But overall, it was orderly. We were prepared. We'd been to classes, read thick books, and talked to other new-ish parents. We had a three page labor plan. Our doctor was on-board. And even though we were surprised it was TODAY, we thought it through. I even looked up the route of the New York City Marathon, which was taking place that day, so we wouldn't get caught in traffic. I was further reassured when we called the doctor and he suggested the best way to get to the hospital.
We called the cab. It arrived in seven minutes (lucky seven!). We were cruising along comfortably through Queens, the Tri-Borough bridge, and then down the FDR. The problem: every exit was closed with police barriers. We were screwed. Veronica was leaning against the door of the cab, eyes closed, and was moaning every few minutes. The cab driver was looking at me in the rear view mirror with increasing desperation. We pulled over at the next exit and I hopped out onto the narrow shoulder of the highway (how this plan was concocted, I don't remember). I ran to the barricades to plead our case to a helmeted cop, traffic howling past us. The NYPD officer gave me a wry smile and said something to the effect, "You think you're the first pregnant couple stuck in New York traffic?" After some further pleading he pointed to the driver and motioned him to drive over the curb across the sidewalk and up the blocked ramp. The driver looked at me vaguely shaking his head "no," even though we both knew that's what we'd do. We bumped up onto the curb, across the sidewalk, and then down (with a metallic crash that makes us all wince) onto the street. The hospital was only five minutes away. Crisis averted.
Or not.
We drove west, but were stopped by another barricade on York Ave. I saw, a block away, the runners heading up 1st Ave. Once again, I was out of the cab talking to the police who shrugged, telling me they weren't stopping the marathon just so we can cross 1st Ave and there's no two ways about it, we're going to have to drive south to 57th street to cross over to 3rd Ave.
I heard Veronica groan in the cab.
It was obvious that I was not going to make any headway with the NYPD and my faith in them as defender of the people has collapsed. How could some stupid foot race be more important than the safe birth of a child? Anyway, no dice, we're already heading south to 57th street.
57th street, it turns out, was a parking lot, because EVERYBODY had been sent to 57th st. The cab driver and I were sharing rage and disgust now for the New York machine (that, and I am sure the cabbie wasn't exactly elated by the prospect of the mess an in-cab birth would make of his back seat; none the less I felt he'd gone through a conversion from seeing this journey as his worst nightmare to something more like a mission). We pulled up beside a police van stuffed with the Boys in Blue. This is futile, I think, but since we're not going anywhere we might as well have a pointless conversation.
"You want an escort?" the driver of the police van asked, after hearing our situation."Ummm, yeah?"
Lights, sirens, the works. We tore along 57th and then up 3rd Ave. The cab driver freaked out as he tries to keep close behind the van. Cars in all the other lanes kept trying to nose in behind the police in the New York tradition of taking advantage of the wake behind emergency vehicles to get across town fast. So we swerved and bounced in the tight traffic.
Veronica's eyes are closed, and she is lost in concentration. Her face tightens in regular spasms.
At 77th street, the police van pulled into the intersection to block traffic so we can make the corner quickly, and as we do the cabbie waved and the officer leans out his window and we made eye contact: "Good luck, buddy!" he said in a Brooklyn accent.
We had arrived at the hospital.
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