In the predawn hours of February 18, 1992, I was jolted awake by a sharp jab to my ribs. Diana, already fully alert and entirely composed, announced that she was having contractions — light, but clockwork-steady, three minutes apart. As a third-year medical student fresh off my OB rotation, I possessed that dangerous combination of confidence and ignorance: just enough knowledge to recognize that for a veteran, soon-to-be mother of five, “light” contractions could be anything but trivial. It could mean a looming precipitous delivery.
So off we rushed to University Hospital.
Naturally, I aimed for the emergency entrance parking directly outside the door — the logical choice. Diana, however, had other ideas. She wanted to “walk out the contractions.” And so, instead of a curbside drop-off, we parked in the garage and began the long trek toward Labor & Delivery.
About two-thirds of the way down the long corridor, reality caught up with us.
Diana seized the hallway rail, doubled over, and released a groan that instantly revised my clinical assessment. These contractions were no longer “light.” In a blur of rising adrenaline, I commandeered a wheelchair from the ER and sprinted her the rest of the way to L&D, where she was whisked into a delivery room.
Moments later, her obstetrician — who also happened to be one of my own attendings — stepped in, performed a brief exam, then turned to me with a curious smile.
“Well, Lowell… are you ready?”
“Uh… yes?” I replied, with the unmistakable uncertainty of someone stumbling into an ambush. “Ready for what?”
“You’ve seen how this works,” she said. “Are you ready to deliver your daughter?”
Stunned silence.
“Oh… Oh! … Okay. Yes! Of course. Wait — really?”
“Yes,” she grinned. “This is your delivery, Daddy Doctor!”
And so, with trembling hands, a cold sweat, and a heart thundering loud enough to drown out all academic training, I stepped forward. Clumsy, awestruck, and utterly overwhelmed, I delivered my daughter, Zoe Beth — the first of hundreds of deliveries that would follow over the next two decades.
But none were ever as special to me as that first one.
Today that tiny newborn is 34 years old, married, and the mother of two beautiful children of her own. My oh my! Where have the years gone?
Happy Birthday, Zoe! I love being your Dad!
Dash Stories 