September 8, 1972.

It began as a normal, hot Southern California day.  The same routine as any other day … shower, breakfast, kiss hubby good-bye, clean the kitchen, take a nap.

The difference was that on this day there were two totally unexpected events which ranged from one end of the spectrum to the other.  One resulted in death; the other, a birth.

Our tiny apartment in San Bernardino had no air conditioning and being seven months pregnant was no picnic.  Luckily, it cooled down at night and in order to sleep with some amount of comfort, we had finally dragged our mattress into the living room and stuck a fan in front of the large open window.  It also worked fairly well for my frequent pregnancy induced naps.

This is where I was when I awoke around 3:00 p.m. to a gush of liquid soaking both me and the mattress.  As I got up, the phone began ringing so I grabbed the sheet, wrapped it around me like a towel and slogged off to answer it.  It was my husband calling to tell me he was on his way home from work, which in itself was unusual, but when he wouldn’t tell me why he was coming home so early, I knew something was up.

By the time he got home, I had begun to wonder if the strange smelling liquid which continued to drench my legs was in fact, perhaps, the beginning of childbirth … better known as “Uh-Oh! I think my water broke!”  I called a friend of ours who had three or four grown kids thinking that she would be able to describe this strange experience.

She couldn’t.  All of her children had been “dry births”.

In the meantime, the news which brought Ken home had been a phone call from his parents telling him that his maternal grandmother had unexpectedly passed away … at 3:00 p.m., the same time that gush of liquid had awakened me.

As Ken panicked, calling the hospital, rushing around to pack a bag for me and calling his parents, I calmly and quietly fixed something to eat.  Fish and Chips.  I remember.  I wasn’t panicked.  I wasn’t even worried.  The fact that this baby wasn’t due for another two months didn’t concern me.  That a two month period could be devastating to the development of my child never entered my mind.  Not once did I think that something could be wrong.

After I had my dinner and Ken got me in the car, he managed to break all land speed records for a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle and we arrived at the hospital in a flash of time that would have made Captain Kirk and Scotty proud.

Over the next twenty-four hours, I was not allowed to get out of bed.  Around noon that next day, I began to have labor pains; Ken became such a pest, not only to me but to the nursing staff, that he was politely asked to leave the room. Three hours later, when it was finally realized that this baby was going to born whether it was time or not, I was wheeled into the delivery room.

At 3:14 p.m. on September 9^th, when the doctor said “Push!” I pushed … one time. That was it. One push … and POP! It was like catching a football, passing off to the running back and they were gone.  Off to NICU.

The next day when I finally got to see, and hold, my tiny little three pound bundle, there was no doubt in my mind that she was perfect.  She was small but she was perfectly formed, all ten little fingers and toes complete with little fingernails and toenails, a head-full of fuzzy baby-hair, and a healthy set of lungs.

When they brought the paperwork in for me to fill out, I had a couple of choices for her first name but only one for her middle name.

Anne, named for her father’s grandmother.