So when I learned the next day that FCVN had been bumped from the first place position to leave, I fought to reclaim the right to take the first planeload of orphans to the United States. But to no avail. With disappointment still heavy in our hearts, we instead loaded babies destined for our Australia chapter. With twenty-two babies around me on the floor of a Volkswagen van, we headed to the airport. There we saw an enormous black cloud billowing at the end of the runway. We heard the rumor—the first planeload of orphans, the one I had begged to be on, had crashed after takeoff, killing half of the adults and children onboard.
Stunned, we loaded the babies onto the Australian airliner, then returned to the FCVN Center where the rumor was confirmed. The office was awash with grief. I looked at my watch, still on Iowa time. The girls were having breakfast in their fuzzy pajamas. Mark was shaving and listening to the radio. He would hear the news and be terrified I was on that flight. And there was no way for me to call and spare him this horror and heartache. I slumped onto a rattan sofa and sobbed uncontrollably. Several hours later, the phone rang.
“LeAnn, it’s for you,” Cherie said. I almost laughed. Who would call me in Saigon? An Associated Press reporter was on the line. A reporter in Iowa had made a series of transpacific calls to reporters covering the war, eventually reaching him, to learn if I had been on the fatal crash. “Sorry to tell you,” the journalist said, “the Iowa newsman woke your husband out of a sound sleep to ask him if you were on that plane that crashed. But your husband hadn’t heard the morning news yet. We will get this word of your safety to him, I assure you.” I began crying again, partly out of sorrow for the grief I was causing Mark, and partly out of joy knowing he’d learn I was all right.
Then, with renewed energy, faith and confidence, I rejoined the workers preparing the babies for our flight—whenever that would be.
The next day at breakfast, Cherie sat beside me. “LeAnn, you and Mark will be adopting one of those babies in the next room. All your paperwork is here and in order. You can wait and be assigned a son from across a desk in the States, or you can go in there now and choose him yourself.”
Speechless, I entered the next room and hop-scotched through the sea of babies. Then a little boy, wearing only a diaper, crawled across the floor and into my arms and heart. As I cuddled him, he nestled his head into my shoulder and seemed to hug me back. I carried him around the room, looking at and touching the other babies. I whispered a prayer for the decision I was about to make, knowing it would change many lives forever. “Oh, Mark, I wish you were here.” I moaned. “How do I choose?” The little boy in my arms answered by patting my face.
“I know, Son,” I whispered. “I love you already, Mitchell.”
Two days later, it was our turn to leave. The workers helped us load the babies onto a city bus taking them to their flight to freedom. Nine of us volunteers cared for a hundred babies, placed three and four to a cardboard box. In spite of the stress, it was joyful work as we propped countless bottles and changed diarrhea-soaked diapers. Six hours later, we landed in the Philippines where the American Red Cross greeted us. “There is no phone access for you here,” a grey-haired volunteer said, “But we will call your husband to notify him you’re safe.” He’ll panic if he gets a call from the Red Cross! I worried. Patting my hand, the nice lady promised me they would tell him in a manner that would reassure him. I hoped she was right. With a larger plane and more volunteers, we continued the next leg of our journey to Hawaii. There, every child was removed from the plane while it was refueled.
Finally, I could call Mark. The noise around the phone booth was so loud, I had to shout instructions to the operator. I mumbled to myself, “Mark doesn’t even know we have a son. He has no idea I’m bringing him home.”
I had rehearsed how I would tell him the wonderful news, but when I heard his voice answer the phone, I could only blurt out, “Honey, this is LeAnn,” and I started to bawl.
I could hear him repeating my name as he, too, sobbed. I tried to compose myself so I could tell him about Mitchell, but I couldn’t catch my breath.
Then, still crying, he said, “Just tell me you’re bringing me our son.” “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I cried as my heart nearly burst with excitement and love.
