A Crisis in San Francisco

January 7, 1983: David and I and the Morgans flew to San Francisco early that Friday morning; David and Dave had work to do, so Lyne and I planned to enjoy the city while they were elsewhere. The boys drove off to San Carlos, and Lyne and I went shopping.

We started out at Macy's, looking for a suit for Lyne. We had little success, since I kept suggesting beautiful suits that somehow didn't suit her, although they were very much my style. So we walked around the Union Square area looking at the shops, and I began to think I was really not well; perhaps even miscarrying. Lyne and I looked at each other in consternation. It was not possible to call our husbands, in those days before cell phones, because we didn't know exactly where they were going; we were just going to meet them in front of Macy's at 5 or 5:30. So we were forced to be self-sufficient.

We flagged a cab and asked to be taken to the nearest emergency room. (Can you imagine saying that?) I was very calm; I usually am in a real crisis. The cab took us to St. Francis Memorial Hospital and there the physicians confirmed that a miscarriage was certainly threatening, but they emphasized that it was by no means certain. The doctor said his own sister had had the same problem and had just delivered a healthy baby, so not to panic, just stay down and watch for blah blah blah. So we took another cab back to the hotel and I went to bed. Lyne waited with me, trying to stay as calm as I was, until it was time to go meet the boys. Then I waited alone, hoping David would get back soon, worried for what he must be feeling when he heard.

Sure enough, he arrived in an advanced state of protectiveness, anxious to know if I was OK. Unfortunately, that was just what I could not tell him, but I stayed down the rest of Friday, all day Saturday, all day Sunday, until I finally ventured out for a meal Sunday night.

I was nervous about flying home Monday, but it had to be done. David was very solicitous; all I had to do was walk a little bit here and there. I rode through the airport in a wheelchair, which I enjoyed very much, but have not had occasion to do again since then.

Once I got home, I was less able to stay strictly in bed, but bit by bit, over a period of months, my symptoms faded away, and I continued to be pregnant. And, in the end, everything turned out just fine.