Today marks the birthday of our oldest child, Melissa, whose arrival at Elizabeth General Hospital proved to be a happy and sad day for yours truly.
Surely giving birth to a child heralds a happy time for any mother. But in this case, it came on the day MY mother was buried.
Missing my mother’s funeral proved to be only part of the story.
Melissa was born on a Thursday, Jan. 6, actually the Feast of the Epiphany. The previous Sunday night I had a lengthy phone conversation from my Elizabeth, N.J. apartment, with my mother, Alice Rodgers, who was hospitalized in Scranton because she had been fighting some pneumonia-like symptoms. She was interested in knowing how the final days of my pregnancy were going, and I was glad to say that I prayed that I gave birth before the due date a week or so later as I was outgrowing my maternity clothes. I had not seen my feet in weeks and wondered if I might be giving birth to quadruplets. Mom laughed and said she hoped to be out of the hospital so she could help out if need be.
The doorbell of my apartment rang the next morning at 6 o’clock and my husband, John, and I stared as my older brother, Hugh J., arrived. I took one look at him and said: “Is it Mom?” He said Yes, that she had died at 3 a.m. We were both shocked.
Under doctor’s orders not to travel to Pennsylvania, I spent the next few days in a haze as people phoned me constantly from all over the country to extend their condolences. Since I would not be able to make the funeral, I arranged for a priest at the parish church in Elizabeth to say a Mass on Jan. 6, when the actual funeral was being held in Scranton. Upon hearing that, a number of my high school friends decided that they would come to Elizabeth instead of to Scranton so they could attend the Mass with me; I then arranged for a lunch for all of us at a nearby restaurant.
The night before, shortly after having dinner with yours truly and my sister-in-law, Meg, who had come to stay with me, John left (at my request) for Scranton to attend the funeral the next day. He was gone for less than a few hours when I started having contractions. Thankfully, Meg is a nurse so she was able to decide that I had to go to the hospital. She accompanied me as we were driven by an apartment neighbor who first put his gambling/bookie money on my five-dollar coffee table. He headed the wrong way as he assumed we were going to Irvington General when, in fact, I was to give birth at Elizabeth General. (You cannot make these things up).
After we got to the right hospital and I was put in a bed, I asked to make a phone call as I wanted to alert my spouse in Pennsylvania that I was in labor in New Jersey. So I called my family’s home where John was staying.
“Detective Mecca,” said a voice.
I said: “Oh, I am trying to get the Rodgers home. Guess I dialed the wrong number.”
He said: “No, this is the Rodgers home on Adams Avenue.”
Then one of my brothers grabbed the phone to tell me the house had been burglarized while everyone was at the funeral home. The break-in had been discovered by John when he arrived from New Jersey and the police were seeking evidence.
I was incensed, angry at myself for not reminding the family to make sure the house was covered during the wake and funeral. As a former newspaperwoman in Scranton, I knew that these burglaries were common when homes might be empty.
Gone were my mother’s beautiful jewels that, had they not been stolen, certainly would be worn these days by yours truly and Melissa. My mother also had a large collection of Indian pennies and they also had been taken. My father was so upset by mother’s unexpected death that he never even claimed these losses from the insurance company. But he did remove my mother’s diamond engagement ring from her body and gave it to me. Years later, I gave it to Melissa who had it made into a lovely necklace.
John could not hurry back to New Jersey that night as snow was falling in Scranton and the trip through The Poconos would have been dangerous. Besides, I thought he should represent me at my mom’s funeral.
For hours, and I mean hours, I writhed in pain in the hospital. This went on all morning on Jan. 6 after Meg left to meet my friends who came for the Mass I had set up.
I remember the nurses moved me at one point and a discussion ensued about a possible Cesarean section. Meg had returned and informed me that my friends were in the hospital waiting room and that John reportedly was enroute from Pennsylvania.
And that is all I remember until 8 p.m. on Jan. 6 when I awoke in a room with John sitting at the bottom of the bed while reading Time magazine. He looked up and said: “Girl. Ten pounds, one ounce. I arrived right after you got out of the delivery room. I saw them weigh her and I swear it said 11 pounds.”
I asked if it was a natural birth and he mumbled “Yes.”
“Is she okay?”
He said “Fine. In the nursery down the hall.”
I fell asleep again.
In this day and age, when women exit the hospital about an hour after giving birth, this is hard to believe: I never saw my baby until noon on Jan. 7, 21 hours after she was born. Then she was presented to me by five---repeat five---nurses.
Why?
Well, probably because my baby was, well, unusually dark with black hair sticking straight up in the air. No one would think that this child was the product of an Irish-American, freckled mother. This quintet of hospital staffers apparently wanted to see my reaction.
Admittedly, I was a bit surprised. She surely did not resemble my nieces and nephews when they were born. I made sure that her bracelet said Lesher and was amazed at how she was smiling with those big, brown eyes. John arrived, picked her up, took a bottle from a nurse, and fed her. He had spoken to the doctors who explained that the baby had some sort of a blood reversal that resulted in a temporary darkening of her skin and that would change over the coming days.
Then my siblings and father arrived. They were all exhausted from the funeral activities, but they came to Jersey to support me after I could not make my mother’s burial. My brothers never said anything at the time, but now they regale in telling Melissa how shocked they were at the sight of her. They laugh as they describe telling my father, who had been drowning his sorrows in Dewars, not to say anything to me about the skin tone of his newest grandchild.
John came every day to help with the feedings and was happy to bring the bambino home so he could show off his ridiculously expensive purchase: a Baby Butler high chair that could be converted to a bathtub. You read that right. Some shady guy in New Jersey is still smiling over making that sale to my spouse.
For weeks, I received sympathy cards and congratulations cards---sometimes in the same envelope. Interestingly, people just assumed I would name the baby Alice after my mother. But Alice is MY legal name and my mother called me Tina so we would not have two with the same name in the same abode. So I scrapped any idea of naming my daughter after my mom, and opted for the name Melissa. John and I attended a pre-Baptismal meeting for parents and the priest said we could not baptize her Melissa as it was not a saint’s name so he suggested we give her a middle name after a saint. I said: “How about Alice?”
And that explains why I have a daughter named Melissa Alice Lesher.
Say that three times and thank God she did not have a lisp.
Happy Birthday, Melissa!