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The Historical Horror of Childbirth

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Childbirth in much of human history has been a class act. The upper classes were encouraged to reproduce as much as possible, and a woman who was pregnant or recovering from childbirth took time to rest while servants took care of her and the child. The lower classes worked right up to and soon following birth, as they had to work to eat. The upper classes also had the latest medical knowledge at their fingertips, but this wasn't always such a good thing.

Photograph from The Victoria and Albert Museum.

Class distinctions in childbirth during the Renaissance were recorded. In 15th-century Florence, women were married as teenagers and often had five to ten children, depending on whether she survived childbirth. Childbirth was so dangerous that a woman would make out her will as soon as she found out she was pregnant. An age-old method of birth control is extended breastfeeding, which is nature's way of spacing out children. However, the custom among the upper classes was to farm out breastfeeding to wet nurses, which meant that the mother would soon be pregnant again.

It was during the Renaissance that medical doctors began to take part in childbirth, although not without a struggle. Women as whole were sheltered and their bodies hidden under plenty of clothing. It was unseemly for any man to take part in the intimate process of childbirth, and midwives did not want to give up their power or expertise in the area. Midwives had experience on their side; physicians had the authority that comes with the title. Therefore, most of the writings and advice from the period come from prominent physicians, and a lot of their advice was guesswork.  

Three women were pregnant when they boarded the Mayflower on its journey to America. One child, Oceanus Hopkins, was born during the voyage and died during the first winter in Massachusetts. Another, Peregrine White, was born shipboard off Cape Cod and lived to an old age. The third child was stillborn at Plymouth; the mother died in childbirth. Such stories were not at all shocking, as a woman's chances of dying during childbirth were between one and two percent -for each birth. If a woman gave birth to eight or ten children, her chances of eventually dying in childbirth were pretty high. The infant mortality rate was even higher. The chances of a child dying before his fifth birthday were estimated to be around 20 percent, depending on the community (accurate records are scarce). In addition to the fear of death or the fear of the child dying, there was no pain relief during labor, except for whisky in some places. In Puritan communities, pain during childbirth was God's punishment for Eve and all women who came afterward.

Motherhood in early America was even more frightening for slaves. Infant mortality among African and African-American slaves in the 18th century ranged from 28-50 percent, and mortality in children under ten was 40-50 percent, due to maternal malnutrition, overwork, disease, and lack of medical access. Slave owners blamed the mothers for infant deaths, and there is evidence that some babies were deliberately smothered to spare the child a life of slavery, but other factors contributed greatly to the infant death rate.

As Europe became more crowded in the 17th and 18th centuries, communicable diseases caused even more frequent deaths in childbirth. Puerperal fever had been around, but the rise of physician-assisted births increased its rate. It is a bacterial infection that became apparent within days of giving birth. The rise of maternity wards in hospitals meant that many women gave birth within shouting distance of each other. Doctors, in those days before germ theory, went from patient to patient, unknowingly carrying the bacteria on their instruments and their unwashed hands. In the 1790s, Alexander Gordon stressed that the disease was spread from one patient to another. He "bled" his patients at the first sign of puerperal fever, which actually helped in some cases, but no one understood why. In 1842, Thomas Watson recommended that physicians and birth attendants wash their hands and use chlorine between patients. In 1847, Ignaz Semmelweis reduced the rate of fever in his obstetric ward by ordering hand washing, but the idea was still rejected by the medical industry at large. A famous victim of puerperal fever was Mary Wollstonecraft, mother of Frankenstein author Mary Shelley. In 1797 she gave birth to her daughter Mary with the assistance of a midwife. But then a doctor was called to help remove the placenta and he came quickly, with unwashed hands. Wollstonecraft died a painful but typical death over the next week.

Photograph by Billy Hathorn.

Pioneers who settled the American West didn't have it much better than their eastern or European counterparts. Both doctors and midwives were scarce, and the midwives who were able to help in childbirth rarely had more knowledge than the experience of giving birth themselves. Infant mortality remained high, but the isolation of living on wilderness farmland many miles away from settled towns had one advantage: the spread of disease was lessened somewhat.

