My wife's aunt is a midwife. Last month, after 34 years, she retired. Her hospital is near the U.S. Navy base in Yokosuka. In 34 years, she delivered 412 American babies. At her retirement party, she gave a speech. Half of it was about American fathers. "When I started," she said, "Japanese fathers waited in the hallway. Or at the office. American fathers came into the room. They only ever leave for one reason." Some of what she said: "They pack a bag for themselves. Snacks. Chargers. A speaker. One had a playlist called BABY DAY. The baby did not care for it." "They coach. 'Breathe, babe. You got this. Big push.' Like it's fourth and goal. The mothers tell them to be quiet. They get quieter. They never stop." "They cry. The bigger the man, the louder. A Navy chief with a neck as wide as my waist cried so hard, I almost gave HIM the oxygen." "I write the weight in grams. 3,290. The father does math on his phone, runs into the hallway, and announces it like a final score. 'SEVEN POUNDS, FOUR OUNCES!' Strangers clap. Thirty-four years, I still don't know what an ounce is." "Every one of them introduces himself. 'Hey, buddy. I'm your dad.' As if the baby might ask for ID." "They inspect the car seat for 40 minutes. Then they drive home at the speed of a bicycle with the hazard lights on." Then she stopped smiling. "And sometime in the first hour, every single one of them walks out to the hallway alone and calls his father. Big men. Quiet men. Men who told me they hadn't spoken to their fathers in years. They all call." "In 2019, a young sailor called. It went to voicemail. He left a long message. 'Dad. It's a boy. He's got your ears. We named him after you.' The next day, he called again. And the next. On the fourth day, his wife told me. His father had died eight months before. His mother never cancelled the phone. She still pays for it, so she can hear his voice. He called that number every day until they took the baby home." She looked at the room for a long time. "In 34 years, I learned one thing about American men. The moment they become fathers, they become sons again." When she sat down, nobody clapped for a while. Then, one by one, the Japanese men in the room stood up and walked out to the hallway. I was the third.

In Jina, Ituri Province, DRC, midwife Aimée Malosi continues to care for pregnant women and assist with deliveries amid the #Ebola# outbreak. Training and protective equipment have strengthened her confidence and helped her maintain essential maternal health services.