Beginning

Every child has an “origin story”—the unique tale of his or her birth. Our youngest son was born on Midway Island on June 1, 1971. He once told his own version of the story in an elementary school essay that started with, “I was born in a thatched hut…”

The reality wasn’t far from his version. My husband was stationed on Midway Island from September of 1970 to February of 1972. He was a junior officer in the Navy “Seabees”—Construction Battalion. I accompanied him there along with our older son, who was a toddler when we arrived on the island.

Although many aspects of life on the island were like living in a tropical paradise, we had basic medical care on Midway. I got big quickly in the pregnancy. People asked me when I was due when I was just three months along. I was uncomfortable and looked for ways to make the best of things. I remember that my husband dug a hole in the sand at the beach so that I could lie on my stomach with my abdomen cradled below me. The beach was dotted with nesting Gooney birds. From the vantage point on the officer’s beach, I could see the periscopes of Soviet subs just outside the coral reef. I wondered if they saw me and thought I was hatching a baby in my nest!

My doctor, who was also a friend and neighbor, started talking about the possibility of multiple births even though he only heard one heartbeat. There was no ultrasound technology available then and too much risk to the baby to X-ray until very late in the gestation. There was no incubator available either—which is sometimes required with multiple births—in the tiny wooden building that served as the hospital. I was given the option of flying to Oahu alone a month before my due date where they would have the appropriate resources, or sticking it out and wishing for the best. I couldn’t imagine leaving our older son with friends for that long, so I prayed.

My husband was officer-of-the-day when I started having light contractions. He had to spend the night away from our quarters. Two of our friends insisted on staying with me, even though I promised to call if I needed them. What I didn’t find out until the next day was that Midway was under a tsunami watch that evening. The highest point on Midway is 43 feet above sea level. Even with my friends’ help, there wouldn’t be much we could do if the tsunami materialized.

The contractions were stronger the next day and my doctor suggested that I walk to the base hospital (shown in the photo above.) It was not much more than a small clinic and a couple examining rooms—one of which was reserved for labor and delivery.

I dropped our older son off at a friend’s and walked the few blocks to the hospital, stopping whenever I had a contraction to breathe deeply as slowly as I could. My husband joined me later. The doctor examined me and said that things were moving along just fine. My husband timed contractions for me at first, but soon got bored and just looked out the window. He perked up when he saw a truck pull up to PX and start unloading boxes. He took off out the door saying, “I’m going to check to see if they got any new LPs. I’ll be back.”

Of course, things sped up as soon as he left. At one point I knew that the baby was crowning and I hollered for help. It took some time before the doctor came into the room. He lifted the sheet, took one look and yelled for the delivery nurse. The nurse had to be a holdover from WWII. She looked like she was 90. I was panting and blowing like I learned in Lamaze class for our older son’s birth two years before. She didn’t understand what I was doing or why. “You’re going to hyperventilate,” was her warning. I can’t repeat my warning to her. My husband ran into the room just in time to see our son born. I always say that he “assisted.” When the doctor was trying to stitch up where I tore, he couldn’t get the sutures out of the package, so he handed it to my husband, who unraveled a section for him.

I was in the hospital overnight. I remember lying awake watching a lizard crawl on the ceiling over our son’s crib at the foot of my bed. The morning after our son’s birth, I got a call from my mom. As we talked, she heard him let out a cry. I explained that he was being circumcised a few feet from the phone.

We were discharged later that day. Since civilians relied on bicycles for transportation, I was given the option of riding home in a Public Works truck or walking. I couldn’t imagine stretching my short legs and straining my stitches to hoist myself into that truck. I chose to walk, carrying our son home to meet his older brother.

My son has a story not many people share of being born on a remote Naval base in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Sadly, because of current restrictions, he won’t be able to visit the place of his birth, but we have albums full of pictures and many stories to share with him of our life together on Midway—the adventure of our early life.