My Summer at the Methodist Home Hospital for Unwed Mothers —1970

(Warning Readers: This is a long post. And this is how I remember it. Linda)

Summer of 1970

How I ever got to the Methodist Home Hospital for Unwed Mothers on Washington Avenue in New Orleans sometime in June of 1970 is a complete mystery to me. At least my dad must have taken me, but I don’t remember a thing. I do remember an interview with the director/social worker, but whether both my mom and dad were sitting in on that, I don’t know. And whether it took place at that first moment as we stepped inside the place or not? I don’t know.

Anyway, I was “registered/enrolled/incarcerated/whatever” with the alias name of Cheryl Ridge. Cheryl is my middle name, and Ridge was my mom’s maiden name. For the months of June through October of 1970, I was incognito in the big city of New Orleans, Louisiana. Any letters that I received from my parents during that time were addressed to Miss Cheryl Ridge. Practically no one in that time or place of my life knew me as Linda. And I surmise that I did not know the true names of any of the other “guests” at the Home. My youngest brother recently asked if I kept in touch with any of the other residents. What a laugh! We did not even know each others real names. As for me, I hoped I would never see any of these people ever again.

I recently saw photos of the building (inside and outside), and they brought back some memories of the time I spent there. Although the building is now a dog kennel/spa, I believe that its original design as a dormitory for unwed mothers seems more fitting. Nothing was really warm or cozy about the facility, but then again it wasn’t meant to be anyone’s permanent home. Four months was probably about as long as anyone stayed there. For me it seemed forever.

On admission, I was assigned a roommate. Lynette. She had arrived before me and was definitely “showing.” For some reason I think Lynette was from Mississippi or at least somewhere along the Mississippi border with Louisiana. She had long, Pentecostal type hair and always wore long sleeves and long dresses. I guess she questioned who I was, since I had a super short haircut and liked to wear short summer frocks in the NOLA heat and humidity.

Most of the time we all wore white cotton simple shift type nurses dresses. They were easy for the laundry staff to wash, dry, and iron, and not many of us needed any other clothing besides undies. Understandably, girls left most of their better maternity wear when they left the Home. As they left, I always made a mad dash to the “collection” to find something new for my wardrobe. Plus I sewed up a few presentable outfits in the sewing room. That is where I kept my portable sewing machine that my parents had given me for my college graduation in May.

Lynette and I got along fine. She seemed to be about my age of 22 and more mature and smarter than most of the other guests. Somewhere in my mind I think that she and I must have both worked in the Infirmary as assistants to the resident nurse. 

I never saw babies, but I learned to litmus paper test urine specimens I picked up each weekday morning from the guests. I also washed and sterilized medical apparatus used by the nurse and visiting doctor on scheduled exam days, as well as organized and kept record of weekly examinations. I took care of new mothers or ill mothers in the Infirmary hospital. Pill pushing and preparing pill cups every morning before breakfast was the one job I hated. Most girls learned quickly that the iron tablets lead to constipation, so they disposed of those huge burgundy pills  any way they could. One young girl even bragged about a collection she had in a jar in her dormitory room.

Yes, each girl had a job. Some operated the washers and dryers and folded the clothes in the laundry for the entire facility.  Some had nursery duty taking care of the newborn infants who were being readied for adoption or going home with their mothers. (My roommate Lynette chose to take her baby home with her after she held and fed it.) 

I do not remember ever seeing any of the girls actually cleaning anything except their own living area, so I guess there was hired help for general cleaning. Some girls did have kitchen duty, but I believe it was more table bussing and maybe dish washing rather than actual food prep. On the weekends, we made our own meals, but someone from the kitchen brigade was always in charge.

My urine testing and pill pushing usually meant that I was up early around 6:00 am. The first few mornings there I got up even earlier and hot-curled my hair and even put on make-up. I learned quickly that after breakfast most of the girls were free and went back to bed until around 10 am, so I did that, too. I forgot the hair and make-up until a more decent hour, if I planned to go outside the facility. And I even started listening to the baby nurses when they told me to stop getting so “fixed up.” 

Our dormitory rooms were simple and mostly bare. I had a twin-sized bed, and there was a dresser with a mirror for the two of us. Two sleeping rooms were joined by a toilet and also a sink and shower. There were two different doors from our room to those facilities.

There was enough room next to my bed for me to do pelvic stretching exercises, which I did up religiously until the birth. There was also always a book next to my bed. That means that there must have been a library of some kind in the building.

