Mother’s day. Those were the days!

 

 

By

 

 

 

Gerry Niskern

 

 

 

I drove by Good Samaritan Hospital the other day and automatically looked up expecting to see the old front steps. Of course, they weren’t there, haven’t been for years. But I’ll bet any woman in the valley who gave birth at Good Sam before the remodeling recalls climbing five thousand steps to admitting.  I remember thinking, “No way, those steps weren’t part of this baby deal.”

Of course, you could only hike a few at a time between contractions. And why was it always at 3 A. M.?

Back then, with baby # 1, when I announced that my labor was starting and we really should get to the hospital, my young husband, who had seen too many Hollywood versions of impending childbirth said, “But, honey, you don’t look like you’re in pain.” Why did he think I was standing in a puddle?

I was in no mood to argue. I’d been living on two quarts of milk a day for the past month, on doctor’s orders.   Forget the baby, I was finally going to get food!

Actually, my reservations were for the old St Joseph’s, on Fifth Street, but when we arrived the maternity ward was full. They casually suggested we try Good Sam or  Memorial.

Now I realize why experts started having the daddy coach Mom-to-be on her correct breathing and also timing the contractions. It gives him something to do.

My hubby didn’t mind the extra drive time. He spent it badgering me into using the name he liked if this first child was a girl. I finally pleaded, “Honey, couldn’t we just wait and meet it first? I’m a little busy right now, HAVING A BABY!

Back then, the medical profession hadn’t decided that males could stand the rigors of the delivery room, but were letting fathers-to-be into the labor rooms. Every bed was taken, so I was shown to a cot in the Doctor’s lounge and Daddy didn’t get to stay after all.

In the delivery room the doctor asked me if I wanted a boy or a girl? I answered, “Yes.” Soon a baby girl was lying on top my chest, all sticky and mucky, warm and wet, looking just like her dad.

Two years later, we climbed those 5,000 steps at 3 A. M. again for baby # 2 (Doctors recommended babies be two years apart back then. Of course, most doctors were men.)

Daddy was allowed into the labor room this time, but the maternity floor was expanding. The jackhammers on the other side of the wall were so loud we couldn’t hear what each  other was saying. Daddy had chosen this baby boy’s name long ago and, of course, he looked like him too.

I was getting a little put out; who was doing all the work here?

All our friends told us baby # 3 would be “duck soup.” They assured us everything would be quick and easy, so later when Daddy was ushered into the labor room he asked, “Did you have it already?”  HELLO.

Fourteen hours later I was still stuck in idle.

The “duck soup” baby was a forceps delivery. I never trusted friends again.

He looked just like the little boy I played with on the teeter-totter in first grade. I named the rosy cheeked, blue eyed boy, with a tuft of blond hair on top, the next day before his dad could get back to the hospital

Baby # 4 was not negotiable. I wasn’t climbing those steps again!