(Author’s note: Above is a rainbow over the Dole Plantation outside Wahiawa, HI. And don’t be alarmed. This series of events occurred in 1983. I am in Athens, TN, because I am, and hope to be at the farm later).

Despite the overwhelming evidence, I still wasn’t convinced this was the real thing. She was in a great deal of discomfort as we rolled across the industrial area of Pearl City and up the hill to the pineapple fields around Wahiawa.

I suppose the cool beers and the hot afternoon sun had contributed to the general air of unreality. Mom-in-law was riding in the back seat, and she likewise was showing evidence of some minor distress. “Bit of a fever, stomachache,” she said. She was holding on gamely, though, as the Socotras advanced toward the denouement of the nine-month building program.

I was a lovely afternoon. The sun cast a rosy glow over the Waianae Mountains to the west, and the low rays were golden on the flight line at Wheeler Air Force Base as we went by.

Eventually we popped off the expressway and arrived at the outskirts of Wahiawa Town. It is country Hawaiian to the max: a strange mixture of Army garrison and pineapple processing center. A collision of at least four distinct ethnic groups and host of supporting characters, some looking like Hmong people, the latest group off the boat.

The hospital itself was a splendid little facility that had grown from auxiliary Army clinic to a modern independent hospital since the war. The place is filled with little brass plaques indicating whose benevolence was responsible for this couch, employee lounge or drinking fountain. This was a total change from the grim military efficiency at the Tripler Army Medical Center.

Up at the Pink Palace, which is what we called the place, OB/GYN matters were treated just like any other major combat trauma. But of course, military medicine is to medicine as military music is to music. At Wahiawa, the staff smiles at you. Very unnerving.

I wheeled the Spirit briskly around the circular drive and up to the entrance. We extricated the mother-to-be from the passenger’s seat and trouped up to the Admitting Desk. A smiling nurse sat her in a wheelchair and rolled her away as I returned to park the chariot in the lot. By the time I was done with that and walked up to the third floor, she was down the corridor being examined by a plump and efficient scrub nurse.

“If they decide to keep her,” announced Mother-in-law, “I think I will go down to the Emergency Room and see what they say about my tummy ache.”

I agreed that was a fine idea and lit up a couple cigarettes and looked at the sailboats painted on the wall at the end of the corridor. I was all set for an extended stay. I had plenty of smokes, radio with earphones and a thick book. I was looking at the checklist to see what we might have forgotten. My wife had packed granola bars, just in case the hospital ran out of food. The only thing missing was cold champagne.

I was considering how far away the nearest package store was when the nurse came through the swinging doors and made an announcement:

“Mr. Socotra? Your wife is having good strong contractions every three minutes. She is dilated between two and three centimeters. You got her here just at the right time, and I think we are going to keep her.”

The reality of the situation suddenly began to penetrate, This was early labor, some indeterminate state between being without children and having them. I thought back over the Lamaze training sessions and the Cary Grant movies, Storks began to do loops between the frontal lobes of my brain. This is it, the moment of truth! All the apprehension and prospect of unpleasant possibility ran over me like a Grand Trunk Western Railroad express train.

“I guess I better go downstairs and do some paper work,” I said uncertainly.

“That would be fine. We’ll start getting your wife prepped.” The nurse then disappeared down the corridor.

Her Mom and I walked back to the elevator “I imagine you’ll have time to get to the emergency room,” I said. She seemed to be as excited as I was at the prospect of having three generations of family all in the hospital simultaneously and bustled off in the direction of the ER.

Thanks to excellent preparatory work by my wife, the paperwork all the details on the paperwork were already filled in, and all that was required was a signature to make things legal and official. I returned to the third floor with the suitcase that had been pre-staged in the trunk for this very moment.

I burned about five cigarettes before the nurse announced they had finished the shave and the enema, and I was free to don my surgical gown and join the Lady of the Hour down in the labor room. I have never felt do goofy and soft about anything in my life. I pulled the collar of my Ralph Lauren polo shirt up over the top fo the gown and looked around.

My wife was a bit pale but very excited, “Here we are,” she said. “Looks like baby Socotra is going to come after all.”

“Holy sox!” I said intelligently.

My wife furrowed her brow. “I think another one is coming. Ouch!”

Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303