When our journey home finally ended, I carried Mitchell across the tarmac of the Cedar Rapids airport. Inside, I was overwhelmed by mobs of reporters with their blinding floodlights and popping flashbulbs. Then Mark stepped through the glare, and Mitchell and I melted into his arms. In Saigon I feared I would never feel his hug again. Now I didn’t want to let go. Finally I leaned back so Mark could get a look at his son. Mitchell opened his arms and reached for his daddy. Tears filled Mark’s eyes as he hugged him to his chest. Then Mark drew me into the embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered.
LeAnn Thieman
Why Our Son Is Named Fox
It was February 1968 and we were expecting our first child. That’s a pretty tense moment in any family, but our worries were compounded: My husband Gerry Seldon had just been shipped to Vietnam.
In June of 1967, when we’d first learned of my pregnancy, we were overjoyed. I wanted to have a natural childbirth, so we went faithfully to Lamaze classes, learning to breathe for crunch time, and as my girth increased and my back started aching, Gerry was right there with a pillow just when I needed it. The war was a topic on everyone’s mind, but it was happening somewhere else—I was far more interested in what was happening inside me!
And then the unthinkable happened: Gerry got his notice from the draft board; he had to report in a week’s time to boot camp. What was I going to do? At first it seemed likely that his draft would be deferred because I was pregnant, but the action was heating up, and as a result of the infamous Tet Offensive, more men were needed on the front
“Don’t worry, honey, you know I’m always with you—and I will be back when the baby’s due.” But I couldn’t shake the feeling of disaster. All those hours of coaching and learning how to count and breathe properly! All the times we’d laughed about how Gerry was going to come bravely into the delivery room and then faint at the first sight of blood! How could I go through this without him?
Then I suddenly realized something: I wasn’t the only one with an ordeal coming up—and mine was likely to be a good deal safer than his.
Hey, how can I be afraid when I’ve had such a good coach? Don’t worry, I’ll be fine!
The next few days passed like a whirlwind. Parties, visiting with his mom and Aunt Louisa and packing. And repacking. I would put some extra pairs of socks in his duffel bag, and he’d surreptitiously sneak them back into his drawer. Then I made some fudge and tried freezing it to put in. That didn’t even make it past the bedroom door. Finally he grabbed me into his lap on the bed, laughing. “They’re going to give me G.I. clothes anyway, silly!” He promised solemnly that he would write as soon as he got there. On his last day home we went out for dinner, and he gently teased me as we danced one last time: “We don’t seem to be as close as we used to, sweetheart.”
And then, all of a sudden, he was gone.
His letters from boot camp were full of hilarious stories about his drill sergeant, who seemed to be a walking stereotype, and the mistakes he and some of the other men in his platoon made during drill time. I knew that preparing men for war couldn’t be all fun and games, but Gerry never let anything sad filter in.
When boot camp was over, I flew to meet him for a weekend in San Francisco—then, again, he was gone.
Now his letters were much less frequent, but their tone remained the same. It wasn’t until much later that I learned that the original ten men of his “Fox” Patrol had become eight, and Gerry himself had come close to being one of the casualties. Names like Saigon, Da Nang, Long Binh—I hadn’t paid much attention to them on the news. But Gerry had been in Long Binh when Bear Cat encampment, a mile down the road, had been overrun and destroyed by the Vietcong.
I tried to do the same: All my letters t
o him were filled with descriptions of the new mobile Aunt Louisa had given us to hang over the baby’s crib, and the little nightshirts and gowns that my sister gave me at my baby shower. Or the time when a mother apologized awkwardly to me in the checkout lane at the supermarket after her six-year-old had gazed curiously at me and asked (in a very loud voice), “How come that lady’s so fat, Mommy?” I told Gerry how ponderous I was getting, but I never mentioned how I’d wake up at night when the baby kicked me and roll over to show him—only to feel the cold bed and the empty pillow.
