December 16, 2019
As some of you know, my birthday is inextricably linked to the holidays. I grew up hearing my birth story – which I would encourage every parent to share their child – and it firmly seals the almost mystical hold that the holidays have over me.
I was born at 7:58 pm on a foggy Wednesday night in December, seven days past my due date. When my mother would tell the story she always took a detour to talk about how much my brother and I were wanted, and how much she had hoped I’d be a girl, because it was her fondest wish to have both a boy and a girl. I was years in the trying, as my brother before me (who is almost 5 years older), and I was the last ditch effort following whatever passed for fertility treatment in the early 60’s.
Since I was late, my mother’s regular doctor left town, convinced I was not arriving any time soon. So Mom called the substitute doctor when she began having contractions, and he said advised her to come to the hospital. There they began monitoring our condition, and grew alarmed as it became evident I was “in distress.” Somehow they rushed the labor without a c-section, and I was born that evening. The doctor announced “It’s a girl!” and Mom demanded to know if he was sure. So he held me up, squalling. Mom began to cry, which made the doctor and anesthesiologist begin to cry because they knew the danger I had been in – I had my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck — and things could have turned out much worse.
But the story does not end there. Back home, my brother expressed concern that Santa would not know about me in time to bring any gifts. Dad assured him this would not be the case – that in fact, Santa needed a little help this year. Because of the last minute gifts, Santa would not be able to bring the Christmas tree as he usually did – so Frank and Dad would have to step into the breach and put up the tree. In the meantime, plans were made to bring me home on Christmas Eve.
There is color photograph (taken by my father) of my mother exiting the car on December 24th, holding me in her arms, home at last. The expression on her face is one of pure, radiant joy – she is beaming with every fiber of her being.
I wish that every son and daughter had such a photograph.
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