The birth of my son or, the makings of a good sitcom episode
Everything you are about to read is true. It may sound like a sitcom episode, but I promise you it’s true. It’s a little long, and this is the concise version, but worth the read. This is the story of my son came into the world.
First, a little background info. In the mid 90s, I was (sentenced to) stationed at Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota, where I met my now ex-husband. I’ve called him many names over the years, but let’s just call him “Jim.” Minot is in the middle of nowhere. Let me put this in perspective for you.
Four hours north of the base takes you to the middle of nowhere Canada. Drive East or West, more hours of nothingness. South of the air force base there’s 15 minutes of nothingness until you reach the civilian airport. You pass three Hardee’s restaurants till you hit the Dairy Queen in the center of town, pass three more Hardee’s and finally you reach ‘the mall,’ and I use the term loosely, at the south end of town. If you kept going you were in for two more hours of nothingness, an oil field, and you’d finally reach Bismarck and the only Taco Bell within a 300 mile radius. And if you don’t think you’d ever drive two hours for Taco Bell, you’ve never lived in Minot, North Dakota.
In an attempt to get a better assignment, Jim and I put in separate requests for a remote tour in Korea, which were both granted.
**A remote tour is what it sounds like, a 1-2 year assignment in a remote location. And when you’re done, if you’re lucky, you may end up with an assignment to a better location. It’s a gamble that sometimes backfires, but that’s another story.**
The day Jim left for Korea (I was scheduled to leave a month later), we found out I was pregnant. Remote tours didn’t allow for dependents (children/non-military spouses), so my orders were cancelled. I was stuck in my own private hell on earth, alone, and pregnant. NOTE: I tried to find a good aerial shot of the city in the 90s but I could only find images from a historic flood in June of 2011.
Fast forward a few months and Jim is in Korea. We’d decided I would take my 30 days of annual leave (vacation) around my 5th month of pregnancy, and he in turn would take his 30 days of leave around the baby’s due date. I requested my leave well in advance, but I worked for a jackass (that’s putting it nicely) who denied it. I went over his head to his boss and got it approved, which pushed my trip out another month. With my doctor’s approval, at six months pregnant, I hopped a plane, Korea-bound, using military Space-A travel.
**Space A is short for space available and it’s exactly what it sounds like. You travel on military airplanes, for free, if there’s space available.**
I spent two weeks with Jim in Korea, then boarded a plane headed directly back to the United States. While catching up on some sleep, I was awakened by an announcement that we’d be landing soon at Travis Air Force Base in California. I got up to use the bathroom, and as I slid the privacy bolt across the door, my water broke.
I’d read “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” so I was concerned but calm. I knew as long as I wasn’t having contractions (I wasn’t), and there was a good medical facility nearby (there was, David Grant Medical Center), chances were good that things would be ok.
I made my way through the aisle to the nearest flight crew member. Luckily, I was wearing a dark blue outfit, so none of the passengers had a clue that trouble was looming with the pregnant chick. I explained I was 7 months pregnant, my water had broken, and I asked him to tell the pilot to radio ahead for an ambulance. I also explained I wasn’t having contractions, nor was I in any pain, so there was no need to panic.
As soon as he heard “pregnant” and “water broke” his eyes got big and he did a little dance, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I could almost hear the voice in his head saying “we don’t have a checklist for delivering a baby.” He managed to ask me if I needed to lay down, and I put my hand on his forearm and assured him I’d be fine, and that I’d be returning to my seat.
I swear that plane stopped on a dime once we hit the ground, and they strapped me to a green military stretcher and draped a blanket over me. Two people stood at each end of the stretcher and hoisted me into the air. Then came the scary HEAD FIRST descent from the top deck, down a long flight of steep stairs. My safety rested solely in these four gentleman’s hands. They barely made it down five steps when the blanket was whisked away by the wind and onto the flight line. That’s military lingo for runway. All I could think about was that blanket getting sucked into an engine and causing a plane to crash.
I made it safely to the ambulance, which, unlike a “real” ambulance, was nothing but a metal shell. No equipment and no cubbyholes full of supplies. Just me on a cot, on a bare metal floor. There was a female Captain kneeling next to me, and a very young male “one stripe-er” Airman at the wheel. You’d think she was there to comfort me (although I didn’t need it), and that he’d be competent enough to get us to the hospital as quickly and safely as possible. But then that wouldn’t make for a very good story, would it?
The captain was freaking out and, I’ll never forget this, she actually looked at me and asked “how can you be so calm?” I looked up at her said “can you imagine how much more freaked out you’d be if I wasn’t?” Then she started yelling at the airman to hurry up. He in turn starts freaking out too, and we ended up getting LOST ON THE FLIGHT LINE. I promise you, I can’t make this stuff up. Just insert the Benny Hill theme music and imagine watching this ambulance drive all over a LIVE RUNWAY, dipping and dodging aircraft that are taking off and landing. All I could do was take a deep breath, close my eyes, and say a prayer.
By the time I got to the hospital I was having mild contractions, and as my condition was being evaluated, my bag was going around and around on a carousel at the terminal. It was deemed as “suspicious” until one of the crew members thought to tell them that it was probably mine. Thank goodness this was pre-911 or they it probably would’ve destroyed it and asked questions later. The entire crew delivered it to me later, along with a bouquet of flowers. I regret that I don’t remember any of their names.
For three days I laid flat on my back, watching Jerry Springer, while frequently visited by an OB/GYN and six minions in training. He was perplexed, having been presented with a young, very healthy female, with no medical issues with no apparent reason for having gone into labor at 7 months. The most fascinating thing of all was the fact that my son kept trying to stick his left arm out of my hoo ha. And the doctor kept trying to push it back in. And all the while his minions had a front row seat to this weird back and forth battle going on between my legs.
On the third day they induced labor, and because my son kept trying to check the temperature prior to his arrival, they had to give me an episiotomy to avoid breaking his arm trying to pull him out. The doctor used a pair of surgical scissors to cut me with one quick snip. However, no one bothered to numb me beforehand, so I felt every bit of it. I shot up, surprising the doctor, and glared at him as I yelled “I felt that!”
One of the nurses in the overly crowded room full of medical professional said “no, you probably just felt a little pressure is all.” I glared at her, wishing she was within arms reach so I could throat punch her and replied “I know the difference between pressure and pain. I felt that.” It was then the doctor realized, by process of elimination of the supplies on the tray next to him, that indeed no one had bothered to numb me. He quickly rectified the situation but it was too little too late. A little pressure my @ss.
After the entire fiasco was said and done, I delivered a two-pound, two ounce baby boy on April 22, 1994.
I literally lived in the hospital for two months until he was healthy enough to go home, and we left on June 17, 1994. I remember so well because we stopped overnight in Denver and when I checked into my room and turned on the television, LAPD were slow-mo chasing OJ Simpson’s white Bronco with Al Cowlings at the wheel.
I’m so blessed to be able to say that today I have a healthy young adult son who’s taller than and hardly ever gets sick. Not that I’m all that tall, I’m only five foot six inches, but still. And, he’s just as goofy today as he was back then when he kept trying to stick his hand out first to see what this world was all about before making his big debut.
Until the next post,
Angela