By Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hinter
I lived in a modified two-bedroom, one-bathroom mobile home in Little Canada. It was my first home purchase for my son and me. It was originally a three-bedroom “Jack and Jill” floor plan, but my parents took out the connecting wall to make a master bedroom, and the original master bedroom became my son, Johnathon’s, room.
Johnathon was seven when I purchased our home and decorated his bedroom with marble blue carpet and blue-grey painted walls. His bedroom was huge compared to his friend’s, and he had a color television with his own VCR. The washer and dryer were in the hallway by the back door. The bathroom was next to the laundry room, which separated our bedrooms. We had a large kitchen with a lot of oak wood cabinetry, blue vinyl flooring, and white flower print with blue background wallpapering. You had to step up into the living room which was comprised mainly of windows. I loved the bowed window at the front of the house. It gave a lot of sunshine all year round.
It was January 17, 1997, when I went into labor with my second child. I woke up around 2:30 am to light contractions. At first, I didn’t think anything of the little pain in my lower abdomen. It was nothing compared to the contractions of my first child. Around 3:00 am I found the contractions getting a little harder and I had to use the bathroom; no enema was needed. Again, I didn’t think I was in labor. My check-up was the prior week, and they bumped my due date to February 10th. I waddled my way into the kitchen to call my mom. This is when every house had a landline, and the phone was attached to the wall with a tangled long cord. Luckily my phone was push-button versus rotary.
“Mom, I think I might be in labor. It isn’t like when I had Johnathon, but I have been up since 2:30 am and cleared out my colon. The contractions are getting a little sharper. Can you come by just in case?”
As I hung up the phone, I had to return to the bathroom. The pressure in my stomach was causing cramping and had to use the bathroom again. Afterward, I went to my bedroom to find comfortable clothing to wear. That is when I realized my clothes were in the dryer.
As I started to walk out of my bedroom to get my clothes, a contraction hit me so hard that I doubled over from the pain. If I wasn’t near my bed to brace myself, I would have been on the floor. Where did this contraction come from? I took another step to exit my room when I was slammed with another contraction. I must have called out because it woke up Johnathon.
Johnathon called out, “Mom are you o.k.?” in his sweet-sounding voice.
“Yes, I am ok. Go back to sleep.”
The pain was horrendous. I started asking myself what possessed me to have another child. Oh yeah, I remember now. I was twenty-seven and figured it was now or never, thinking I should have chosen never. I dropped to the floor and started to army crawl past the bathroom to the dryer. I looked up to see my son peeking his head outside of the bedroom door. The look on his face was priceless; confused, scared, and excited rolled into one facial expression.
“Mom, are you sure you are, ok? Why are you crawling on the floor?”
“Johnathon, I think your brother or sister is on the way. I need to get dressed before grandma and grandpa get here. Grandpa will stay here with you while grandma takes me to the hospital.” His face turned to pure excitement. He no longer cared that his mother was crawling on the floor, grunting, and in pain. All he could think about was he was about to be a big brother.
I managed to get to the dryer and get it opened. I was greeted by the calming scent of Tide and Downy, a perfect combination. In between contractions, I grabbed a pair of leggings and a T-shirt. How am I going to get these on? I rolled onto my back and lifted a leg to shove into the pants. It was a contradicting body movement. Here I have a baby trying to push its way into this world while I am lifting a leg and shoving this baby under my rib cage. I couldn’t breathe. As I lay there panting awaiting the next contraction to be over, I hurried and shoved my other leg in. Now the fun begins, getting my t-shirt on. I should have gotten dressed before I went to bed. I need to stop sleeping without clothes on. I struggled to maneuver myself into a sitting position. A little wiggle here, a wiggle there and push myself up. Now I feel like a stuffed Butterball turkey. I barely pulled the shirt over my head when I heard the doorbell.
Do I try to get up and walk to the door, or crawl? I rolled over and got onto my knees. I started to do a baby crawl until I felt the contraction hit. Now it felt like a scene from the movie Alien where a baby rips its way out of my stomach. I abandoned the crawl and struggled to stand up. I waddled through the hallway, using the wall for my support. I rounded into the kitchen, gripping the table as I approached the door.
