The Night We Went to the Hospital
On Thursday night, March 13, 2025, at about nine o’clock, I was on the couch folding Lily’s tiny washcloths when I felt it. Not the practice kind. This one meant business.
I said, “Michael.” Just his name. He looked up from the ballgame and was on his feet before I finished saying it. I told him to sit back down. First babies take their time.
By twenty past eleven the pains were five minutes apart, and big, wet March snowflakes were coming down. The hospital bag had been waiting by the front door since February. Michael grabbed the bag, my pillow, the keys, and my hand. Then he went back for his shoes.
He scraped the windshield faster than I have ever seen a man move. Dave was already on his way over to stay with Scout, who stood at the front window and watched us go.
The drive to Riverside General usually takes fifteen minutes. That night it took twenty-five. Michael drove like he had a carton of eggs on the dashboard. Every time I squeezed his arm, he said, “I know, honey. Almost there.”
We pulled up under the bright lights by the entrance just before midnight. I remember thinking, the next time we drive this road, there will be three of us.
From Dad's Notebook
I timed the contractions in this notebook. Here is the page, copied out neat.
9:04. 9:19. 9:31. 9:44. At 10:02, Sarah said, “Stop writing and get me a glass of water.”
10:40, seven minutes apart. 11:20, five minutes apart. Called the hospital. They said come on in.
I have hung doors and built staircases, and I have never been as nervous as I was backing out of our driveway in the snow. Both hands on the wheel. Wipers going. Sarah breathing slow and steady next to me, calmer than I was.
Nurse Angela met us at the desk with a wheelchair and a calm voice. She took one look at me and said, “Dad, you need to breathe too.” I hadn’t noticed I’d stopped.
Around three in the morning, Sarah fell asleep between pains for maybe four minutes. I held her hand and prayed the only prayer I had. Lord, bring them both through. I’m not asking for easy. I’m asking for safe.
One more line, written while it was still dark outside: 5:50. Almost time.
Out in the Waiting Room
Sarah asked me to tell this part, since she was a little busy at the time.
Mom and Dad got the call at half past eleven and were in the waiting room by half past twelve, Mom still in her house slippers under her good wool coat. I brought three phone chargers and a bag of pretzels. Nana Linda was home in bed with a cold, so she sent cinnamon rolls for the nurses with me and called my phone every hour on the hour.
Nobody slept. Dad sat with his hands folded and hummed “Blessed Assurance” under his breath, over and over, the way he does when he’s worried. Mom worked on some mending she’d brought along and pulled out the same stitches twice.
Every time those double doors swung open, all three of us stood up. Every time, it was somebody else’s family.
Around four, Michael came out with his hair standing straight up and said, “She’s doing great. It won’t be long now.” Then he hurried right back in.
Somewhere near dawn, Dad said softly, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” He was right.
— Aunt Emily
