Delivering a Baby on the Sidewalk

I'll never forget that late June morning. It was seven A.M. when I began walking down Fell Street on my way to work. Fell Street runs through a San Francisco neighborhood known as the Western Edition. Because of a student budget, I lived on Fell, right next door to some the roughest project apartments in the city. At night I could always peer out my four-story window and watch drug deals being done in the alley, and hear live rounds being fired off just out of view. A cop stopped me once and said, "What the hell are you doing out here at night? Do you know that we respond to a murder in this six block radius every night of the week?" But now, the sun had been up for about an hour; the neighborhood felt safe. It always felt safest in the morning.

I was only a block from my apartment when I noticed that something on the sidewalk up ahead was catching people's attention as they passed by. However, no one stopped. When I got to the spot, I saw a young woman lying on the sidewalk. The woman, in jeans and a tight white blouse, looked up and said something to me. I couldn't hear her because I had my Walkman playing. As I removed my headphones, the young woman with tangled, dusty-blonde hair, in her early twenties said in a desperate voice, "Call me an ambulance, I'm pregnant." I was a bit skeptical about her need for an ambulance because she didn't look pregnant and her clothes were a wreck, soiled and trashy.

But I couldn't just walk away. I figured that pregnant or not, she could obviously use a little help this morning. I asked her name, and then began knocking on doors of the Victorian houses that lined the street. Not getting any answer on the first two doors made me start to worry that I was getting involved in something I shouldn't. I could just see myself explaining to my boss that I was late this time because I stopped to help a drunk. But then the third door opened, and an old African-American man agreed to let me use his phone.

The 911 operator asked me if the young woman was indeed pregnant. I replied that I wasn't sure, and the operator said she would send an ambulance. I would later learn that the ambulance was dispatched on low priority because I had implied that the young woman might not be pregnant. I hung up and stepped back outside. I was worried that I had overreacted by calling.

As I stood there in slacks and a white shirt and a tie, my briefcase in hand, I bent over the young woman and said, "The ambulance is on its way. Are you going to be all right, because I need to go to work now?"

"My water's broke," was all she said.

Sure enough, her blue jeans were now soaking wet. Her three words instantly humanized the whole situation. I was on the sidewalk of a busy, four-lane street in San Francisco with another human being that really needed help. I put down my briefcase. As I looked down on her, I thought, since she's going to have a baby, I should take off her pants. It is not easy thinking you're going to take off the pants of a woman you don't know that is totally helpless. Although the wet jeans had convinced me she was soon-to-deliver, I had my doubts as to her wanting me to get her ready, so to speak. I tested the waters with, "Hi Bobbie, my name is Patrick. I'm going to take your pants off." She had no reply. I decided to do it.

As I began I felt as if the whole neighborhood, and my girlfriend, was monitoring my behavior. In actuality there were already a few people standing at a distance watching. Slipping off her jeans, I was surprised to find no underwear. It was a bit more - or less actually - than I had bargained for.

The first contraction I witnessed hit without warning. The young woman curled up in pain, her fingernails clawing the sidewalk. I knew exactly what to do -- I reached up, grabbed her hand and held it. I put my other hand on her shoulder to try and keep her lying flat. Her terrible pain made me feel helpless. I tried to accelerate time by asking a lot of questions. "How are you feeling now? Are you OK? Do you live around here?"

Silence. Then she went into another heaving contraction; her other hand falling straight to her naked crotch as she tried to hold the baby from spilling out onto the cement sidewalk.

I grabbed the hand and said, "Bobbie, don't try to hold the baby in, okay? I'm sure it's not good to try and hold the baby in. Just tell me when you're going to have the baby, Okay? Yeah, if you need to we can have the baby right here, no problem. We can do a baby on the sidewalk." I offered these words of encouragement because I pictured the ambulance would arrive at any minute. She didn't reply.