There were precious moments when Gerry’s platoon was in a secure place, and the men were allowed to call home. The nine minutes that each man was allotted always seemed to fly by in as many seconds, but his voice always drew us together and made it seem as if he were actually by my side.
With Gerry gone, my father- and mother-in-law tried extra hard to make me feel secure and safe, but it wasn’t the same, of course. When my labor started in the middle of an icy February night, I called them.
“Sorry to wake you, Dad—I think it’s time you came over. I’m fine, but I’m pretty sure I should go to the hospital.” He was there so fast that I suspect he’d taken to going to bed with his clothes on and his car keys in his hand—and for once in his life, my father-in-law exceeded the speed limit. When he handed me over to the care of the nurse at the admitting desk, I could almost hear his sigh of relief.
From that moment on, things were a blur. Hours went by, and figures in brightly colored clothes kept saying cheerily, “You’re doing fine.” Right. All I could think of was “I want my husband.” The doctor was saying, “Now breathe, you remember, just like you did in class.” I tried, but without Gerry to coach me and hold my hand, I couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. The baby seemed to be feeling his absence, too, because with all our efforts, he seemed very reluctant to be born.
And then the miracle occurred. A nurse came up to the table with a phone, and held it up to my ear. It was Gerry! Knowing this was my due date, he’d called home, and my mother-in-law had given him the hospital number. Even while my head whirled with the excitement of hearing his voice, a small mental voice was saying “You only have nine minutes—only nine minutes. He’s going to hang up soon, and you’ll be alone again.”
But I made the most of those nine minutes. “Breathe,” said Gerry, and I would breathe and push as he counted. “Breathe.” Dr. O’Connell seemed very pleased.
Maybe I was doing fine! All at once I had the strange sensation that Gerry’s voice had been multiplied and somewhat amplified. And certainly more than nine minutes had passed? I stole a look at the hands of the large clock that hung on the wall. It had been over an hour since Gerry first called. I must be hallucinating! I glanced at the nurse’s face, and she was smiling—but crying, too. What was happening? When I realized the truth, I burst out laughing.
Each of the men of Fox Patrol had surrendered his nine minutes so that Gerry could be with me when our son was born, but only with the understanding that they could take part. Instead of having one husband coaching me through my labor, I had eight G.I.’s yelling “Breathe! 1-2-3-4 . . .” into the phone!
“Okay, one more big push.” I was awfully tired, but as I gathered myself for another effort, Dr. O’Connell’s command was echoed by all the men of Fox Patrol, and when my son made his entrance into the world, the warm congratulations of the delivery room staff were drowned by cheers and yells from the other side of the world!
Our initial impulse was to name him Gerald Luis Tyrone William Javier Chico Sung Li Carl Seldon, after all the men who had helped bring our son into the world. Then our common sense took over, and we took pity on the boy who would have to write his full name so many times in his life.
And that’s why our son is named Fox.
Mary Jane Strong
“That’s nothing, I’ve got a friend who was in
labor for sixty-seven hours, she couldn’t take any
medication because she’s allergic, and in the midst of it
all the entire maternity staff went on strike and her
baby had to be delivered by a janitor.”
CLOSE TO HOME. ©John McPherson. Reprinted by permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE.
Baby on Board
All of us are born for a reason, but all of us don’t discover why. Success in life has nothing to do with what you gain in life or accomplish for yourself. It’s what you do for others.
Danny Thomas
Sandy and Theresa de Bara of Greenfield Park, New York, decided to take their three-year-old daughter, Amanda, to Disney World. They wanted to give her a special treat before the arrival of their new baby, who wasn’t due for two months.
The morning they were to leave for Orlando, Theresa called her doctor complaining of “indigestion and a little pressure.” But he told her that it was probably false labor, which she had experienced with Amanda.
Shortly after the plane took off, Theresa doubled over in pain. She knew this was no indigestion. This was labor. Sandy flagged down flight attendant Meg Somerville, and once Somerville realized what was happening, she cleared a five-seat row so Theresa could lie down.
