On the pregnancy front, things were chugging along just swimmingly. My friend Pat called in early December from the hospital after giving birth to Michelle. I was insanely jealous of her. Her baby was HERE! Move forward past Christmas, into January. I’m working away on my Smith-Corona (yikes! Pre-Computer! How old AM I?) on my master’s thesis, on Milton’s Paradise Regained. Nothing is happening in January except the fact that our black lab, Zeke, is getting tired of my sighs and exhortations to the God of Milton to hurry things along. Finally, it’s the end of January. Like a mother bird sitting on her hatchling (except this one was inside), I started to rumble and things started to happen. It was early evening, so Gene and I fed the dog, packed up our troubles in our old kit bag, grabbed our focal point picture, and headed to the hospital. A fairly decent snowstorm was also hatching, but we were undaunted. We got to the hospital, got examined, and suddenly, everything stopped dead in its tracks, except the snowstorm. The nurse said I was close to getting contractions started again, but she encouraged Gene to go back home, get some sleep, and come back in a few hours. (Apparently, the nurse hadn’t looked out the window.) My dutiful husband got back in the car, drove the several miles home. As soon as he walked in the door, the nurse called him. Come back, she said. Your wife’s in labor. Still dutiful, he scraped off the windows and drove back. By now, I was involved in a heated game of poker with my roommate and two friendly orderlies. Every so often, one of us would wince, but realistically, we were fairly comfortable. We got the guys involved in the poker game, and soon, the roommate left to labor in a more suitable location–an actual labor ward, filled with 8 screaming women. I could hear them through the door. What was up with the whole puff-blow-push documentation? Why wasn’t it working for these women? I dreaded my imminent entry through that door. Shortly after my roommate left (she had won a few bucks), my water broke, and the poker game was halted. We started our Lamaze techniques, hoping to forestall moving into the ward as long as possible. To this day, I can’t believe there actually was a ward, even in the early 70s! I was soon close to screaming mode myself, but I was determined not to take any drugs of any kind. We moved into the ward, and we followed our directions. I wanted to spit at the focal point picture after a few hours, but Gene wouldn’t let me. The nurse said I was doing fine, but I was getting ready to push. We asked where the doctor was. She said brightly: “Oh, he’s on his way. Don’t you know there’s a snow storm going on?” In a few minutes, the nurse said that although I was ready to push, I shouldn’t because the doctor wasn’t there. Finally, I couldn’t manage it any longer, and we hustled into the delivery room. Doctor X swooped in like the dignitary he was. I’m sure he was wearing a white cape of some sort, but all I could see were his white buck shoes. That part is not a lie. Dr. X got there just in time to catch our daughter and hand her to Gene. By now, I was delirious, and I heard some interns coming in to watch. One of them asked: “Who’s this other guy?” The nurse said: “This is a man who just watched his wife give birth to his daughter. He gets to give her her first bath.” And so, we entered the age of Acqaurius with one beautiful creature to our name.