By now six people had gathered behind me. I was hoping one would offer to help but none budged. They just stared. I just sat there in union with this woman in her scruffy hair and blouse. Only minutes before we had been worlds apart. I felt needed and alive as I spoke more words of encouragement. She didn't reply. She had contractions to deal with.

Then a man tapped me on the shoulder. "A helper!" I thought with relief. The man threw a blanket across her lap. "Cover her up," the man said in the same tone a cop would use with someone about to get busted for indecent exposure. To hell with covering her up, I thought as I tossed the blanket back off. I wanted to be able to see what was going on down there. If a baby was going to come out, I wanted to be the first to know. The man quickly retreated.

Next thing I know, I fast-talking woman in a bright red dress, was standing over Bobbie's head, talking excitedly. "Bobbie, what are you doing!? Sh** whasupgirl?!"

She knew Bobbie and I felt a great relief that someone would be able to help me comfort Bobbie. Unfortunately, a barrage of increasingly frantic comments continued to descend onto the woman about to give birth, "Bobbie, are you havin a baby??! Sh** I didn't know you was pregnant. This ain't right. We need help and sh**. I can't stand this. Sh** Bobbie, you can't have a baby on the sidewalk!!"

This wasn't the help I'd hoped for. Just when I was at a loss for how to respond to the situation, Bobbie helped out. She looked straight up at the lady and said, "Dianne, Shut the fu** up!"

I didn't notice the woman in red's disappearance because right after Bobbie spoke to her friend, she spoke a few words to me that really caught my attention. She spoke them in a calm, but certain voice, "I'm going to have the baby now." My head jerked toward the busy street hoping to see the ambulance, but it was not to be.

Feeling like I had no other option, I moved myself between Bobbie's legs, then put my hands out like I was about to take a snap. I was looking closely to try and identify a baby's head, but I couldn't make sense out of what I was seeing. It was bulging. It was purple. It was oozing. I might as well have been looking at an alien's anatomy.

I had a guess that the placenta might be coming out first. In some sex ed class I'd heard that placenta is also born, but I hadn't paid enough attention to know which came first, it or the baby. At that moment I would have given anything to know because I really didn't want to touch the placenta.

There was no time to worry about it. Bobbie was breathing fast and furious. "Okay Bobbie, Breathe! Push! Breathe! Push! You can do it!!" I chanted -- as if she needed the reminder. But I trusted what I had seen on TV and that's what doctors always do on TV.

Bobbie took a deep, deep breath, screamed in pain and pushed with all her might, POP!! Suddenly, there was a baby head. One second I'm looking a woman's privates bursting at the seams; the next IÕm seeing a little face. Unbelievable!

For the first time, a panicked thought exploded in my mind, "What do I do now? Am I supposed to pull the baby out now that I can grab onto its head? Or am I NOT supposed to pull? What do Doctors do!?" I'd seen Marcus Welby, Hawkeye, the ambulance drivers on Emergency 51, all deliver babies, but until now I hadn't realized that those shows were leaving out some very important details.

Without knowing what to do, I reached out with both hands to touch the baby's head. When I did, I was treated to a small miracle. The instant my fingers touched the tiny wet head I was filled up with a knowingness -- as if life itself had whispered into my ear: "Don't pull on the baby dummy. You're just there to catch."

I went back to the only real job I had; coaching with urgency, "Breathe! Push!! Breathe Bobbie!! Push! You're doing great!!"

Bless her heart, Bobbie was doing all the work and she built herself up again for another mighty push, out slid more of the baby from the neck to knees. It was a girl. She came into the world like a little wet noodle, making a sloshing sound as she entered.

I began screaming with excitement, "You did it!!! Bobbie you are the best! The best! You did it!" Then I gently pulled the baby out.

I hadn't noticed that the baby was a deep shade of bluish-purple. In a second, my joy froze. I had the chilling thought that the little girl I already loved wasn't alive. I was celebrating a tragedy. Maybe I had even caused it. Maybe this would be the worst moment of my life. Maybe this was why nobody else got involved.