Childbirth changed dramatically in the 19th century with the introduction of anesthetics. Dentist William Morton developed the use of ether for surgery in 1846. Obstetrician Sir James Young Simpson introduced chloroform as an anesthetic in 1847. Queen Victoria used chloroform during her eighth delivery in 1853. The practice of childbirth anesthesia spread quickly afterward, despite protests from the clergy, who claimed that labor pains are God's will.

In 1914, a method called Twilight Sleep was developed, which involved morphine and scopolamine. The mother slept through delivery, but the drugs also affected the baby, and sometimes the child didn't breathe at all. The morphine also caused some mothers to die in childbirth. 

Comic by Kate Beaton.

In the 20th century, advances in medicine and germ theory raced ahead of public health and the access of the lower classes to medical care. When Dr. Josephine Baker was appointed as city health inspector for the Hell's Kitchen area in 1901, she found that 1,500 newborn babies died in the district every week. Her crusade to improve prenatal care and child health practices involved inventing formula, opening clinics, launching a school lunch program, training babysitters, and opening milk stations in the city, and it resulted in a huge decrease in infant and child deaths.

Childbirth, though still an ordeal, is much safer today for mothers. Children are much more likely to survive to adulthood. And widely available birth control gives people the option of deciding when and how many children to have. But the hard part comes after childbirth -raising a family, which is more complicated every day. And that's why you should honor your mother this Mother's Day.

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History
Civilian Researchers Discover Wreckage of the USS Indianapolis
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Wikipedia/Public Domain

On July 30, 1945, the cruiser USS Indianapolis sank in the Pacific Ocean after it was torpedoed by the Imperial Japanese Navy submarine I-58. More than 70 years after the historic naval tragedy— which claimed the lives of nearly 900 crew—The New York Times reports that the ship’s mysterious final resting place has been found.

The discovery came courtesy of a team of civilian researchers, led by Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen. His state-of-the-art research vessel, Petrel, located the wreck 18,000 feet below the Pacific’s surface, the team announced on Saturday, August 19.

"To be able to honor the brave men of the USS Indianapolis and their families through the discovery of a ship that played such a significant role in ending World War II is truly humbling,” Allen said in a statement. “As Americans, we all owe a debt of gratitude to the crew for their courage, persistence, and sacrifice in the face of horrendous circumstances."

Before it sank, the USS Indianapolis had just completed a top-secret mission to a naval base on the Northern Mariana island of Tinian. After delivering enriched uranium and components for Little Boy— the atomic bomb that the U.S. would drop on the Japanese city of Hiroshima about a week later—the cruiser forged ahead to Guam, and then to the Philippines. It was supposed to meet the battleship USS Idaho at Leyte Gulf in the Philippines to prepare to attack Japan.

The USS Indianapolis never made it to Leyte Gulf. Shortly after midnight on July 30, the Japanese submarine I-58 spotted the cruiser and fired six torpedoes. The USS Indianapolis—which was hit twice—sank within 12 minutes. Around 300 to 400 sailors and Marines were killed in the attack; the rest were stranded in the Pacific Ocean for several days.

Many of these survivors would ultimately lose their lives to sharks, a grisly scene that would be famously (albeit semi-accurately) recounted in the 1975 movie Jaws. Others died from drowning, heat stroke, thirst, burns and injuries, swallowing salt water or fuel oil, and suicide. More than 300 crew members were rescued after a bomber pilot accidently sighted the imperiled men while on a routine antisubmarine patrol.

The mass tragedy—which wouldn’t be announced to the public until August 15, 1945—sparked controversy: Charles B. McVay III, captain of the USS Indianapolis, was found guilty in a court martial of failing to steer the ship on a “zigzag” course to elude Japanese submarines. A Japanese submarine captain testified that this precautionary measure wouldn’t have thwarted the enemy, but McVay was charged nonetheless. The captain died by suicide in 1968, and wouldn’t be officially exonerated by the Navy until 2001.

For decades, the remains of the USS Indianapolis were lost to the ravages of time and nature. But in 2016, naval historian Richard Hulver found a historic ship log that mentioned a sighting of the USS Indianapolis. Allen’s search team used this information to locate the ship, which was west of where experts assumed it had gone down.

Allen’s crew took pictures of the wreckage, including a piece of its hull, and will search for more of the ship. They plan to keep the exact location of the USS Indianapolis a secret, however, to honor the sunken ship as a war grave.

