Chapter 11 The Birth of the Rebel

CHAPTER 11 THE BIRTH OF THE REBEL

In June 1974 we found out Trisha was pregnant and in the November 1974 the Awake! Magazine came out with an article that brought a twinge of guilt on us as we were reminded about the Society’s admonition concerning having children in this system of things.

"Today there is a great crowd of people who are confident that a destruction of even greater magnitude is now imminent. The evidence is that Jesus’ prophecy will shortly have a major fulfillment, upon this entire system of things. This has been a major factor in influencing many couples to decide not to have children at this time. They have chosen to remain childless so that they would be less encumbered to carry out the instructions of Jesus Christ to preach the good news of God’s kingdom earth wide before the end of this system comes. Matt.24:14." (Awake!, Nov. 8, 1974, p. 11)
It was too late to do anything about the predicament we were in. We would just have to trust Jehovah concerning bringing forth a new person into this world, and that day I will never forget. It was a gloomy winter day when she burst into life, and burst I mean. I received a phone call at work; it was Trisha telling me I needed to get home and take her to the hospital.

The hospital was just down the highway three miles, which did not present any problem, but by the time we parked and arrived at the registration desk her contraction became ten minutes apart. The nurses came and took Trisha to the labor room and now the contractions were now five minutes apart as she lay on the birthing bed spitting fire and damnation at me through clinched teeth dourly saying,

"Get your hands off me! See what you did to me! O-o-o-h God," things didn’t get any better, "Don’t you touch me! You, you, you, see what you did to me. I gotta push! I gotta push!" She groaned through gritted teeth and clamped jaws.

I bent over her and tried my coaching technique, "Breathe, Baby, Breathe, like this," I produced a series of short blast of air in a rhythmic manner as taught through our Lamaze class. Evidently, when I said, "You can’t push, Honey," I spoke out of turn.

Trisha questioned my team spirit with a nasty, "W-h-y, not?"
Pleasantries were not the special of the day; and being the fool I am, I simply stated, "The doctor isn’t here and you can’t push." I continued to comfort her. I took her hand.

She twisted away, "Well, she better get here," came her response, followed by, "if that doctor doesn’t get here soon I’m going to tear everything apart," the arrival of the doctor’s entry met the dramatic statement, "I can’t wait!"

"There now," were the doctor’s words of comfort as she adjusted her surgical gloves, "let’s see, what we have here." She stepped to the foot of the bed, "Mrs. Walker, I need you to uncross your legs and I’ll help you place your feet into the stirrups.

Trisha balked at the suggestion, "If I do that, the baby will tear me apart."

"I’m here now. Just follow my instructions and you will have a fine new baby. Now let’s uncross your legs." Trisha’s Mom took a position behind the doctor and gazed under the sheet. The doctor said, "Mr. Walker come here." I pushed Mom out of the way and took her spot, "see your baby’s head. It’s just about out." I stared under the covers and saw a wrinkled slick scalp with a mass of black hair stretching its escape route wider and wider, to a degree I wondered would it ever get back to its original size?

I heard Mom, "I’ve given birth," I turned my head in her direction. She back away and winched, "but I’ve never seen anything like this. Let me out of here. It looks like a dog’s butt," a shutter ran through her body, "come get me when it’s over."

"Okay?" I answered and she stepped out and closed the door.

Trisha did not hear her Mom leave or at least she didn’t acknowledge it, nor ask for her, because at that moment Doctor Walls used the precious word, "Push!" I moved to the head of the bed where I helped Trisha raise to a semi sitting position. Her face turned beet red and a loud grunt and moan came out. I guess it placed too much pressure on the crown of our baby’s head, because Doctor Walls instructed Trisha, "That’s good. Hold on! Stop! Don’t push!"

"Igottapush, Igottapush," Trisha’s statement were words running together, but they stated a fact.

Doctor Walls understood the rambling, "I said, don’t push," she ordered," if you push before I tell you to, you’ll tear wide open. I have to turn the head. You hear me?"

"Please, please, please," Trisha begged, followed with a gasping of air as she followed my example using a series of short exhales, "Who-who-who."

The assisting nurse took my place holding Trisha in her sitting position and told me to watch the birth. I took my previous position behind Doctor Walls and the pressure on the swollen vulva looked unbearable. Doctor Walls began to push her outstretched fingers between the partially exposed head and the vestibule relieving the pressure on the head, "Now gently push," she ordered, another groan came and the little head escaped its confines, revealing a red face, squinty eyes, and a wrinkled nose, but then the exit stopped; with the trapping of the shoulders.

"Don’t push! I need to turn the shoulders," Doctor Walls said, "let me turn the shoulders, "okay, okay," she turned the shoulders vertical, "now push gently, push gently," a moan and grunt came from Trisha’s throat, "that’s it, that’s it, that’s it." Dr. Walls said. Trisha gave one more grunt, and the baby became a slippery projectile. Rachelle shot out from between her mama’s spread legs, and through Doctor Walls’ outstretched fingers; she was a malfunctioning snap from center, and all quarterback Walls could do was knock the projectile down onto the cushioned delivery table. Her eyes were as big as silver dollars. Her laugh held a connotation of nervousness as she said, "I’m glad I didn’t tell you to push hard. I have seen some sights, but I have never seen a baby fly out like this. If I had not been standing here, she would have missed the table."

I received the honor of cutting the umbilical cord while passing on the suggestion by one of the nurses that we take the placenta home and eat it. Watching the passing of the placenta was the worse part of the birthing process, second only to the sutures repairing the urogenital region of the torn perineum.

Doctor Walls made the final loop of the seamstress job, smiled and patted Trisha’s leg and proudly stated, "You will have a little discomfort, but that thing of yours will be as good as new." Those words were good news to me. "Just keep it clean--front to back, you know what I'm talking about." Her instruction came while removing her rubber gloves and pointing toward the cleaning station where they were washing our little bitty Rachelle. "I have to say, she certainly is in a rush to start life. You have a beautiful addition to your family. If there isn’t any problems Ms. Walker, and I don’t foresee any; I’ll see you tomorrow before I release you. Congratulation!

It was 1:30 PM January 23, 1975, I had the third arrow in my quiver, and it was time for me to get serious about the coming fall months of this featured year we were looking forward to since 1966 as God’s chosen people.

The recommendation of the past articles dealing with the time and season and whether children should be born in this system played on some brothers and sisters decisions not to have children. This type of reasoning set off a state of urgency among the Super Fine Apostles and Superfluous Publishers who rhetorically ask, "You are aware, during the fall of Jerusalem in 607 BCE, parents often ate their own children?" Admonition was subtly given in everyday conversation about needing to heed Mother’s counsel, as the Society was referred to, "she won’t lead you wrong."