, I expect I’ll come to depend on the kindness of many more angels to manage through the process of pushing a baby out of my body and into the world.

I’m so glad I got to receive care from Balene. I’m grateful to her for reminding me that we all speak humanity’s universal language: kindness.