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At 1.47pm Eastern Standard Time on 26th March 1993, Eleanor Louise arrived in the world at Akron City Hospital. She was American by birth, but English by parentage. How would that combination shape her future? Would it be gas or petrol, Elvis or The Beatles, Big Macs or fish and chips? Time would tell—though I suspected the Yanks may have the edge.
The sight of my first born arriving in the world was, as any parent knows, amazing. Unlike my father, who was playing golf when I appeared, I was there throughout and all I can say is that he missed out on a great experience. He begged to differ and didn’t regret it at all―apparently he played well that day. I can’t say his absence scarred my life although I do know that I wouldn’t have missed Eleanor’s arrival for anything.
This generational debate very nearly did not take place. While I was not on the golf course, much to my regret, I did nearly miss the event. The night before Eleanor made her appearance I flew back from New York to Cleveland. Being a Thursday with the prospect of a relatively peaceful day in the office ahead, I relaxed with a couple of gin and tonics on the flight; those free upgrades to first class do have their occasional compensations.
Eleanor was not due for another two weeks. We had been calling her Eleanor for sometime, as the choice of name had been made some weeks earlier in a very democratic manner. Donna and I had long ago agreed that I would choose names for any daughters we may be blessed with and she would have the same role for boys. The only caveat was that each of us had a right of veto over the other’s choices.
For quite a long time after the ultrasound indicated our first born was to be a girl she was tentatively named Emily with a choice of either Louise or Leah as a second name, however over the previous two months I had been listening to a lot of my old records and a song by the English folk rock group, Lindisfarne, called Lady Eleanor stuck in my mind, so Emily became Eleanor and Louise was confirmed as her second Christian name. Most of my American friends seem to think that another song, The Beatles, Eleanor Rigby, was the real inspiration and while I love the song the lyrics are a little depressing: “Eleanor Rigby, died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came…” Not quite the sentiments I wanted associated with my little girl.
Anyway, I was feeling quite relaxed on the plane ride and not just because of the G&Ts. A run of thirteen weekly trips to Los Angeles and San Francisco had ended the previous week allowing me to be relatively close to home in the event that things started to happen early. I arrived home around 10.30pm and after a brief state of the pregnancy discussion, we retired to bed. Around one in the morning, I was woken by my wife’s delicate elbow being forcibly applied to my ribcage. She informed me that she had wet the bed. I confirmed this fact as my arm arced over in an attempt at a hug and landed in a wet patch between us. My initial reaction was that this was just one of the many pleasures of having a heavily pregnant wife. My senses were a little dulled for some reason so I was a little slow on the uptake. My darling wife, ever tolerant with my weaknesses, explained in short, simple words that she had not in fact peed in the bed but that the warm moist sensation my right hand was experiencing was in fact the initial indication that I was shortly to become a father, albeit an irresponsible one.
Her waters had broken but given my slightly numb state, my initial panicked reaction was acted out in slow motion. Anyone who has ever tried to put on a pair of trousers in a hurry at one o’clock in the morning while still asleep, can imagine the scene as I attempted to dress myself. Fortunately, Donna was well prepared and a model of coolness. Eventually I managed to clothe myself, find the previously prepared suitcase and guide my darling wife to the door. By this time I was fully awake and any semblance of impairment had disappeared. The realisation that my wife was on the verge of giving birth was akin to a massive injection of pure caffeine.
All the actions required to load the car, exit the garage and set a course for the hospital were preformed with speed and precision. However, all was not as smooth as it at first seemed. As we turned out of the driveway I noticed that the fuel gauge was awfully low, in fact the warning light came on the moment I started the engine. I vaguely remembered thinking to myself on the way home from the airport that I should stop and get some petrol but of course I didn’t.
The hospital was fifteen miles away and in my mind Eleanor was about to arrive at any moment―could I risk running out of petrol? Rapid mental calculations produced an alternate route to the hospital which passed a petrol station. I changed course and started praying that it would still be open at this time of night. At this point I was grateful for being in America. If this had been Britain our daughter may well have been born on the hard shoulder of the M1 as few petrol stations deign to serve their customers after midnight. As we neared the petrol station, at close to the speed limit, well maybe a few miles over, we had to negotiate a railway crossing that on numerous previous journeys had given every impression of being disused. Not on this night; as we approached, the crossing lights began flashing and the barriers started to descend. Here I was about to run out of petrol, with my still serene wife about to give birth to my child and the barriers are descending―what to do?
Without a moment’s hesitation the accelerator hit the floor and under the descending barrier we went mimicking Steve McQueen in Bullitt. I wonder what would have happened if the engine had started to sputter for want of petrol, as we made our crossing. Anyway we made it safely across the tracks and rounded the corner to see the welcoming light of the all-night BP service station. Yes it was a BP station owned by British Petroleum, thereby strengthening the Anglo-Saxon influence on this Yankee’s imminent birth. Now fully fuelled and clear of all railway crossings we cruised on to the hospital arriving at around 2am with just under twelve hours to spare.
Unlike Donna, my morning was punctuated by breakfast at McDonald’s, numerous cups of coffee and much sitting around twiddling my thumbs while trying to be supportive. Around lunchtime Eleanor finally decided it was nearly time to make her entrance. After putting Donna through all the appropriate motions, Eleanor Louise arrived in the world at 1.49pm. After a suitable period of spousal comfort, I made my excuses and celebrated becoming a father by walking down the road and having the biggest burger and fries I could find. Well this is America.
Extracted from Half The World Away by David A.J. Axson. Buy a signed copy today at Amazon.
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