Looking down onto the lifeless, little blue body that fit perfectly into my hands, I was trying to bring the baby girl back to life, "Hey little one, are you there? Come on sweetie. Please give me a sign. Please. Come on. Come on!" My heart was sinking.

Then it happened. It's a moment I'll always remember. Two tiny eyes opened up like flip up headlights. They looked to the left, at the traffic speeding by. They looked to the right, at the row of Victorian houses. Then they looked straight up into my wide eyes. The biggest smile I've ever had lit up my face. I screamed with joy. "You're alive! You're alive! You're alive!! Welcome!!!"

I gave her a gentle little shake and she began gasping and crying. Music to my ears. All I wanted was to hear more gasps and cries, so I kept shaking the baby. The more she cried, the more her skin turned pink and glowed with life.

I was yelling at the mom, "You did it Bobbie! You did it! We've got a beautiful, alive, baby girl!! I love you! I love you Bobbie!" It was the greatest high of my life.

I held the baby right there between Bobbie's legs. It was less than a minute when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, the flashing red, blue and orange lights of an ambulance. I saw the paramedic coming toward me. Wait till he sees what I just did!

First thing out of his mouth when he walked up to me was "Don't hold the baby like that. You're holding it wrong." The experts had arrived, but I was thankful they were there.

The next thing he did popped my eyes out of my head. He handed the infant up to Bobbie arms. It was the first time I realized that the umbilical cord could be stretched like a phone cord, which is exactly how it looks. I would have handed Bobbie her baby if I had realized it could be pulled that far. Shoot, we were practically close enough to take the baby inside a house.

I don't know what the paramedics did next. I sat on a porch ledge and suddenly began shaking uncontrollably. I noticed a bag of clothing where Bobbie had been lying, so I gave it to the paramedics. I asked the medics what hospital they were taking her to, but I couldn't concentrate on their answer. I tried to talk to Bobbie, but she was out of it. And then I just resumed sitting, shaking, and thinking to myself, "I just delivered a baby. I can't believe I just delivered a baby." It felt like I'd spent forty minutes with Bobbie. I would later learn from ambulance dispatch records that it had only been seventeen.

The neighbor who had let me call 911 from his phone, whose name turned out to be Joe, sat down beside me. Joe put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Bet you could use a good stiff drink right now. Come on inside and sit down for a while." It was no later than 7:30.

I really wanted a drink, but I figured liquor on my breath wouldn't exactly lend credence to my why-I'm late-for-work, again, excuse. So I celebrated with something that would make my grandma proud-- tea. As Joe boiled the water, we discovered that we shared the same birthday, July 5. Then it hit me -- today was my Mother's birthday.

I borrowed Joe's phone and called her. "Happy Birthday Mom. Have I got birthday news for you -- today I made you a grandmother!" In the tone of voice she reserves for trouble, she said, "Patrick, you better be joking." I quickly explained what had happened.

I felt so on top of the world when I left Joe's house that I walked the entire way to work -- four miles -- instead of riding the bus. I would walk a block -- feeling like I was flying -- and then uncontrollably leap up, punch thin air, and yell "Yes!!" I didn't care how many people thought I was out of my mind. It feels like a miracle to be the first one to touch a baby.

I cruised into Levi's headquarters at 10:30, two and a half-hours late. I could barely wait to see the look on my boss Sydney's face when I told her my excuse. Before I ran into Sydney, I ran into Peggy, the department's administrative assistant. "Guess what I did this morning? I delivered a baby on the sidewalk."

Peggy demanded an explanation so I began to excitedly tell it. Someone wandering by near the end of the story insisted that I repeat it, so I did. By then word had spread to Sydney, who asked that I come into her office. She didn't care that I was late, she wanted to hear the story. Next Denis Chicola, Levi's video department director, asked me over to his desk to tell it. I kept telling the story over and over. Some people would listen to it twice. After about an hour, Sydney called me into her office again. I just knew she was going to tell me it was time to start working. Instead, she said, "Patrick, you're story is wonderful. I was wondering if I could call my friend at the San Francisco Chronicle and tell it to him?"

