Birth Experiences, by Ricky

        I don’t remember being born, but I
imagine it was not a pleasant experience being squeezed through a small opening
like toothpaste from a tube and suddenly finding oneself in a cold unfriendly
environment without mom’s heartbeat to supply normalcy.  I’ve since learned that it wasn’t an
enjoyable experience for my mother either.
        I do remember
that the births of my four children filled me with happiness.  Considering what my wife went through and
what she put me through during “transition”, it jolly well better had made me
happy.
        There were some
rather humorous events during the birth of our first daughter in 1977.  At about 5AM, I was awakened by a swift poke
in the ribs and a voice that said, “My water broke.  Go get a towel.”  I sleepily replied, “What?” after which the
first message was repeated.  I then
staggered to the bathroom to get a towel, but first answered the call of nature
for about 1-minute.  Meanwhile, Deborah
was repeatedly yelling at me to hurry up. 
Well, this is only funny in hindsight but the excitement of the
impending birth quelled her anger.
        By 10PM she
still had not dilated sufficiently for birthing nor had she eaten anything
since dinner the day before.  Deborah was
famished so I went to a McDonald’s and brought her back a Big Mac and a vanilla
shake, which she wolfed down reasonably slow considering.  At the midnight nursing shift change, an
unsympathetic nurse took over and decided to “move things along” by trying to get
Deborah to push, attempting to use the baby’s head to stretch the cervix.  At one point, Deborah was told to tuck her
chin down and push hard.  Deb tried once
but told the nurse that it made her gag. 
The nurse told her it was nonsense and to tuck her chin and push.
        The nurse was
standing where the doctor would stand during delivery so she could monitor the
cervix stretching.  Deb did as she was
told and again told the nurse it was making her gag.  The nurse again insisted that Deborah to tuck
her chin down and push hard.  At this
point, the nurse learned an important and disgusting lesson as Deborah threw up
her recently ingested Big Mac and vanilla shake.  It was a perfectly cylindrical projectile
that arched over her chest and stomach and hit the nurse squarely in the chest.  I was mortified on behalf of the nurse and
did not laugh until the nurse had angrily stomped out of the room.  After all, she had been warned, apparently she
was a “know-it-all” type.
        With some more
suffering on Deborah’s part, but no more drama, our first daughter was born
26–hours after Deb’s water broke.  The
smile and happiness on her face when she was able to hold our baby made it all
worthwhile for the both of us.
        Each of the
following children took less and less time to deliver.  The only other unforgettable event was during
the birth of our third baby, our son.  He
was two weeks overdue and large.  It was
decided that Deborah would be “induced” using Pitocin.  The day for birthing arrived.  We had never needed Pitocin before and did
not know exactly what to expect.  We
waited and waited and waited for the Pitocin drip to take effect.  After about two hours, nothing had begun and
it was explained that the Pitocin did not work because Deborah’s body was not
ready to give birth.  So, the doctor
decided to wait another week.
The next delivery day also arrived
and all went well with the preparation until the nurse administered the
Pitocin. Again we waited and waited and waited but nothing was happening.  After about an hour, another nurse arrived
and discovered that the first nurse had missed the vein and the Pitocin was not
getting into Deb’s blood stream.
        So, while the
nurses were now preparing everything to insert the drip needle properly, I went
to another wing of the hospital for a brief visit with a family friend who was
in the hospital due to heart issues. 
After about 20-30 minutes, I returned to Deborah only to find out that
she was in transition, yelling at me for not being there (I was her Lamaze
labor coach) and was about to be wheeled into the delivery room.  Apparently, Pitocin works very fast and I
barely had time to change into the delivery room green scrubs.  I arrived just ahead of the doctor.
        One week later, Deb
and I were driving two cars to Florida from Montana, as I had just been
discharged from the Air Force.  That was
the trip that was hell for Deborah.  But
that is another story probably best not remembered or told—the modern version of the pioneers
crossing the prairie in covered wagons or on foot.
© 27 January 2014 
About the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

Birth Experiences by Will Stanton

Unlike much of the rest of the world, I have no first-hand experience with this topic “Birth Experiences.” I never was married, and I never sired children, not even as a randy sailor sowing his oats in various foreign ports. I never watched a human birth, and I certainly never was a pediatric physician. So again, it looks like I’m limited to writing something just for fun, which I enjoyed doing.

Let’s assume that some people can actually remember being born. That’s a bit of a stretch, no pun intended. That was for me in 1945, a date now seeming to be in antiquity. Well, that doesn’t make much of a story. So, let’s assume that people claiming to remember previous lives is factual and legitimate. I never have put much stock in that; however, to my surprise, there are some reputable people who claim to have become converted believers.

I was reminded of the topic of reincarnation by today’s TV news interview with psychiatrist Dr. James Tucker. He states in his book “Return to Life: Extraordinary Cases of Children Who Remember Past Lives” that he has researched many convincing cases. He described one of his cases about a very young boy who kept dreaming of the exact details of being shot down in his fighter-plane and also mentioning the name of his close friend and wing-man. Dr. Tucker thoroughly researched all the details related by the boy and found that they were factual. Apparently, Dr. Tucker’s many remarkable cases have converted him to being a believer to the extent that he had the courage to announce it and to write about it.

All this reminded me of a book that I had read several years ago by the head of the psychiatric unit in a Florida hospital, Dr. Brian Weiss, who, later in his career, employed for the first time therapeutic hypnotic age-regression for one patient. He was astounded that she claimed to recall, not one, but several lives spanning over many centuries and reported them in great detail. No, she did not claim to have been the Queen of Sheba, but, rather, she recounted lives of hardship and, sometimes, of illness and death.

At the time that I was reading this book, I mentioned that fact to my friend, a psychologist, who surprised me by stating that he coincidentally was reading a similar book, “Suggestive Reincarnation,” by psychiatrist Dr. Ian Stevenson of the University of Virginia, who had been engaged in careful, scientifically conservative research ever since the 1950s.

All of this is very interesting; however, my being a “Doubting Thomas” by nature, I can not become particularly excited by it. I can, however, feel mildly curious and interested in the topic considering the fact that such reputable medical scientists have expressed such surprising findings.

So for fun, what birth years and lives can I claim to remember? How about 344 B.C.E., 1705, 1845, 1904, 1934, 1943, and 1945? There seem to be several gaps there, especially in the early years. What’s wrong with my memory? Why can’t I remember? Regardless, apparently I’m not sufficiently motivated to run right out and engage in hypnotic age-regression. My current life is more than enough to try to contend with.
© January, 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.