Then Somerville got on the public-address system and said, “We have a woman in labor. If there is a physician on board, please report to row twenty-eight.”
Steven Rachlin, M.D., an internist from Old Brookville, New York, who was also taking his family to Disney World, sprang to Theresa’s side. He had delivered a baby just once before—which had been thirteen years earlier.
After a quick examination, he saw that Theresa was bleeding. “I see the head starting to crown,” he announced to Somerville. “This lady is having the baby right now!”
While flight attendants scurried to get blankets, the pilot radioed controllers at Dulles International Airport near Washington, D.C., to tell them he needed to make an emergency landing. Sandy stood helplessly off to the side, praying that his wife and the baby would pull through. A woman traveling with her own children soon took charge of Amanda, who was sobbing and asking if her mother was going to die.
As the plane began its emergency descent, Theresa gave birth. But the baby, a boy, arrived with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. He had turned blue and wasn’t breathing.
Rachlin started CPR, massaging the newborn’s chest with two fingers and shouting, “Breathe, baby, breathe!”
“God,” moaned Theresa, “please save his life!”
Just then, two other passengers, James and Jen Midgley of Chelmsford, Massachusetts, who were both paramedics as well as being husband and wife, offered to help the failing baby. Jen’s specialty is infant respiratory procedure. She turned to the flight attendants and said, “We need a straw!”
“We don’t carry any on board,” replied one of the crew members. But attendant Denise Booth had brought a juice box with her; it had a straw attached to the side.
While Rachlin continued CPR, Jen carefully steered the straw down the infant’s throat. Then she suctioned fluid out of the infant’s lungs. Finally, after five nerve-jangling minutes, the baby began to cry. A shoelace donated by a passenger was used to tie off the umbilical cord. As the baby’s wailing filled the cabin, everyone on board clapped and cheered.
Once the plane had landed, waiting paramedics whisked mother and baby to nearby Reston Hospital Center. As Theresa was carried away, the passengers gave her a standing ovation. Sandy hugged Steven Rachlin, and everyone cheered again.
After an hour on the ground, the plane took off for Orlando with free drinks for all the passengers. Before they arrived, the captain announced that the baby—named Matthew Dulles, after the emergency landing site—was holding his own at the hospital’s special-care nursery. Theresa was also doing fine.
As it turned out, though, Matthew had respiratory problems. He remained in the hospital for three weeks before being allowed to go home.
“There are just no words to thank everyone,” Sandy told reporters later. “
People in Virginia invited us into their homes, baby-sat Amanda, even offered to do our laundry. And an Alaskan hockey team sent Matthew equipment. They said anyone who could survive that birth is strong enough to play their game.”
Amanda was too young to understand much about what had happened. All she knew was that during the flight, Mommy had a bellyache, Matthew was born and a lot of people were running around.
But the little girl did take away one interesting insight from the whole episode. “Now I know where babies come from,” she said afterward.
“Where?” she was asked.
“Airplanes!”
Allan Zullo and John McGran
“I don’t think you understand! I said, ‘The pacifier fell
out somewhere back in the airport!’ Tell the pilot to
turn the plane around—now.”
CLOSE TO HOME ©John McPherson. Reprinted by permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE.
Baby Mall
My husband brought our three young children down the long hall of the maternity ward, pausing to let them wave in each doorway at the new mothers cuddling bundles. At my room, he beckoned them in and introduced them to their new brother.
Five-year-old Katrina gingerly fingered the baby’s thick red hair that the nurse had brushed and oiled into a fat top curl. She inspected his little feet, admired his tiny ears, and planted kisses on his dimpled elbow. But her coos stopped short at his wrist.
Drawing back, she pointed at the identification bracelet and frowned, “Look, Mommy. They left the price tag on!”
Chicken Soup for the Expectant Mother's Soul Page 12
