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The phone call came on Friday afternoon.

"Don't get excited, Mum. It's really early," my son said. "We're probably not going to the hospital until this evening."

"Aiyyyyyyyyyyy. I'll book a train ticket right now. I'll be in Montreal tomorrow."

It was here. Now. I knew it was coming, but I couldn't quite believe it. Other people became grandparents and flashed a packet of pictures at every opportunity. They gushed and repeated the mantra — all the fun and none of the responsibility. They burbled on about strollers and car seats and swings and cribs and stools and high chairs and jumpers and bumpers and don't ask. Many of them rolled their eyes when talking about the younger generation's interminable breastfeeding, educational everything and paranoia about dirt. But me! A grandmother?

I booked the ticket and called Carol, my machatonista. That's Yiddish for my son or daughter's mother-in-law, and I truly believe English desperately needs a similarly succinct term. We exchanged sighs and oys. She promised to keep in close touch, which was crucial because Carol was actually there, in the same city, an eyewitness to history. She also promised to pick me up from the train station on Saturday afternoon. We both expected the baby to arrive by midnight.

Carol called shortly after dinner to say the kids had gone to the hospital. Everything was fine. The doula had arrived. How did we manage without doulas?

Carol had been directed not to come to the hospital until the kids said it was okay. She dared not arrive a moment earlier. No sane parent would ever disregard the wishes of their adult children who are on the cusp of becoming parents themselves. The consequences are too frightening to consider. So we waited.

Jon would call when something happened. But he didn't call. And he didn't call. Carol and I conferred. Yes, first babies are often slow. Everything was probably just fine. We were being overly nervous. Our own experience made matters worse. Cesareans, induced labour, twins, big twins. We knew from problems.

The not knowing, as everybody knows, is the worst. At least when you're the one having the baby you know what's happening. We were floundering in a black hole of what-ifs. What if the baby is in distress? What if Ellana is in terrible pain or, God forbid, danger?

That familiar parental terror I, like so many others, usually conceal doubled to encompass two generations.

At 2 a.m., the phone rang. Not a problem. I was completely awake. It was Carol calling to tell me she knew nothing. Nothing! My son hadn't called. She was going out of her mind. She wanted to go to the hospital, but her husband insisted she go back to bed and wait. Was he insane? Why hadn't Jon called? Had I raised a man completely lacking in basic human compassion or had something really terrible happened?

At 6:30 a.m., Carol phoned the hospital. They told her they couldn't tell her anything. That's all we needed to hear.

Miraculously, my son, M.I.A. for hours, called. Everything was all right, just slower than expected. What wasn't he telling us? I left for the train station, cellphone in hand and, uncharacteristically, turned on.

Carol is the best co-grandma. She called every couple of hours so we could breathe together. Noon: "She's starting to push." Two p.m.: "I can't understand what happened. Jon didn't call." Three p.m.: escalating worry. Something was not right. Five hundred pounds of fear settled on my chest. Carol and I decided to go immediately from the train station to the hospital. Never mind the kids' admonition: "Don't come till we tell you."

We found the birthing centre (prehistorically known as the maternity ward). It was now 5 p.m., and not having heard any news since noon we were trembling with worry.

The nice man sitting at the nursing station told us Ellana was in surgery, having a cesarean section. We were actually relieved: At last a concrete piece of information to clutch. He told us to get dinner and come back in a couple of hours.

Carol's cellphone suddenly rang. Frightened of crashing the entire hospital's electrical system, she quickly hid in a corner to answer. "I'm in room 314," Jon whispered.

And there was Ruby in her tiny hospital crib with the plastic sides and her slightly dazed, ecstatic daddy beside her. Mummy was still in recovery. Bending over the crib, Carol and I were both speechless. I drank in my son's little girl, a beautiful new life, unbelievably perfect, from her silky dark hair escaping a tiny cap and framing her sleepy face, to her pink swaddled body.

Tears fill my eyes when I recall that moment. On that day a vast and dazzling blend of joy, love, amazement and profound gratitude surged through me with such power, it would have shattered the mortal body that holds my spirit if my tears hadn't poured out and spread my happiness through the room and beyond.

Rhona Bennett lives in Toronto.