The Woman Who Refused to Let Life Go
- 4 days ago
- 4 min read
By Diann Floyd Boehm
The tires crunched over the gravel drive as James parked the car in front of his daughter-in-law’s small house. Before the engine even stopped, Jane gripped his arm. “Stop the car,” she whispered.
“There’s the doctor.”
Jane was out the door before James could turn the engine off. She ran toward the doctor. “Has the baby come?” she asked, breathless.
The doctor hesitated. “It did. But it’s too small to live. It’s in the trash can.”
Time stood still. Then Jane sprinted toward the back steps to find her daughter and the baby. James stayed frozen a bit longer, then gave the doctor a few choice words, and followed Jane.
Jane reached the trash can and with shaking hands lifted the bundle inside.
The tiny body was still, silent. But Jane had delivered babies before, including her first grandchild. She knew this wasn’t the end. She wrapped the child close to her chest, whispering, “Come on, little one. Breathe. Please, God, help her breathe.”
Working swiftly, Jane gave her a few drops of whiskey and a water enema, then gently rubbed her stomach. When air finally left the child’s lungs in a cry—loud, furious, alive—Jane’s tears came. James and the family crowded around her, their relief filling the room. Jane went on cleaning and wrapping the baby, thanking God for letting her live.
That baby was my mother, born July 4, 1931.
Jane took the baby and laid her on my grandmother’s chest. Pearl was too weak to hold her, so Jane tied strips of cloth around them, securing the baby close so she could nurse.
Then Jane saw the color draining from Pearl’s face. Feverish murmurs escaped her lips. “Blood. Too much.” Jane began to work, her movements steady and sure, cleaning and packing, doing everything she’d once watched a doctor do. Her hands saved her daughter that night, just as they’d saved her grandchild.
For weeks, Pearl could not rise from bed. Jane took care of her daughter and the baby. She massaged Pearl’s legs so her muscles wouldn’t waste, changed bed pans. The baby was growing and getting plenty of breast milk. Slowly, life returned to both mother and child.
That night, once the house quieted, Jane sat on the sofa with her cup of tea and thought about her own remarkable journey. How did a little girl who lost her mother at four in 1880 grow up to become a midwife, healer, and saver of lives?
Her memories came back like photographs: moving from Marion, Alabama, to Bower, Oklahoma; the family making new friends, including Dr. and Mrs. Evans. He was the only doctor in town. Dr. Evans and Jane’s father, Patrick, became close, and Jane spent time in Dr. Evans’ office studying medical books and talking with Dr. Evans about interesting cases. Sadly, Mrs. Evans passed away.
Later one evening the two men were talking about life. Patrick shared how hard it was to earn enough to feed the family. Dr. Evans listened and then said he had an idea. “I am overwhelmed with my practice, the house, the cooking. Your Jane is fourteen now; she is of marrying age. She is so smart, and there is so much I can teach her. Let Jane marry me—not for me to take advantage of her, but to give her a chance to learn medicine and help with the home.”
Patrick said it would have to be Jane’s decision.
Jane was excited about the chance to learn and agreed. In those days girls at fourteen were considered adults and ready for marriage. Jane married not for love but for learning. She assisted the doctor, cleaning instruments, greeting patients, eventually setting broken bones and delivering babies. What began as curiosity became a calling.
After a few years, Dr. Evans died. A new doctor arrived, but when it was time for a baby to be born, the women called on Jane. Jane met and married James and they started a family, ultimately having nine children.
Now, with Pearl and the newborn grandchild resting peacefully in the next room, Jane felt the weight and wonder of a full circle. Her husband sat beside her, smiling. “You were remarkable today,” he told her. “Two lives saved by your hands.” He kissed her forehead.
Jane whispered a prayer of thanks. She thought of growing up without a mother, of working with the doctor, of watching new lives enter the world and others leave it. Every loss had taught her grace; every hardship had taught her strength. The road from that frightened child to this wise midwife had been long and rugged, but she wouldn’t trade a single mile, because it was this very journey that made her rise.
Jane’s story lives in my bones – the girl who lost her mother, the woman who learned to heal, and the grandmother whose courage gave life to my mom and her (so far) 21 descendants. That story has shaped the way I write stories about girls who refuse to give up. Her legacy guides my own voice on the page and how I dare to show up in the world.
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