The phone rang. It was Mom.

“I want you to write a blog post about Mrs. Bridgewater.”

I recognized the name, and knew I’d heard the story before, but I asked her to tell me the story again. The story about the day my older brother was born.

Afterwards, we worked together on getting the story down in writing. And here it is.

We’ve all had miracles in our lives . . . but very few of us recognize them.

One of the miracles in my life was Octavia Bridgewater.

One Sunday morning in 1947, I arrived at the hospital in severe pain, in labor with my first child. I had no idea what to expect. And I was scared to death.

Once I was settled into a room, the doctor paid me a visit and performed his usual initial examination. He announced that he expected delivery of the baby to be at least several hours away. “Plenty of time for me to go on a Sunday drive with my wife!”, he said. I begged and pleaded with him not to go, but to no avail.

As he headed for the door, the nurse who was on duty gave me a quick nod of assurance. She leaned in, took me gently by the shoulders, and said, “Don’t you worry. You’re going to be okay. I’m going to get another doctor right now.”

Somehow I knew I could trust this woman.

The nurse left the room and immediately called a doctor who had been resting at home from a skiing accident. She asked him to come to the hospital right away. A few minutes later she was back in the room and stayed with me until the doctor arrived. By that time, I was in such pain and had begun to deliver my son. Right away, the doctor “put me out”.

When I later woke up, I heard the doctor say to the nurse, “I can’t believe that her doctor let her get so big. This baby is 9 lbs. 23” long! Weigh that baby again. She just can’t have a baby that big!”

You see, I was only 17 years old and about 5′ nothing.

My mother had died when I was only seven. And that day in the hospital, I never felt more alone.

Alone, it seemed, except for a nurse by the name of Octavia Bridgewater.

After my mom told me about Mrs.Bridgewater, I decided to see what more I could learn more about her. So I started by doing a little research at Ancestry.com, followed by some Internet research, and quickly learned that Mrs. Bridgewater was, in fact, Miss Octavia Bridgewater.

And I learned that Octavia was much more than a miracle in my mom’s life.

According to the 1910 census, Octavia was born in Montana in 1903. She was the third of five children born to Samuel and Mamie Bridgewater.

Samuel and Mamie were married in 1892 at Fort Huachuca, Arizona Territory, where Samuel was a career “Buffalo Soldier“. Following the Spanish-American War, the family relocated to Montana where Samuel was stationed at Fort Harrison, near Helena. While working as a matron at the veterans hospital and caring for her husband who suffered from a serious wound he received during the battle at San Juan Hill, Octavia’s mother Mamie raised five children. And somehow she also found time to be a leader in Helena’s Second Baptist Church and the Helena Chapter of the Montana Federation of Colored Women’s Clubs.

When Octavia was only 9 years old, her father Samuel died.

After graduating from Helena High School in 1925, Octavia attended Lincoln School of Nursing in New York City. Afterwards, she attended the University of the State of New York where she received a registered nurse’s degree. Returning to Helena, she worked as a private-duty nurse because Montana hospitals did not hire African American nurses.

Undaunted, Octavia joined the army in 1942 and became one of 56 black nurses accepted for the first time in the Army Nurse Corps. In fact, she was one of the individuals who lobbied the White House and Congress to help bring about this change. By the time her military career had ended, she earned the rank of First Lieutenant.

Octavia returned to Helena after the war, where she worked as a registered nurse in the maternity department at St. Peter’s Hospital until her retirement in the 1960s.

Oh, and just one more story from my mom about Octavia.

From time to time, my dad’s mother used to invite Octavia into her home for a chat and a cup of coffee. On one such occasion, my dad (who was in high school at the time) returned home from school and passed through the kitchen, past the two women as they sipped their coffee.

Later, after my grandmother and Octavia finished their visit and Octavia left, my father told my grandmother that he would “never sit in that kitchen chair again”, as he nodded toward the chair where Octavia had been seated. My grandmother made certain that my dad clearly understood he was never – under any circumstance – to speak disrespectfully about Miss Bridgewater again. And given what I’ve heard about my grandmother, I suspect she only had to explain the situation just that one time.

Of course, I was disappointed to hear this story about my father’s behavior. But I am happy to report that I could share another story with you, from about 10 years later, that seems to indicate he learned a few lessons from his mother’s scolding that day.

One thing I love about this story is my grandmother’s behavior. I did not know her well … so I was pleased to hear that she stood up for her friend and taught her son an important lesson.

If you would like to learn more about Octavia Bridgewater, please click on the links below.

Sources

1. Marga Lincoln, “Mapping a legacy: New grant helps Montana Historical Society identify key African-American heritage sites,” Independent Record, posted 12 Apr 2015 (http://www.helenair.com : accessed 19 Feb 2018).

2. Women’s History Matters (http://www.montanawomenshistory.org),  “Contributions of a Mother and Daughter,” posted 24 Jul 2014).

3. Mikenzie Frost – MTN News, “Celebrating pioneering African-American Montanans in the medical field,” posted/updated 19 Jan 2016 (http://www.krtv.com : accessed 19 Feb 2018).

Photo attribution: Liv Bruce on Unsplash