St. Patrick’s Day reminds me of the birth of our third son forty-six years ago on this day. We were living in England. The arrangements for childbirth there, at that time, were considerably different than they had been in the United States for our first two sons. In England most children were delivered at home by a midwife. Those who could afford to go to a private convalescent home, had their baby there, but it was still delivered by a midwife. The Army paid for my wife to go to Duchy House.
The day arrived that the baby was on its way. I called for one of the soldiers’ wives to come and watch our two sons. I took my wife to Duchy House and they took us upstairs to her room. It was a large room with a hospital bed, a sofa, a coffee table with a tea service, an armchair, and an oriental rug on the floor. After my wife was settled in the room, I started to leave.
“Where do you think you are going?”
“I thought that I would go home and wait so I’d be out of the way.”
The midwife was dressed in a crisp, white uniform. She was tall and slim with bright red hair. She spoke with a distinct Scottish accent.
“You are not going anywhere, Yank. You are going to stay right here and help me. The other patients are waiting for me to bring them their supper trays.” She then gave me a list of things she wanted me to do. I was also to keep checking on my wife and to shout if I needed the midwife.
When she returned she checked my wife and then we rolled the bed into the delivery room. She gave my wife a shot which numbed the pain but allowed her to remain alert. The midwife kept me busy assisting her throughout the delivery. When our son arrived, she gave him to me to carry up to my wife. After she had cleaned the baby, we rolled the bed back into the room. The midwife carried the baby off to the nursery, brought my wife her supper tray – roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, vegetables, and tea. I was allowed to go home at last.
Our third son was born in England, delivered by a Scottish midwife, on St. Patrick’s Day, and was named David, the patron saint of Wales.
I was thereafter baptized in Christ Church , Leeds England. I guess what now is Reformed Episcopal was once called the Free Church of England.
ReplyDeleteI was born on a day commemorating the Missionary work of Saint Anthony, and given a middle name of a missionary to the North East Indians, a man who married Jonathan Edwards daughter.
Even though I have erred many times in my life, I am reminded that it was my Mother who first noticed me crying in Sunday School class, and led me to pray for forgiveness, and ask Jesus to come into my life. So she was present at both of my births. My physical one, and my spiritual one.
With such a legacy, I have fallen so short of upholding that in my life..