Fall 1984, California: With my swollen midsection touching the steering wheel, I drive my blue Chevrolet pick-up truck to what will be one of my last appointments before delivering my third baby. The hospitals location merely stands thirty some miles away. Driving via morning hour rush as I contemplate on why or better yet why me? After completing harrowing consent forms at the receptionist desk, a nurse by the name of Ruby, summons me into the cold and drab examining room. Ruby, an engaging older lady, urges me to lie down to affix a monitoring machine on my bulging belly. Within a few minutes the monitor elects to go haywire with indications of my babies heart rate plummeting with each contraction. I see the horror of Rubys panic-stricken face. Hovering over me, she stares at me then glances at the monitor screen. I begin to panic. My body trembles with fear of the unknown. After an extensive few minutes, Ruby darts out of the room enthusiastically. Glimmering out a massive window, I cant help but notice the morning traffic remaining at a tiresome standstill. Palm trees tremble outside maybe attempting to foreworn me about something. As the Santa Ana Winds blow, sounds of shoes pitter-patter in the hallway and staff members skillfully peek towards the door. Doctor Rite and Ruby rush into my room. A scary, scared to death feeling overwhelms me. Somethings gone awry. Silence swarms the examining room. I sense major problems with my baby. What can it be? Seconds later, Doctor Rites interpretation of my exam concludes. With every contraction my midsection experiences, my babys heart rate decreases to a near flat line. The result, observe me for two to three hours or prepare me for a cesarean. Doctor Rite figures my babys under enormous stress and decides to monitor me for a few hours. I am also forbidden to carry another baby after this pregnancy as my glucose levels had shot through the roof this time. It is September 27th, two weeks to the day before my due date. I wonder if my baby will wait his time. Ruby solemnizes me from a close range. Hours linger before the doctor re-examines and grants me permission to leave. Doctor Rite orders this test every forty-eight hours. Thinking of any incorrigible problems my baby may encounter makes me sad. If the doctor did explain my babys situation to me, my recollection using that particular function of my brain remains a mystery. The news of my not-so-normal pregnancy brings me back to reality. This baby must meet our family.

Twelve hours prior to my due date, a group of close friends gathered to play Uno and Mille Bournes at my kitchen table until midnight. After straightening the untidy kitchen, I fall asleep. Usually slow to wake up, the alarms in my mind signal my early arising while my body lies in a puddle of warm water at three fifteen in the morning. Imagining that my two-year old waterbed sprung an immense leak, instead my water sac breaks. Remembering the lengthy labor with Curtis and Dena, a prediction of duplication of history persists. My showering and dressing awakes Gerald. As Gerald showers, I waddle across the street to wake up a friend of mine, Mary Ledoux. Marcia, Marys younger sister, dresses quickly. Yvette sees me as calm and shows disbelief that I am ready for delivery. Yvette intends to baby-sit Curtis and Dena as Mary accompanies Gerald and me to the hospital. Minutes later, the three of us jump into my Chevy and head in the direction of the hospital. The drive to the hospital takes thirty to forty-five minutes from our three-bedroom house on Ferrero Lane. In the midst of labor pains, Gerald and I consider names for our baby. Boys names enter our mind. We decide a boys name of Daniel Andrew. Thinking of the Bible and family members together entices our selected name. An uncle and cousin named Daniel and my dad and brother with the middle name Andrew finalizes our decision. Pain torments me by registering from sharp to sharper, sometimes to the point of helplessness, as our truck swerves into the hospital driveway. Labor pangs increase as Gerald gives the curly, black-haired admitting clerk my name and insurance information. The lady dials the phone and within minutes transportation wheels me down the corridor and up the south elevator to the labor room in a squeaky old wheelchair. Gerald and Mary follow in anticipation. The wheel chair, a recipient for the junkyard, chugs along a lengthy hallway. The chair rattles, squeaks and thumps, squeaks and thumps. A left turn then a right turn until the wheelchair gradually dawdles to a stop while entering double doors with silver plates addressing room numbers and finally into the labor room. Room 12A awaits me. Carefully pulling myself up onto the bed after changing into an infamous drab hospital gown a pain absorbs my attention. Immediately, a nurse by the name of Shelly fastens a monitor to my swollen midsection and sets out to take my vital signs. Shelly hardly speaks although she smiles pleasantly. Chills set into my bones. Shelly notices my body shivering and shaking. She leaves the room for a warm blanket. Pushing the nurses call button in awe, Shelly re-enters the room with my blanket. Whispering to her, I need the doctor. Shelly peeks at me then rapidly views the monitor. By the confusion written on Shellys face, she most definitely thinks Im a little crazy. While having a contraction, the monitor remains idle. Is that possible? Shelly stares at me in disbelief that I am experiencing labor pains let alone ready for delivery. Every contraction, my hands automatically slip down to rub my bulging midsection. Shelly pages Doctor Bob on the overhead speaker as he enters my room. My baby drops into my birthing canal.