The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

“How would you like to go to California?” my pilot husband, Bill, asked as he bounded in the door on his return from a trip.



“Sure. You know I love it there.”



“I don’t mean to visit,” he interrupted. “I mean to live.”



“Move? You must be kidding!” I responded in disbelief. “You know I can’t move now. I can’t leave my doctor.”



He stared at me and nodded. “I guess not.”



I was thirty-one, and five months pregnant with twins, which was definitely considered high risk in 1972. We had been waiting for an opportunity to move to California for five years as we shoveled snow in Chicago, and finally here was our chance.



“Oh, why not?” I exclaimed. “With my luck, the doctor won’t even be here. He’ll be fishing or vacationing in some exotic out-of-the-way place since my due date is Labor Day. Let’s do it.”



At my next appointment, the doctor stammered in utter disbelief when we told him. “You can’t move at this stage of your pregnancy.” Then he looked at me, took a breath and said, “Oh, well, planes land for emergencies all the time.”



“Oh, we’re driving,” I told him. “We’re pulling a trailer and taking the dog.”



“You’ll never make it. You’ll go into labor in the middle of the desert.”



But we packed the car and set out for the West eight weeks before my due date, with doctor’s orders to stop every hour to stretch and walk. We did that for the first two days. Then we hit Oklahoma and saw the temperature in Tulsa: 102 degrees. We weren’t even to the desert yet.



Our Fiat station wagon had no air conditioning, just wing-vent windows I could turn toward me for air. The only clothes I could wear at that point were “tents,” loose dresses that provided space and comfort. I pulled up my skirt to feel the rush of air, even though it was HOT. Oncoming truck drivers stared in horror as they tried to keep their rigs on the road while looking at me and my ballooning dress.



Roadside “rest stops” were nothing more than a bench and a trash can at a wide spot beside the road. “Ready to walk a bit?” Bill asked, as we saw the sign for the next one a mile ahead.

“If you stop, I’ll kill you!” I almost screamed. “Keep moving — it’s the only way to get any air. I’ll do isometric exercises here in the car,” I said, flexing my feet and knees as I spoke.



Right behind our seats was an aluminum cooler full of ice and cold drinks. Our clever cocker spaniel found it to be the coolest spot in the car and was sprawled across it. He growled when I reached back to get a cold drink. “Come on, Buff. I just want to get something to drink,” I said as I gently shoved him off. He glared and jumped back on the top before I could close the lid.



When we got to Flagstaff, with its trees and cooler temperatures, it felt like a true oasis. Heavenly. I didn’t want to leave.



“It’s only one more day, honey,” Bill tried to encourage me.



We poured ourselves into the car early the next morning to complete the drive. And, finally, there was California. We’d made it!



First thing the next morning was a visit to my new doctor. He took one look at me and said, “You have to lie down.”



“I can’t. Our furniture arrives in the morning and…”



“Your babies are going to arrive, too, if you don’t lie down. Let your husband unpack.”



“He has to fly a trip.”



“Then lie down, unpack the boxes, and let him put things away when he gets home.” It was tedious, but I managed to unpack enough for us to live.



Our new home’s yard was nothing but dirt, and the dog’s feet had to be washed every time he came in from outside. The air conditioning hadn’t yet been installed, so lying down on our black leather sofa was not comfortable. Nothing was comfortable.



Bill fashioned a sling that went around my neck and held up my tummy to ease the load because I was carrying our babies all in front. From the back, I still had a waistline, but from the side… well, people would stare in shock when they saw my profile. Men, in particular, would turn pale, certain I was going to drop the babies at their feet. They hurried to do whatever business they had to do with us so as to be free of perceived danger.



When we went for our new California drivers’ licenses, I was whisked from the line and told to take the driving part of the test immediately. It consisted of little more than driving around the block and parallel parking the car on my return. The examiner said, “You passed. Now go home.”



“I can’t. My husband is in line over there.” I pointed.

“Get him over here,” I was ordered. Bill had the same modified driving test and was told to take me home immediately. We went to dinner instead.



It was a charming place, but I couldn’t fit into a booth, so they pulled up a chair for me. When my food arrived, the plate held beautiful kosher dill pickle wedges, which had been my favorite before pregnancy and all through my life. When we were dating and would buy big pickles in bags, we’d get understanding smiles from clerks. Now that I was finally pregnant, the sight of them made me feel ill. It was ironic.



“Could you remove these, please?” I asked.



“I thought people in your condition loved dill pickles,” the waitress commented, looking a bit confused.



“I did, but don’t now. Please.” I handed her my plate, and she rushed to the back with it, bringing me lettuce instead. It didn’t matter — I couldn’t eat much. There was no room. I just drank milk, often milkshakes. An interesting diet, as it turned out; the babies gained, and I lost weight.



One night, my mother phoned and announced that they were tired of waiting. My parents were heading to California to be with us for the exciting event. The day they arrived, we took them to Laguna Beach for an ocean view dinner, then home to plan for a visit to the summer art festival the next day.



“Never mind,” Mother said. “You’ll have the babies tomorrow.”



“They’re not due for two weeks,” I protested.



“Well, I’m going on up to bed now to be ready,” she said.



At 4:00 A.M., my water broke.



I knocked on the guest room door. “It’s time,” I said.



“Told you,” she answered.



“I changed my mind. I don’t want to do this,” I muttered, as we headed to the hospital.



Fourteen hours later, we had two beautiful, perfect little girls who weighed almost six pounds each. As I soaked in the miracles in my arms, I realized that people wouldn’t stare in shock at the sight of me anymore. They’d be staring at our precious little ones instead.







"2">Reprinted by permission of Jean H. Stewart © 2009 from Chicken Soup for the Soul:Twins and More by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, and Susan M. Heim. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.