The glare of rush-hour taillights and honking horns, clash with the serenity of the evening's fading light. Motorists fight for their place in the homeward bound procession as the men in black and whites thread their way from call to call. The constant Friday night chatter on the police radio takes Officer Jeff Andrews into the world of poverty, hatred and heartache. The negative aspects of the job are seldom punctuated by the elusive touch of hope or goodwill. Jeff rarely experiences a happy moment, which would lighten his burden, like an oasis in the desert of misery. His stoic attitude is merely protection from being totally drained of spirit. It is insulation against the cold, damp reality where he spends his shift.
A monotone voice on the police radio announces, "Any unit available to assist, ambulance responding to 2342 Date Street."
Battle weary and tired, Jeff pays no heed as the call is repeated. Who's getting stuck with that report, he wonders as he silently hopes the voice will not assign him. There is no response from other cars. Finally, a reluctant but concerned hand reaches for the microphone and asks the nature of the call. The dispatcher gives a curt reply, "Maternity," as she mechanically shuffles papers wondering which call to dispatch next. Suddenly, urgency and caring replace indifference and apathy as switches are activated and red lights pierce the early evening dusk.
Routine is shattered as the screaming siren begins an ear-deafening wail. Bitterness against the system, personal problems and frustration are all transformed into a sense of purpose as the straining engine sucks air. Neighbors, drawn by the flashing lights and siren racing down their street, rush out to join the excitement.
Approaching the address, Jeff sees people in the yard waving as his tortured tires squeal to a stop. Running to the house, Jeff is aware of others running as spectators are drawn to the sound of the dying siren and flashing lights, which pulsate like an excited heart beat. The apathy that made up the world five minutes before has been replaced by an awareness of being needed.
"Where is she?"
"In there!"
Jeff rushes through the house and finds the woman lying on a bed. She is experiencing the pain of contractions, which are only thirty seconds apart. Jeff’s mind races as he tries to reassure him self and the woman that the situation is under control. To her, the blue uniform is no longer associated with authority and trouble. It has transformed into a symbol of trust, love, and understanding. To her, all is well . . . they are here. Jeff’s command presence, a defense mechanism developed from years of experience and training, cannot take away the self-doubt, as he wonders if he can live up to the demands of the coming minutes?
Her clothes must be removed, but how, it's so awkward. Jeff finds himself in a strange house, removing clothing from a person he has never seen before. Hesitation dissolves with the next contraction. This is it! It's going to happen!
A worried husband paces the floor and breathes deep in a feeble attempt to calm himself. There are two uniforms now, no longer individuals, but suddenly a team working toward a common goal. "Don't worry ma'am, we've got seven babies to our credit." Does she perceive the doubt in the voice or the strained expressions on the unfamiliar faces looking down at her?
She smiles, looks up in confidence and grimaces as the next contraction overtakes her. Jeff clasps her hand and begins caressing her forehead with a damp cloth. Her husband begins counting with each contraction as he grasps her other hand and two souls become one. A siren in the distance announces more help is on the way.
Jeff’s voice softens as he says, "Relax honey, there’s nothing to worry about."
Fumbling for words, Jeff tells the nearby husband, "Dad, why don't you get yourself a beer or something?"
Jeff realizes that was a dumb thing to say . . . the man and his wife are one.
A trace of red fluid and puffiness show they are seconds away. More uniforms enter the room, accompanied by the clatter of boxes and gadgets.
"Sierra Community, this is Medic One, we have a maternity patient, 27 years, about to deliver."
"Medic One, we can't read you, your transmission is broken up."
"Sierra Community do you read?” SILENCE! They are on their own.
In low tones, Jeff tells the woman, "Bear down honey . . . that's fine." The rustle of packages being opened blends with Jeff’s reassuring voice and the husband’s steady, "One, Two, Three, Four." The woman’s mouth is pacified with small pieces of ice. A slight breeze gently blows the nearby curtains and the uniforms wait. Children are heard outside predicting a girl . . . no a boy. The muted voice on Jeff’s portable radio is drowned out by a cry, a body spasm and . . . "It's crowning!"
Hearts beat faster, eyes dart back and forth, "One, Two, Three, Four."
Jeff’s steady voice can be heard, "Come on honey, bear down."
Another contraction as the top of a miniature head, hair matted with a milky fluid, begins to emerge. Jeff and his team are there with gloved hands ready to accept the precious gift. The head is out as squinted eyes reflex from the sudden exposure to light. Another contraction and the milky white body slips smoothly into its strange, new environment.
"Is it a girl?"
"Just a minute, hon," as hands protect the umbilical lifeline, apply suction to the mouth and nose and support the head. The cord is clamped and cut and the baby is set free from the mother.
"It's a girl," as feeble cries drift through the room. Then laughter, hand shakes and hugs. The husband briefly leaves his wife to give the swelling crowd in the front yard the joyous news. After a brief wait, another contraction and a purple, venous sack comes forth. The baby is put to the mother's breast and laughter fills the room as she searches instinctively for the nourishing fluid and feels the reassuring touch of her mother's warmth.
"Yes mama, it has ten fingers and ten toes."
She glows with delight as she looks into the smiling faces that have suddenly become very intimate parts of her life. More laughter and hugs as a carnival atmosphere prevails.
On to the gurney, and then tender movement as uniforms carry the precious cargo to the waiting ambulance. There is a hush as necks strain to see the new arrival. The baby’s faint cry sends a wave of approval through the crowd as the uniforms proudly enter their cars and glide silently away.
The radio is back,
"Four Boy Three, a man with a gun."
"Three Adam Seven, a fight in the bar."
Another group is passed, a very familiar one to Jeff.
"Fucking pig,” is shouted as a bottle crashes on the street behind Jeff’s car.
Fading jeers and curses do not take away the broad smiles on the faces in the black and whites. The glow lingers, and hope remains, as Jeff relives his touching of God, and those precious moments when the whole world cared . . .
