I grabbed my knees—and that’s when my water broke.
No way!
I could not comprehend what was happening—it could not be happening. I wasn’t ready to have the baby. It wasn’t due for another week. But ready or not, this baby was coming.
God help me.
My little one and I were really in for it now.
Two
I WANTED TO abandon my body.
Yes, that sounds insane, but that’s how I felt—and it was all that I felt. I clicked the light switch up and down, picked up the landline.
Still no power and no phones; neither would be restored until the sun threw some light on the situation. I had five minutes of battery left on my iPhone, maybe less.
I speed-dialed my doctor, left a message with her service, then called the hospital. A nice woman named Shelby asked me, “How often are your contractions coming?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t time them. I didn’t even know I was having them.”
“Lindy?”
“Lindsay.”
“Lindsay, your water breaking means you’ll be in labor for a while yet. You could deliver in three hours or three days, but don’t worry. Let me explain about three-one-one.”
I knew about 311. But still I listened as Shelby explained that 311 was the rule for what to do when your contractions come every three minutes, last for one minute, and that pattern repeats for at least one hour: you go to the hospital.
“Are you kidding me?” I screeched into the phone. “Because, listen! I’m alone and I’ve never done this before.”
“Do not come in until you’re in active labor,” Shelby said. “Stay home, where you’re comfortable.”
I yelled, “Thanks!,” snapped off my phone, and walked my enormous baby bump to the window. I was breathing hard as I looked up Lake Street in the direction of my chosen hospital. There was no traffic, no traffic lights. The street was closed.
A tremendous burst of lightning cracked the sky open and sent Martha skittering under the couch. It was crazy, but I was starting to like the storm, even though it had sucked all the air out of the room.
It was hot. Damned hot. I kicked off my XXL pj’s and another painful wave took my breath away. It was as if a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around my torso and was squeezing me into the shape of a meal.
I was scared, and it wasn’t all about the pain.
Babies got strangled by umbilical cords. Women died in childbirth. Elderly primigravidas were more at risk than younger women, and old babes like me weren’t supposed to do childbirth by themselves. What if there were complications?
Claire Washburn is my best friend. She is San Francisco’s c
hief medical examiner—a forensic pathologist, not an obstetrician, but hell. She’d had three babies. I knew she could talk me through this. At least she could try.
I dialed and Claire answered with a groggy “Dr. Wazjjjbrn.”
“Claire. It’s too soon to go to the hospital, I know, but yow. I think I can feel the baby’s head down there. What should I do?”
“Don’t push!” my best friend shouted at me. “I’m calling nine-one-one right now.”
I shouted back at her, “Call a private ambulance service so I can go to the Women’s Hospital! Claire, do you read me?”
Claire didn’t answer.
My phone was dead.