Sixty two years ago today, a neighbor took me to the hospital because I was in labor.  Ken--of course--was thirty thousand feet in the air somewhere.  

It wouldn't have mattered where he was, anyway--because fathers didn't get to go past the waiting room back then.  I was nineteen years old, married thirteen months and had already moved cross country three times in those months.

I knew nothing about childbirth, babies and such.  I was on a military base--Camp Pendleton, California--and had no friends or family within a thousand miles.  

Alone and clueless.  And things went down from there.  I ended up spending seven days in the hospital.  The doctor who delivered the baby hadn't ever delivered a baby before.  I remember a second doctor coming in the door and screaming "Clamp that , you fool."

And then I went into shock.  I guess I had my daughter Pat.  I don't remember that part.

I don't remember if Ken came to see me.  I don't remember much of anything.  I don't recommend childbirth.  But I had four more after that.  Which were uneventful.

I've been alone in my life.  That was one of those times.  Makes you realize you how much the people you love, and the people who love you, mean to you.  

Those are "You and God" times.  As a Christian, I know He's always there.

Happy Birthday, Pat.