My Birth Day
The day I was born was January 22, 1950. I was supposed to have been born sometime in December of 1949 but I was reluctant to leave my cozy accommodations, so delayed my arrival for about four weeks.
As the story goes, my frustrated and miserable Mom at long last went into labor the morning of the January twenty-second. Assuming I was indeed planning on being born that day, my parents headed to Doctor Parker’s office.
Unusual for the time, Doctor Parker was a female doctor and an old curmudgeon. She often assisted with births and was rumored to be the provider of other pregnancy related issues.
Doctor Parker’s assessment was that I was just testing the waters and I would probably not arrive for a couple of more days. Reluctantly Mom and Dad started home to continue the wait for my arrival.
My Mother, Juanita, was not a novice when it came to giving birth. I was her third child and regardless of what Dr. Parker had to say on the matter, Mom knew I was on my way. About half way back home she insisted Dad turn around and go back to Dr. Parker’s office.
As fate would have it, as they approached a railroad track the bells and lights began to clang and flash. They watched the gates swing slowly closed as a train of epic proportions began to pass. I like to think the bells and lights were my cue to start making my way to the exit because that's when Mom went into hard labor.
The train lumbered past and the final dash back to the doctor’s office was just fast enough to get Mom in the stirrups before she give birth to me. A ten-pound, wrinkled face, bald, screaming baby girl. I have always wondered how close I came to being born in the car delivered by my Dad.
Mom and I remained at Dr. Parker’s office that afternoon and apparently I was not happy with my new situation. I cried loudly and continually enough for my mother to tell the Doctor “To shut that baby up.” To which Dr. Parker replied, “Let her be, it just means she has good lungs.”
Diana, for the Poplar Grove Muse