On-Call and Counting Contractions: Happy 25th Birthday, Abby!
"That one was eight minutes,” I told Tim, as I jotted down
the slow passage of time. My notes showed the one before that was 10 minutes and
the one before that was five.
This conversation occurred 25 years ago today, on January
26, 1995, as we sat nervously counting contractions in our living room on the third
floor above the funeral home.
I was due the next day and had just been sent home from my job at the Observer-Reporter. Contractions started after I had eaten a Roberta sandwich at the Union Grill and walked up the hill to cover a hearing at the Washington County Courthouse. I sat through the proceedings, waddled back down South Main Street and hastily pounded out a story. After that, I called Tim and made the decision to drive back to Bentleyville to wait it out. It was about 3 p.m. at this point and the doctor had instructed us not to leave the house until the contractions were consistently five minutes apart. This worried me, because it would take us at least 40 minutes to get to St. Clair Hospital.
We had a small dinner and by now it was dark and cold outside. We were snug and warm sitting quietly, watching something on television, while keeping an eye on the gold clock on the wall. We had never done this before, so we were clueless. Time passed slowly. It was about 10 p.m. and we were still focused on my stomach and the ticking clock when the funeral home phone rang loudly in the other room.
“Oh, no,” Tim said as he got out of his chair to answer the phone.
“I’m so sorry,” he said to the person on the other end of the line. “Mon Valley Hospital? Ok. I will take care of everything.”
I heard Tim explain that his wife was in labor and he would call in the morning to set up a time to make funeral arrangements. He returned to the room with a worried look, wondering what he should do. Going on a call while I was in labor didn’t seem like an option.
I assured him that the contractions were still irregular and we had plenty of time. I suggested he go to the hospital. So, Tim hurriedly put on his suit and tie, and reluctantly headed off for a 30-minute, roundtrip drive to Monongahela Valley Hospital. In a blink of an eye, he came back and rushed upstairs to check on me. All was well, as I was still sitting on the couch – watching the clock and breathing through contractions.
Tim finished his work in the embalming room and by now it was about 1 a.m. The contractions were never really consistent, but we decided to head to the hospital anyway. We arrived in one piece and I was wheeled into the maternity ward. Labor lasted all night and at about 8 a.m. Tim decided it was a good time to call the family of the deceased to tell them he was still at the hospital waiting for the baby. They were very understanding and actually pleased to be part of such an obvious circle of life: the death of their 75-year-old mother and the birth of our baby.
While Tim was on the phone, the doctor arrived and discovered
that the baby was breech. An emergency-caesarean section was arranged and within
30 minutes, on Friday, January 27, 1995, we welcomed little Abigail Lee Marodi
into the world. She was healthy and I was tired. After things settled down
at the hospital, Tim returned to the funeral home and helped the family plan
their mother’s funeral.
It was on this day that I realized just how strong Tim is and how much other people count on him during their time of need. I knew that Abby and I would always have to share him. I didn’t mind then and I don’t mind now.
This conversation occurred 25 years ago today, on January
26, 1995, as we sat nervously counting contractions in our living room on the third
floor above the funeral home. I was due the next day and had just been sent home from my job at the Observer-Reporter. Contractions started after I had eaten a Roberta sandwich at the Union Grill and walked up the hill to cover a hearing at the Washington County Courthouse. I sat through the proceedings, waddled back down South Main Street and hastily pounded out a story. After that, I called Tim and made the decision to drive back to Bentleyville to wait it out. It was about 3 p.m. at this point and the doctor had instructed us not to leave the house until the contractions were consistently five minutes apart. This worried me, because it would take us at least 40 minutes to get to St. Clair Hospital.
We had a small dinner and by now it was dark and cold outside. We were snug and warm sitting quietly, watching something on television, while keeping an eye on the gold clock on the wall. We had never done this before, so we were clueless. Time passed slowly. It was about 10 p.m. and we were still focused on my stomach and the ticking clock when the funeral home phone rang loudly in the other room.
“Oh, no,” Tim said as he got out of his chair to answer the phone.
“I’m so sorry,” he said to the person on the other end of the line. “Mon Valley Hospital? Ok. I will take care of everything.”
I heard Tim explain that his wife was in labor and he would call in the morning to set up a time to make funeral arrangements. He returned to the room with a worried look, wondering what he should do. Going on a call while I was in labor didn’t seem like an option.
I assured him that the contractions were still irregular and we had plenty of time. I suggested he go to the hospital. So, Tim hurriedly put on his suit and tie, and reluctantly headed off for a 30-minute, roundtrip drive to Monongahela Valley Hospital. In a blink of an eye, he came back and rushed upstairs to check on me. All was well, as I was still sitting on the couch – watching the clock and breathing through contractions.
Tim finished his work in the embalming room and by now it was about 1 a.m. The contractions were never really consistent, but we decided to head to the hospital anyway. We arrived in one piece and I was wheeled into the maternity ward. Labor lasted all night and at about 8 a.m. Tim decided it was a good time to call the family of the deceased to tell them he was still at the hospital waiting for the baby. They were very understanding and actually pleased to be part of such an obvious circle of life: the death of their 75-year-old mother and the birth of our baby.
While Tim was on the phone, the doctor arrived and discovered
that the baby was breech. An emergency-caesarean section was arranged and within
30 minutes, on Friday, January 27, 1995, we welcomed little Abigail Lee Marodi
into the world. She was healthy and I was tired. After things settled down
at the hospital, Tim returned to the funeral home and helped the family plan
their mother’s funeral.It was on this day that I realized just how strong Tim is and how much other people count on him during their time of need. I knew that Abby and I would always have to share him. I didn’t mind then and I don’t mind now.
To learn more about the Thompson-Marodi Funeral Home, Inc. in Bentleyville, please visit www.thompson-marodi.com
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