Most mornings before lunch a group of girls would go out for a walk in the neighborhood. Although the Home was in the Italian quarters of the city, a walk down to busy St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District past Commander’s Palace Restaurant was always nearby. It wasn’t unusual to run into another bunch of preggies from another of the maternity homes in the city. I never saw anyone else I knew, so that was good. Sometimes a group of us would even take a tram ride uptown for some shopping at Woolsworth on Canal Street. Once or twice we ventured down to Bourbon Street during the day, but invariably I would usually see a familiar face among the tourists. Not good for someone “under cover.”

Once during my stay, my college roommate Barbara and her future husband Barry  came down to visit me. Barbara and Barry were my only visitors besides my parents in the four months. The highlight of their visit was eating beignets with lots of powdered sugar at the Cafe du Monde. 

Phoning home was sometimes a challenge. There was only one pay telephone for the guests, and to allow for privacy it was located at the end of the far hallway.  Some days the phone was so busy that you could almost not get a time to place a call. I phoned my parents by collect call, so I rarely needed change for my calls. Plus phoning home was always risky with a 13 year old brother. I remember writing many letters to my mom and dad, and I guess they must have destroyed them all since the earliest letters I found after my mom died  were from 1971.

Near the end of September, my doctor said I was ready to be induced, so they scheduled the date September 29, 1970. I was actually due to give birth around October 3, so the date scheduled would be perfect. It was on a Tuesday, and I was on my own and alone. But as for most of this nine month “trip,” I had been on my own and alone.

Someone from the Home must have taken me to the hospital (I think it was the Baptist Hospital). I think that I remember being prepped and then someone inserted a needle into my left wrist which left a little scar that I could see for many years later. The drip began. I felt nothing. I remembered nothing of the birth or the pain. I later awoke in a hospital bed lying in the same room with another young mother. I was informed that I had given birth to a girl and that someone would walk me to a pay phone to call my parents. That happened, and I phoned my mom to give her the news. Then I was walked back to my bed. Who knows how long I stayed in the hospital? I don’t remember.

As I had requested not to see my newborn child (was that my idea or the social worker’s or my parents?), I left the hospital thinking that the baby was riding in the back seat of the car on the lap of the nurse. For over 46 years I wondered if there really had been a baby in the back of that car, since I heard no baby noises at all. And no one at the Home even mentioned the baby when I returned to the Home. I was amazed that everyone was honoring my request.

Eventually I had to legally relinquish the child that I had birthed but never saw. I was transported to downtown New Orleans to a judge to sign relinquish papers. The old judge was rude and was visibly disturbed that I had given the child the name Dana. He said, “Dana is a boy’s name.” A lot he knew, since Dana was the name of a female character in a book I had read that summer.  Sure wish that I could remember the name of the book.

The next thing that I remember is being picked up by my dad to go home and to get on with my life. Dad came alone the four hours from Alexandria to New Orleans. He loaded up my belongings, and I must have “signed out” of the facility. I vaguely remember going to eat a meal with him, and then we made the trip back home.

On our way home, we talked a lot. About what? Who knows? At any rate, we talked so much that we missed our turn off on Highway 71 to Alexandria outside of Baton Rouge. Before we knew it, we were in Opelousas, Louisiana. Then we took Highway 167 North. By this time, it was getting dark. Somehow we got back on the right road, and near Cheneyville  Dad’s car broke down. He could drive it backwards, but not forwards. Dad parked on the side of the two-laned road and stepped out to see if he could wave down a passing traveler in the dark. The first person to pass us stopped and asked if we needed help. I do not know what Dad told the man, but the two men loaded my suitcases into the guy’s car and we were off. I remember that the kind man drove us right to our home. What a good Samaritan back in the days before mobile phones and when people actually helped others!

The next morning my dad and Mr. Ralph Howard drove out to Dad’s car on the side of the road in Cheneyville. In our haste the dark night before, Dad had forgotten to even lock the car. Nothing was missing. Even my graduation present Kenmore sewing machine in its carrying case was still sitting in the trunk undisturbed. Dad and Mr. Howard must have towed our car back home to be repaired. 

Summer was over. Linda was back home. No one ever discussed anything about “How I Spent My Summer of 1970.”  

Some days later I went to our Rapides Parish School Board office and applied for a teaching job. Before Halloween I was teaching English and Reading at Jones Street Junior High, a predominantly black school on the other side of town. That is a whole other experience that  I will write about at a later time.