"Sure," I replied in a non-chalant tone. The reporter from the Chronicle interviewed me by phone fifteen minutes later. It wasn't so much an interview as it was me telling the story again. The reporter just listened and then said, "That's a heroic thing you did Patrick and I like the story." He then asked Sydney if she'd let me off work so that a photographer could take my photo on the site where it happened. Sydney sent me on my way. I bounded away from Levi Plaza feeling bad for all the people who had to keep working. An hour later I was standing back on the sidewalk where the delivery occurred posing for a newspaper photographer. I'd passed the spot a hundred times before without notice; now it had become a special place.

The rest of the day passed quickly. I told the story to my girlfriend, a few friends, and to my mom. Everyone loved the story and I loved telling it. The great feeling I had lasted. I went to bed with a smile on my face.

Completely groggy -- and always too sleepy in the morning -- I answered the phone upset that someone was calling so early. A deep, overly-dramatic voice said, "Hello, we're looking for Patrick Combs. Is this Patrick?"

"Yes," was all I could manage.

"Congratulations Dr. Combs! This is K101 radio and we're thrilled about what you did yesterday. Did we wake you?"

"Uh huh," I droned.

"You sound sleepy. Should we call you back in 15 minutes so that you have sometime to shower and grab a cup of coffee?" (It sounded like he'd already had six).

"Yes, please," I said. I showered and anxiously wondered how they knew what I had done. They called me back asked me a few questions and kept calling me doctor. They even had Zasu Pitts Orchestra, a local band that was in the studio with them, sing a song they had composed for me. It was fun but I had to end it early with the confession, "I can't be late a second day in a row."

As I left my apartment building, a man stopped me. "Patrick, right? I'd just like to shake your hand and say congratulations. That was a very nice thing you did," as if we had met before. I had no idea who he was.

"How did you know what I did?" I asked sheepishly.

He held up his newspaper, "You made the front page of the Chronicle."

Nothing had prepared me for what I was about to see. There was my picture, front and center, above the fold, accompanied by the headline, "S.F. Student Delivers a Baby on Sidewalk."

I had fantasized about waking up this morning, flipping through the Metro section of the paper to find a small story about myself, but I had never once imagined myself front-page news. My right eye began to twitch. I wanted to grab the paper and read every word. Luckily the stranger offered his copy.

I walked slowly down Fell Street, when I read the article I learned two things. Bobbie had named the baby Crystal, and Bobbie wasn't Bobbie after all. I had misheard her name. It was Bonnie.

I've never had a stranger trip to work. As I walked to the bus stop, I would pass newspaper boxes with my picture staring back at me. On the bus, people around me were reading about me. I wanted to hide. I also wanted to lean over someone's shoulder and say, "That's me. Can you believe it?!"

The minute I arrived at work the excitement escalated. A security officer greeted me at the front door, "You need to get upstairs fast. They're waiting for you." Upstairs, my boss Sydney rushed me into her office and started to explain there were lots of television and radio stations that wanted to interview me -- even Robert Haas, the President of Levi Strauss & Co., asked that I stop by his office. Looked like another day off from work. I loved it.

I felt like the President of the United States: Two back to back television interviews, radio interviews by phone, and then whisked upstairs to meet the president (a real president). What an office this guy had: great view, plush everything and thirty times as much space as my own cubicle.

He couldn't have been nicer. He insisted on being called Bob and wanted me to tell him every single detail in the whole story. When I finished he called someone and then we resumed talking. He told me about when his kids were born and said he envied me being the first one to hold a newborn baby. Five minutes later, a person came in with a gift for the baby. It was a tiny pair of Levi jeans, Levi jacket and even tiny Levi diapers. This little girl was getting an early start on looking cool.