My mom looks at me, “Doesn’t look like it’s a false alarm. How far apart are the contractions?” I swear I want to rip her face off. Does she not see the amount of pain I am in? It’s not as if I have a stopwatch glued to my wrist. Instead, I answer between gritted teeth, “I am not sure. They are close together. I think we should leave right away. Can you hand me my shoes?”
With shoes in hand, I headed to the kitchen chair nearest the counter. I lift one leg up on top of the counter while trying to throw a shoe on. It was like fishing from the shore where you cast your line and hope to catch something.
My dad actually had the nerve to laugh. “Why bother to even put your shoes on? Just go outside barefoot and pregnant.” I swear this man takes every opportunity to get on my last good nerve. “Dad, it is January and cold. I am not walking without shoes.” In my head, I was calling him all kinds of not-so-nice names as I struggled to pull my shoes on. Not once did either of them offer to help me.
My mom doesn’t see very well at night, and it was dark as pitch. She also doesn’t like driving on the freeway, and snow-covered makes it even worse. As each contraction ripped through my body I wanted to scream. Instead, I say, “Mom can you drive any faster? Or do you want to keep driving ‘Miss Daisy’ and I have the baby in the car?” It felt like an eternity by the time we reached the hospital. Swear I could have walked to the hospital and arrived faster.
We entered the hospital nearest to the labor and delivery area. I was blinded by the shiny linoleum floors and bright hospital lighting. It was a transition from night to day. What is that hospital smell? Cleansers, sanitizers, mop water, and something else. Is it blood and death even way down by the birthing rooms? I try not to gag at the smell.
I was wheeled into the birthing room, assisted onto a hard drop-down chair, and violated. At least let me get comfortable before you shove fingers into my nether regions to see how dilated I am. My mom asks the nurse, “Is it false labor?” The nurse replies, “No, we are having a baby. Let me call the doctor.” Guess I am not here since I am being left out of this conversation.
I am hot, crabby, and ready for this to be over. I am not a nice person when I am crabby. I might add that I can be a bit of a bitch. “Mom, can you get a cold rag and some ice? I am hot.” I don’t know if she is tired, nervous, or didn’t hear me so I get snappy. Through clenched teeth, I say, “Mom, a cold rag today would be nice.” That got her attention because she snapped into action.
The doctor must live close by, or already in the hospital when the nurse paged him because he was there by the time my mom plopped a cold wet rag on my head. Next thing I know I have cold hands in my nether regions. Then the doctor says, “You are dilated to a nine, but half your cervix is flat. I am going to have to pull down while you push.” Push, I already have to push? You just got here and telling me to push, what do you mean you have to pull down while I push?
As a contraction comes, I heard him say push. So, I pushed. Holy Jesus Christ! I found out what he meant when he said he had to pull the cervix down. I never felt a pain like that rip through my body. I screamed out, “Get your fingers out of there!”
“Rhonda, just one more push and the head will come.” I pushed while he pulled. I gave him a murderous look while I stared at his funny-shaped eyebrows; they looked like they were drawn on. “Ok, I have the head. Give me another push for the shoulders.”
At last, I felt this slimy little figure exit my body; it felt like a cool wave putting out an inferno. Next thing I know a little blue-gray alien with white slime covering its body and a long blue umbilical cord attached to its belly button is sitting on my stomach. I finally held my son, James. His little face bunched up and let out a cry. “Oh, you act like being born was a rough experience for you.” I can’t wait until the day I can tell you how you ripped out of my stomach like in the movie Alien.
One day during James’s adolescence, we will watch the movie Alien together. I will give commentary on the scene where the alien bursts out of the man’s stomach. As the man starts gripping his stomach as he tries to eat with his colleagues, “James, that is how I felt when you woke me out of my sleep and you just kept pushing your way out.” In the movie, everyone at the table looks shocked as he stands up and his shirt starts turning red from blood. “James, that is how everyone in the birthing room looked when my water broke; water sprayed everywhere.” As the slimy little figure comes bursting out of his stomach with a screech. “James, that is what you looked like when you ripped out of my vagina. Then had enough nerve to cry like being born was rough on you.” I imagine his face looking distraught at this point, so I dig in a little further. “Do you feel a little sorry for me? This is why you need to be nice to mommy.”
Yes, the birthing process is definitely like the movie Alien.
Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter 