December baby followed own timetable

The only sound to be heard was the shuffle of cards at the nurses' station. It was barely late afternoon, yet the hospital was already dark and quiet. Even the incessant overhead announcements seemed to have stopped. Any patient who could breathe on his own and had a normal temperature had been discharged earlier that morning. It was Christmas Day 1977.

My fourth baby was due on my mother's birthday, Dec. 6. I had plans. I would be in and out of the hospital and up and around in plenty of time to enjoy Christmas. It was going to be lots of fun at my house because I had 2-, 4- and 6-year-olds anxiously anticipating a visit from the real Santa Claus. Even more special, this year we would have a real live baby to use in the Nativity pageant we re-enacted each Christmas Eve.

As the sixth of December approached, the floors were scrubbed and the laundry folded. I was ready. Nothing happened. The days dragged on and on. I began to wonder if I would ever breathe, sit, stand, walk or sleep normal again. At every checkup, I would beg the doctor to start my labor. He smiled and said, "I'd rather nature takes its course, it won't be long." "Nature, schmature," I thought, I needed to get on with this NOW!

Fifteen days later seemed like eternity, but finally I could tell it was time. The hurried drive to the hospital was exciting with anticipation. Twenty-three hours later with the baby coming placenta previa, the decision was made to deliver by Caesarean section. An additional surgeon was summoned, and because of the urgency, my husband, who was fully gowned and anxious to participate, was relegated to waiting in the hall.

The operating room was bright with numerous lights and an array of shiny stainless steel. There was noisy chatter between the nurses and doctors mixed with background Christmas music from a radio. I was awake and was excited as I felt the pressure of the surgeon's knife draw a line down my stomach. It was instant relief.

When the water broke, I could finally breathe with ease. Dr. Rasmussen said it would only be a few more minutes before I was a lucky mom again. Suddenly, the room was dead silent. No one said a word. Someone had even turned off the radio. There was no baby cry, no congratulations and no movements by the medical staff. It was as if time had frozen.