I told Bob Haas he had my approval as an uncle (and it didn't hurt that his family owned the Oakland A's).

After my meeting with Bob, I waited in a television lounge for the next reporter to arrive. The TV was turned to People Are Talking, San Francisco's morning talk show. Ross McGowan, the host of the show, looks into the camera -- at me -- and says, "On the front page of the Chronicle today is a story about Patrick Combs, a young man who delivered a baby on the sidewalk. We were hoping to have Patrick on the show, but I understand he's busy... but Patrick, if you're out there, congratulations." My jaw dropped. I couldn't contain myself, "I'm out here! I'm out here!!," I said back to the screen. Then I jumped up from my chair and ran to Peggy, the administrative assistant, screaming, "The guy on TV just talked to me. He said, 'Patrick, if you're out there, and I was out there. Unbelievable!"

Ten minutes later Sydney came rushing in, "There is a cab waiting downstairs for you. It will take you to the TV show People Are Talking. Have fun and then come back here afterwards because there are more interviews lined up." By this point, I'd died and gone to Fantasy Island.

It took me less than five minutes to get to the television studio. A producer rushed me straight into the make up room, then to the set.

I entered the studio from behind the audience bleachers. I listened in nervous anticipation as the host Ross announced that they had caught up with me and brought me to the studio. The audience clapped for my entrance, and I walked out thinking, "So this is what it feels like to be a star."

Lights. Action. Camera. It was over in a blink of an eye, but I did all right. Some audience members cried. What more could I ask?

I kept telling the story that afternoon to more news crews, but inevitably they wanted more than just my rendition. They wanted a reunion with Bonnie and the baby. I wanted to see the baby and the mother again -- a lot -- but I figured it might be awkward. From the minute I found that bag full of her clothes, down in the stairwell next to her, I suspicioned that Bonnie was homeless. I figured this was a two-sided story: fun for me, miserable for her. Who wants to be on TV for being down and out? The news crew was pushing hard for permission to shoot our reunion visit. Fortunately, I listened to an inner voice that said, "Just say no."

Late that afternoon I went alone to visit Bonnie and Crystal at San Francisco General Hospital. I nervously entered Bonnie's hospital room with the little-Levis in hand. There were no flowers or gifts, just Bonnie lying alone in a hospital bed. She didnÕt look like I had remembered. Or, on the sidewalk my focus had not been on her face so much. In the hospital room I could see her lightly freckled face clearly. It was a tired, worn out face, much older looking than her young twenties age. Bonnie cut right to the chase, "I guess I'm supposed to say thank you because you're a hero. Well, thank you. You have all the fun you want with this, but I ain't doing no interviews." I'd felt so close to her the day before, but we were again world's apart. I felt ashamed for even being there -- as if just by showing up I was asking for a thank you. I said very little -- only that I understood. I left the jeans and wished her well. I left within a minute of walking in the door. On the way out I peeked in through a window at Crystal. She looked beautiful. She was about five pounds with dark brown hair.

From that point on, during interviews I would repeatedly but unsuccessfully try to get the tragedy of Bonnie's homelessness discussed. All the reporters wanted to hear was the upbeat side. The media would decide in advance on the story angle -- and in my case it was a happy story. At first I was troubled, but then I took satisfaction in being part of a heartwarming story.

The next call came from The Late Show with Joan Rivers, in Los Angeles. At the time a comedian from Seattle, Ross McGowan, was filling in for Joan. They would fly me from San Francisco and put me up at a hotel. Knowing how much my girlfriend Lisa would want to come along, I said, "I'd love to be on the show, but I'm scared to come to Los Angeles on my own. It's such a big city. If only my girlfriend could accompany me. She's been there before." They agreed and the next day Lisa and I were on a flight to Los Angeles.

