I Am Born …

I don’t remember much from this day so many years ago, but do have first-hand reports upon which to base my claims.  Hospital records show my birth as July 3^rd, two requisite parents, at least requisite for the time in which I was born.  Nothing remarkable but then the remarkable is generally left off public record.  I was nearly left off public record but then the passport story comes later, much later.

Being due on Independence Day was a sure sign that drama would be involved and for Mom, it wasn’t much of a tea party either.  Just months before as Dad was working on the roof of what would be our home – a small little post-WWII bungalow in the lot behind my Mom’s parent’s home – he fell.

Now falling off a roof is not good.  Landing face first on newly poured but adequately hardened cement front steps is worse.  But worser yet (worser ?) is my very pregnant mom jumping over my unconscious father and landing flat on me!  Good thing the water that surrounded me cushioned the blow or you might not be reading this account.  This was many years before the invention of airbags and, in my opinion, the water wins.

Fortunately, a European doctor just happened to be on tour in America during this time.  Even better, he was at the hospital lecturing on his new surgical techniques on facial repair from trauma – as in extreme bone breakage.  Best yet, Dad was brought into the same hospital the good doctor was visiting and quicker than you can say, “Bob’s your uncle,” Dad was in a surgical suite with his eye popped out of his head, while the surgeon demonstrated his new technique of resetting broken bones in a face with no scarring.  The eye popping was part of the technique and when finished he did put it back where it belonged and it worked and I was well into my middle years before I could tell which side of Dad’s face had once upon a time been smashed beyond recognition.

Not being one to linger longer, Dad eventually woke up and wanted to go home.  He had studies to attend to, a job, a house to finish, and, of course, all needed to be in readiness for my arrival.  Before the hospital would release him, they insisted on IQ testing to check for unseen damage.  Declared a genius, dad shrugged and left the hospital.

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Time passed.  The house was complete and moved into.  July arrived.  Rumblings, kicks, and spasms punctuated an otherwise unremarkable Thursday.  Ignoring the obvious, Mom decided that nothing would happen until Friday, the 4^th of July.  She had settled on having a baby on Independence Day and reasoned that if she ignored the signs, they would just go away.

Dad arrived home from work and she placed dinner on the table.

“Aren’t you eating?”

“No, not really hungry,” replied Mom as she fidgeted, getting up and down repeatedly.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”  Mom periodically got a distant but concentrated look in her eye.

Dad put down his fork.  “What’s going on?”

“I think I’m in labor.”

Dad rose from the table.  “Labor!  Why didn’t you say something?”

“I wanted you to eat your dinner first.”

It was a different time, an era long gone where men tipped their hats (yes, they wore hats – Dad had a fedora) and held open doors for women.  Sigh! I’ve always been for equal rights but why climb down off a pedestal to get equal?

Arriving at the hospital, mom was given an injection of scopolamine, presumably to slow the muscle contractions; however, as is always the case with Mom and me, she experienced the dreaded side effects… “including confusion, agitation, rambling speech, hallucinations, paranoid behaviors, and delusions.”^⁠1  It took my dad, a nurse, and an orderly to keep mom from jumping out the window.  I don’t know what she saw, and she doesn’t remember what vista drew her but apparently, the window and beyond looked pretty good at the time.

Thus, in a blur and in spite of everything, I arrived three hours before the 4^th of July.  Taking a deplorable situation in hand, I declared my own independence.

^{1 http://www.drugs.com/mtm/scopolamine.html}