JUNEAU -- Dr. Dorothy Hernandez wore Xtratufs to greet us at the hospital. With at least a foot of slush and more sleet falling outside the windows of the new obstetric wing of Bartlett Regional Hospital, what else would a smart Juneau doctor wear?
The minute we saw her, we felt right at home here in the city. We had the same boots on. (My daughter's friend Kendra, who would remain at her side until the baby was born, wears hers to work too, on a salmon gillnetter.) But Dr. Dorothy was not wearing them when she delivered baby Caroline Cooper Elliott at 10:32 Friday morning. (My mid-western son-in-law swears it is just a coincidence that Cooper is the same name as former All-Star Milwaukee Brewers first basemen, Cecil Cooper, and that she was born on the 15th and he wore number 15.)
My daughter's labor had progressed on and off for three days when it commenced in earnest Thursday afternoon. As Dr. Dorothy (we were almost friends by then) went home for the night, she said the doctor on call would be a friend I'd first met back when she was in medical school and I was a young mother.
There was more proof that the capital is just a big small-town when my daughter and I were walking the halls and ran into a neighbor who had moved to Juneau. Her grandbaby was due January 20th; mine January 5th. It did not seem fair when she was holding little Arlo the next morning while my daughter was still laboring.
But once baby Caroline was safe on my daughter's chest blinking up at all of us with her pretty, feminine ET looks, thanks to the elongated head from the tight squeeze out, big blue eyes, and long thin fingers, we forgot all about that. We forgot about the nearly month-long wait in Juneau where we had traveled to deliver her since there is no hospital in Haines. My daughter even forgot about the pain of pushing her out and the bad words she yelled. "This is better than Christmas when I was five years old," she said looking at what we all declared to be the world's most perfect newborn.
But she won't forget her new friend Dr. "please, it's just Dorothy" Hernandez. (My son-in-law, who is as big as the doctor is petite, whispered, "thank you Dorothy" when he hugged her afterwards.)
"Only this is a lot faster," my daughter's husband, the biologist, said. "Sarah's is about 60 beats a minute, hers is averaging 141."
Once the pushing started in earnest, he was holding Sarah's hand, and her older sister Eliza and friend Kendra stood by her legs. I was in charge of the cool cloth for her head, until he said, "Heather, you take the pictures" and pointed toward his fancy digital camera.
I was prepared for any birthing duty, everything really, except working a camera. I never take pictures. I can't operate the DVD player. But I wanted to be useful, and I was a little panicked at the strength and duration of my daughter's pushing contractions, so I took up the camera and with a few instructions figured it out, maybe.
I took a dozen pictures of the good parts, the images I wanted to remember, like my son-in-law encouraging my daughter, her relief in between the rough spots, her sister's kind, worried glance, Kendra's warm smile, and Dorothy's calm instructions. I didn't take photos of any of the messy parts before I put the camera down to be closer than the viewfinder allowed.
After two or three intense hours, Dorothy, who is small enough to kneel right on the bed and help those infant shoulders out, said one more push and we'd be done. With a groan and a shout, Caroline joined the family and we women helpers burst into tears.
I picked up the camera again after we had made sure Sarah was okay and counted Caroline's fingers and toes. I was about to take a photo of father, mother, and baby when my son-in-law dialed his mother in Wisconsin. He flipped open his phone toward Caroline, who was not so much crying as exercising her lungs, and said, "listen, Mom. That's your granddaughter, we have a little girl," and he tried to say "she's beautiful," but started to cry, and so of course we all did -- again. I was very tired, we all were, but these were not just tears of fatigue. I was so happy everything was fine, and that my daughter had a husband who is also a good son, because that's the same quality that will make him a good father.
I just hope he doesn't mind if the best pictures didn't get taken.
Heather Lende is the author of "If You Lived Here, I'd Know Your Name: News From Small-Town Alaska." To contact Heather or read her new blog, "The News From Small-Town Alaska," visit www.heatherlende.com.