"While our search for the rest of the wreckage will continue, I hope everyone connected to this historic ship will feel some measure of closure at this discovery so long in coming,” Allen said.

[h/t The New York Times]

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entertainment
The Time That Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis Opened Competing Restaurants on the Sunset Strip
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From 1946 to 1956, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis were show business supernovas. With an act that combined singing, slapstick, and spontaneous hijinks, the duo sold out nightclubs coast to coast, then went on to conquer radio, television, and film. Long before Elvis and The Beatles came along, Dean and Jerry  were rock stars of comedy.

Offstage, there was a cordial but cool friendship between the laidback Martin and the more neurotic Lewis. But as the pressures of their success increased, so did the tensions between them. Martin grew tired of playing the bland romantic straight man to Lewis’s manic monkey boy. And when Lewis started to grab more headlines and write himself bigger parts in their movies, Martin decided to quit the act. In an angry moment, he told Lewis that he was “nothing to me but a f**king dollar sign.”

After the split, both men went on with their individual careers, though it took Martin a few years before he regained his footing. One of his ventures during that transitional period was a Hollywood eatery called Dino’s Lodge.

DINO'S LODGE

In the summer of 1958, Martin and his business partner, Maury Samuels, bought a controlling interest in a restaurant called The Alpine Lodge, at 8524 Sunset Boulevard. They hired Dean’s brother Bill to manage the place, and renamed it Dino’s Lodge.

Outside they put up a large neon sign, a likeness of Dean’s face. The sign turned into a national symbol of hip and cool, thanks to appearances on TV shows like Dragnet, The Andy Griffith Show, and most prominently, in the opening credits of 77 Sunset Strip.

Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Dino’s Lodge was popular from the get-go, serving home-style Italian food and steaks in an intimate, candlelit, wood-paneled room meant to replicate Martin’s own den. In the first year, Dean himself frequented the place, signing autographs and posing for photos with starstruck diners. He also occasionally brought along famous friends like Frank Sinatra and Shirley MacLaine. To promote the idea of the swingin’ lifestyle that Martin often sang about, Dino’s served “an early morning breakfast from 1 to 5 a.m.” The restaurant also had a lounge that featured singers, though only females. Dean apparently didn’t want any male vocalists encroaching on his turf.

But as with many a celebrity venture into the food business, this one soon turned sour. And most of that was due to the jealousy of Jerry Lewis.

JERRY'S

In late 1961, Lewis wooed Martin’s business partner Maury Samuels away, ponied up some $350,000, and opened his own copycat restaurant three blocks down Sunset. It was called Jerry’s. To make it clear he was out for top billing, Lewis had his own likeness rendered in neon, then mounted it on a revolving pole 100 feet above his restaurant. In contrast to Dino’s Italian-based menu, Jerry’s would serve “American and Hebrew viands.” Lewis didn’t stop there. Within a few months, he’d hired away Dino’s top two chefs, his maître d', and half his waitstaff.

Wire Photo, eBay, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

When Lewis was in Los Angeles, he made of point of table-hopping and schmoozing with his guests at his restaurant, and he occasionally brought in a few of his celebrity friends, like Peggy Lee and Steve McQueen.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

By the following year, a disgusted Dean Martin was fed up with the restaurant business and cut ties with Dino’s Lodge. Much to his aggravation, he lost a motion in court to have his likeness and name removed from the sign. So the new owners carried on as Dino’s Lodge, with the big neon head staring down on Sunset for another decade before the place finally went bust.

Jerry’s lost steam long before that, folding in the mid-1960s.

For the rest of the 1960s and the early 1970s, Martin and Lewis avoided each other. “Jerry’s trying hard to be a director,” Dean once told a reporter. “He couldn’t even direct traffic.”

In 1976, Frank Sinatra famously engineered an onstage reunion of the pair during The Jerry Lewis Telethon. While the audience roared their approval, Sinatra said, “I think it’s about time, don’t you?” And to Sinatra, Lewis said under his breath, “You son of a bitch.”

What followed was an awkward few moments of shtick between the former partners. Reportedly, Martin was drunk and Lewis was doped up on painkillers. There was a quick embrace, Martin sang with Sinatra, then blew Lewis a kiss and disappeared from his life for good. Martin died in 1995. Lewis passed away today, at the age of 91.

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