When we arrived at the hospital, Washington, D.C. was under a thick blanket of snow and it was still coming down. No vehicles were on the roads. No people were out. But there we were, finally, at the end of my long road, my weary journey, my life-giving mission and, dammit, the hospital door was locked.

But we did not panic. Not yet. Strong With A Spear jumped out of the car and took action. Which is to say he promptly disappeared.

So I climbed out of the car with my towel still between my legs to absorb the water that was still gurgling forth, clutching my bag with the pillow and the sponges for sucking and the wash rag and whatever else I was supposed to bring and began my march through the blizzard to the fort.

I wound around to the back of the hospital where the emergency entrance was located and headed through the swirling snow toward a dim light.

Suddenly the double doors swung open and my brave mate emerged pushing an empty wheelchair as if he was at the Indianapolis Speedway.

“Look I got you a wheelchair.” He was so proud of himself, all puffed up in the chest.

“I’m fine walking. Just kind of wet from this sac that burst over an hour ago and is still running water down my legs.”

“Here. Get in.”

“Really I can walk. Just help me up these stairs.” Finally he saw it was futile to put me in the chair since my weight made it impossible to push the thing through the snow.

We got inside, located the elevator and pushed three. We sighed with relief as the ascent to the maternity floor began. Halfway up the shaft the car jammed and we were stuck between floors.

Okay. I admit it. I got panicky. There was no way I wanted to deliver two babies in the hospital elevator between floors.

Strong With A Spear started punching the door, then moved to the panel with all the buttons.

He started yelling.

It was nearly four in the morning in the middle of the biggest blizzard to hit Washington in twenty years. In those days Washington was a southern city, totally unprepared to deal with any snow at all, let alone a large amount of snow. Consequently the hospital staff was set on paltry for the night.

By then I was slumped against the back wall of the box we were stuck in while Strong With A Spear was really hollering for someone to come fix this damned thing before his wife passed out. You think you’re on safe ground once you reach the hospital. Otherwise I would have joined those birth at home Moms who seem to sail through the entire procedure without so much as a burp.

Finally someone yelled back:

“Punch the green button, then push the three button twice, then press the open door button and then hit the close door button.”

Oh sure. They run these elevators by secret code. I forgot. This was Washington. The elevator was on a strictly need-to-know basis.

We lurched upward and the door creaked open, disgorging us onto the maternity floor where a resident met us with another wheelchair.

“See. I told you there was nothing to worry about,” said Strong With A Spear in one of his shining moments.