|Third trimester (8 months)|
Thirty-five years ago today, the day of the week was Sunday. Husband and I had gone to eat Mexican food the evening before after which we walked the mall to expedite the delivery of our first-born child whose proposed due date was November 7, 2012. I am not sure if it was the Mexican cuisine or the walking that caused the "bloody show." After informing my doctor of this symptom, he instructed me to go to the hospital where I had already been preadmitted. His plan was to induce labor, which was not really necessary but the bloody show was a reason that he could attempt to control the date of delivery.
By 9 p.m., November 5, 1977, my husband and I were in the labor and delivery unit of the hospital with my mother and sister waiting nervously outside. Owing to her nervous stomach, I would later learn that my sister actually became ill during the waiting period. Poor thing.
|My mother and sister in waiting room|
Things went smoothly that Saturday evening. After the IV of Pitocin was started, I began experiencing mild labor pains, Braxton-Hicks type, a little more painful than menstrual cramps. Nonchalantly, I asked the first set of nurses who attended me, "Is this all there is to it?" I didn't read the meaning of their silence and glances at one another and then back at me. I continued to assume that I was experiencing true labor pains and that my planned natural birth delivery would be a breeze.
Shortly before their shift ended, the nurses wished me good luck and introduced me to the women who would take over in their absence. Finally, reality set in along with true labor pains. I had never experienced such severe pain in my life! It was as though my insides were being torn into microscopic pieces to inflict extreme, unrelenting torture. I wanted to die, but first, as I informed my husband, "Let's-go-home! I-don't-want-to-do-this!" His reply was, "Debbie, we can't go home. You can do this. You have to."
Everything from that point until 3:58 a.m., Sunday, November 6, 1977, when I gave birth to my beautiful, 8-pound 9-ounce daughter is a blur. I was glad it was over and after seeing my little angel, I knew I would do it all over again if she would be the reward.
|Six weeks postpartum|
|At age 4|
Happy birthday to my first born angel, Angela, who will always be my baby girl.
This one final (fuzzy) picture adds a doll relevance to this post:
|Daughter, age 8 with Berjusa doll, two Cabbage Patch dolls (holding), and a handmade CPK look alike.|
|My first born with her first born (this photo, taken in 2015, was added in 2016, four years after this post was originally published).|
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