At the airport a limousine was waiting for us. Neither of us had ever been in one before and immediately agreed that we should have our driver detour to a donut shop. At the late show, a producer escorted us to our own dressing room. We were right next door to the dressing room of the other guest, Joe Bob Briggs -- famous for his review column, Joe Bob Briggs at the Drive In, and for habitually counting of the number of breasts shown in B movies. At the time, he was running against Reagan, for President. Movie star versus movie reviewer.

Dressing rooms can be nerve-wracking places, so it seemed to me. Lisa didn't seem nervous, but I could barely breathe. I sat in there remembering the time in debate class when I got up to speak and was so nervous I couldn't remember my name.

At show time a producer escorted us into the audience. I thought I was hiding my nervousness. The producer came up to me and asked, "Are you going to be okay? Take deep breaths and you'll do fine." I reassured him, but I guess without enough conviction. He turned to Lisa and asked, "Is he going to be all right?" Lisa could only nod.

At this point, I wasn't really sure I wanted to be on national TV. Then the producer handed me an envelope from his breast pocket.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Your check," he said.

"I get paid for this? I didn't know that,"

"Yes, but its only five hundred dollars."

Obviously the fact that he used the word only, he was totally out of touch with how much five hundred dollars meant to a student. Five hundred dollars would buy two thousand boxes of Macaroni & Cheese, or five required textbooks.

Right after his opening monologue, Ross McGowan called me out of the audience as a surprise guest. I was so nervous that I missed my call; Lisa had to pat me on the leg and say, "That's you babe."

This was the big league, far beyond People Are Talking or News at 11. It was a fast and glamorous two minutes -- tops. For me it was over the second it began. I only remember how Ross McGowan watched a stage clock digitally ticking of the time remaining till commercial break. As the time ran out, he smoothly put his arm around my shoulder and finished my story for me, "And so you delivered the baby and the mother and child are all right - What a hero!"

Back at Levis in San Francisco, news agencies continued to call, but Sydney had the good sense to turn them down. My story had kept three Levi Strauss media professionals busy for two days. It was time for everyone to get back to their real jobs, selling Levis. Good thing Sydney had a sense to give me the old stage hook, because I was out of control. I was beginning to think everyone needed to hear my story.

Beyond those three incredible days, a few more unexpected rewards came my way. I was waiting in a line and someone recognized me from one of my appearances on television. I received a bunch of nice letters and cards from people who'd read my story in the newspaper. Imagine my surprise when one of them was from Alice Walker, the author of The Color Purple. And one day, while waiting in a supermarket line and reading about current events, I even found my story in the prestigious weekly newspaper, The Star -- second only to the Enquirer in credibility. Making the tabloids was in some way the pinnacle of my 15 minutes of fame.

Then a year passed. I answered my phone one afternoon and a woman introduced herself as the person who had adopted Crystal.

She was calling to let me know Crystal had immediately been put up for adoption, and that despite worries that Crystal might be a crack baby -- because of the extremely fast birth -- she was a perfectly healthy and happy child. It was music to my ears.

"And how was Bonnie?" I asked.

"I'm sorry to say that Bonnie died of an overdose last December," she said.

I asked if I could see Crystal. I was told no. They weren't even sure if they would someday tell her about her sidewalk birth. I hoped they would. She went on to tell me that the baby's name was no longer Crystal. They had renamed her. I was so disappointed by the name change that I didn't hear Crystal's new name. She'll always be Crystal, the name her birth mother gave her, in my mind.

The call was also so unexpected that I forgot to ask for a way to call back. Click. I have not heard anything since. It's been 11 years since our fateful encounter. I still wonder if I'll pass Crystal on the street someday without knowing it. I hope that someday she'll learn of her unusual beginning and look me up. I'd like to tell her what joy she brought me.

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The above story is published with permission of it's author, Patrick Combs. To learn more about Patrick go to his web site
http://www.goodthink.com. To read more of his adventures go to http://www.goodthink.com/ventures.html.

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