“My water broke. We need to get to the hospital.”
That was the frantic message my dad received from my pregnant mom at 4:40 p.m. on Thursday, June 5, 1969.
With those two sentences, they instantly forgot the detailed plans they laid out after attending the birthing classes.
Luckily their apartment in Philadelphia was close to where my dad worked as a stock broker. Even though it was only 75 degrees, he was sweating by the time he sped home in his 1961 Ford Mustang, illegally parked and took the elevator up to fourth floor to retrieve my mom and her overnight bag.
They made it to the hospital by 5:40 p.m. and were quickly seen by a doctor who said my mom was ready to give birth that night.
Unlike today, expectant mothers were knocked out with general anesthesia and were unconscious when they delivered. Since fathers were not allowed in the delivery room, my dad was sent to an empty, all-male waiting room.
Once my mom was sedated, the nurse came into the waiting room and told my dad it’d be 2 1/2 to 3 hours before they would deliver me. It was 5:40 p.m. so that meant I wouldn’t be born until at least 8 p.m.
Rather than wait sitting on a hard, all-wood chair by himself, my dad figured he had enough time to drive home, change out of his suit, eat dinner and be back with an hour to spare.
After hitting more traffic than he expected, he got to their apartment and changed into a golf shirt and slacks. He then called his parents and my mom’s parents to tell them that a grandchild was on the way tonight and he’d call them back after the delivery. Instead of eating there, he decided to pick up a sub sandwich on the way back to the hospital so he’d arrive in plenty of time.
When he pulled up to the hospital with the sandwich bag in the passenger seat, he didn’t remember where they had parked previously or the best way to get the maternity ward since they were so rushed before.
After walking in a different door of the hospital and talking a wrong turn that put him down a long hallway opposite of where he needed to go, he looked at his watch and saw it was now 7:15 p.m.
He hurriedly circled back and found an elevator that let him out on the correct floor right next to huge window with three rows of newborn babies.
Excited by the prospect his child would soon be there as well, he took a moment to look at babies in their cribs. A nurse asked if he needed help and my Dad said, “No, I was just heading to my wife’s room. We are expecting our first tonight.”
She asked if they were having a boy or girl and he told her they wanted to be surprised. Then as a joke, he asked “is there a Hill baby in one of those cribs?”
The nurse looked around at all the babies and said yes there was one. At that point my dad could barely speak and asked “is it a boy or girl?” The nurse responded that it was a healthy boy delivered at 6:54 p.m.
Dad’s shock turned to concern for his wife, so he asked the nurse to escort him to the right room. When they got there, my mom was still out.
Waiting for an update, my dad ate his sandwich. After 20 minutes, the night nurse came in. She told him everything went well, but they didn’t expected my mom to wake up from the anesthesia until at least 7 a.m.
Not relishing the prospect of spending the night sleeping in a stiff chair, he dug the sandwich bag out of the trash can. He then wrote my mom this note: “Congratulations, it’s a boy! I’ll see you in the morning.”
He placed the bag on the night stand and went back to the apartment to update their relatives with the good news.
My mom woke up briefly in the middle of the night. While still feeling the effects of the anesthesia, she looked around and saw the hand-written note on the sandwich bag.
Relieved and happy, she immediately went back to sleep until 7 a.m. When she woke up, my dad was there waiting and they were both able to hold me for the first time.
The following day also had a couple of hiccups. When told they couldn’t leave the hospital without giving me a name, they settled on naming me after my dad. Unfortunately, they accidentally left the “Junior” off the birth certificate (only a minor issue throughout my life until we were both detained on a trip to Russia).
Then they drew some judgmental stares when my dad put me into a used car seat that looked more like a laundry basket and stuffed me in the back of his two-door car.
My mom wasn’t upset about the “congratulations” note on the bag, but that was my first and last trip in the Mustang. The next week she “strongly suggested” my Dad trade in the Mustang for a more family friendly (and soon to be discontinued) Ford Galaxie.
