Patch Baby

Chapter 1

A great race was underway in Oklahoma City on December 31, 1965. On the northwestern edge of the skyline, the new Baptist Hospital hosted a laboring mother in the running for the first baby of the year delivery—me.

Auld Lang Syne has always been my birthday song, and each New Year’s Eve, the wistful notes of the saxophone curl through the room as I hug my arms around myself—another year gone too soon, yet thank goodness, another beginning.

The waiting family at home all went to bed while Joy labored past midnight into the first day of the year. Ray checked his wristwatch each time the nurse updated him on her progress. The first baby of the new year promised media attention and prizes. I was born to compete, but a California newborn beat me by three hours. Still, my mother claimed a small victory: I was her first baby to wear Pampers, thanks to a generous runner-up supply from a local store. And even better, she whispered with a triumphant smile; I was a girl—after two older brothers.

Robin Joy French—New year's Day 1966

Mother said I looked just like my brother Mark, and our resemblance formed a subtle bond between us. But she couldn’t help but fix her eyes on the small, blood-red dot in the center of my forehead. The next morning, in the thin light of the hospital room, she studied it carefully, then set me back in the bassinet and pressed the call button for the nurse.

The hospital staff assured her it would fade, but by the next day the mark had deepened in color and spread. My pediatrician offered the same reassurance, yet my mother couldn’t accept it. She feared it might grow to cover my entire face.

The red mark—a hemangioma, a benign cluster of blood vessels—was rarely treated by doctors. My usually gentle mother became a force of determination when she believed she was right. She persisted until a plastic surgeon was called in. He applied a topical treatment to shrink the growth, then covered it with gauze and tape before we went home.

At SW 20th Street, my siblings—nine-year-old Jody and five-year-old Mark—stood ready to meet me, Lady our dog at their side, ears perked and tail wagging. Mark’s eyes locked onto the bandage on my forehead. After a moment, he leaned closer, squinting, then broke into a grin. “Patch Baby,” he announced, voice small but proud.

On the first Sunday of my life, my mother carried me into Southwest Friendship Baptist Church. Sunlight slanted through the stained-glass windows and caught in my brother Mark’s white-blond hair. He stayed near, listening, as if he were waiting for someone to ask my name. When the pastor did, Mark broke through the circle of adults and stepped forward, rocking onto his toes, shoulders pulled back, his face serious with importance. “Patch Baby,” he said. Laughter rippled through the pews. That was Mark—always ready for his moment, daring, charming, the cutest boy with a sly little smile.

The hemangioma on my forehead refused to budge—round, red, angry, the size of a quarter. The ointment made no difference. By two months, surgery replaced it with a delicate, one-and-a-half-inch scar. As my head grew, the scar gradually receded from my forehead, eventually disappearing into my hairline.

By the time I reached kindergarten, our house hummed with movement as my mother hustled us through morning routines—drawers slammed, the boys dashed past, sneakers squeaking. Perched on a stool in front of the bathroom mirror, the counter cold beneath my fingertips, the scar hid beneath my hair. Behind me, my mother worked a brush through the knots in my hair. Each pull snapped a few strands, drawing a yelp as I flinched. After nearly scraping me bald, she softened, fingers gentle against my scalp. “Sorry, Patch Baby,” she murmured, a playful echo of my newborn days. I pressed my cheek into her hand, listening as she retold the story of my birth, the hemangioma, and the scar—every retelling like a familiar song, alive in her voice.

Over the course of my childhood, both my baby nickname and the scar faded from view. After my parents divorced, we left our house and our church behind. Life with a new stepfather seemed to give my mother a kind of amnesia, sweeping everything from before under the rug. She had no interest in revisiting the past. We moved on. Without the story—or the visible scar—to remind me, I forgot it.

As I matured, my hair thickened. Years of school pictures came and went, each one showing no sign of the scar tucked away. Report cards, driver’s licenses, wedding photographs—years passed with no one noticing, no one ever mentioning it again.

Then, around 2017 my newborn nickname stepped back into the room. At fifty-one, my hairline was changing. I brushed my hair aside, letting the scar peek out. The story of my birth and scar all rushed at me. On the next visit with my mother, I showed her. Her eyes followed it, then she traced it with the tip of her finger. Confusion often crossed her face when she had to remember things, and her many heart surgeries didn’t help but I saw when she remembered.

My mother was a woman of very few words, but I thought she would have something to say about the scar. Instead, we sat in silence before she finally whispered, “Patch Baby,” the words settling between us. Her voice caught. “I didn’t know how to survive on my own. Before you were born, your dad caused a lot of pain for our family.” Her fingers twisted the ring on her right hand. The ring and I were all that remained of her first marriage. After her heart surgeries, the ring spun easily on her finger.

She lifted her gaze to the window. The sunny day outside gave no hint of how serious this conversation had become. For years, meals had gone cold on the stove while she waited for him to come home, keeping up the routines of family dinners, hoping somehow she could carry the weight of everything alone. “Leaving…wasn’t an option,” she said. We’re Baptist. We don’t divorce.

Then she began, shaking her head slightly. Speculation had followed my dad since they dated in high school, but she was so in love that she only ever saw good. Friends and family warned her he wasn’t faithful, but she refused to believe them. “I thought if I became the perfect wife—cooking his favorite meals, managing you children—I could keep him happy,” she whispered. But he broke my trust, and all I could do was carry the burden.

Prayer had been all she had. God—the only ally she could count on. For over fifty years, she had folded this story into her hands and whispered it only to God. Now, spoken aloud, the prayers rose again, carried in the ring's weight spinning on her finger.

She told me how eventually something shifted. My dad returned with a gentle insistence, pleading for the forgiveness she had prayed for. We stitched our household back together with careful gestures and soft routines, and nine months later, I was born. Her hand lingered over the ring as she whispered, “Patch Baby.”