My Birth Day

Today, December 28, is my birthday. I was born the day after Leta’s eighth husband Richard Eckman died. They had been married only three short years of marriage. He was sixty-six (66) years old. They lived in Toledo, Ohio.

On December 27, in the middle of the night, Richard rose from bed to use the toilet. While in there, he had a fatal heart attack. Leta either heard him or wondered why he had not returned to bed. When he didn’t respond to her calls, she got up from bed and found him lying on the floor, as cold as the tiles.

How she felt at that moment, I can only imagine: immediate despair; a “not again” anguish (Robert Fields, husband number five also died of a heart attack in their home); or did she simply take a deep breath and call for an ambulance with incredible calm?

Getting dressed, the ambulance, telephoning both of their children, the funeral arrangements, the funeral, the mourning, the empty house—all these things filled her next few days. And along came Jerry—me, that is.

Less than 24 hours after Richard’s death, my mother went into labor. Basically, it was near the end of the day. Unlike the previous day’s shock, everyone expected this activity. My parents made the phone calls with nearly everyone still awake. Vivian took my three-year-old brother. (My maternal grandmother had four teenagers still at home and a full-time job. While she couldn’t take on a child for several days, she could meet them at the hospital.)

A helpful explanation here: I am the second oldest of my generation, my previously mentioned brother being the oldest. My parents are both the oldest in their family, married and had two children before the next sibling (my mom’s next oldest sister) married. (Incidentally, my sister is fourth oldest, nearly tied with our oldest cousin). If that wasn’t enough impetus to bring the grandparents and anyone else who could be awake to the hospital for the event, there was also the factor that my brother was born with severe allergies. He had extremely sensitive skin and required certain kinds of physical attention. (There was most distinctly the nasty smelling goop they had to bathe him in.)

My mother recalls a small complication during her labor, but then I was born—boy number two—at about 5:30am on December 28.

At that time, it was hospital practice for the mother and baby to remain in the hospital for five days. While we had many visitors (after all, I was born during Christmas break from school for all my aunts and uncles), my mother remembers that Leta was with her nearly all day every day.

In the midst of death and sadness for her, Leta sought my mother’s company and the life—mine—that had just begun.  And to my knowledge, thus far, she never married again.