This story appears in our Spring Art + Performance 2025 Issue, published on March 5, 2025.

Dear Hendrix, 

I thought you died before you were born. If that sounds scary, it’s because it was! But let me start from the beginning. 

Pregnant—so very pregnant—I fell asleep on the couch while watching TV at the very un-punk-rock time of  9 p.m. Around midnight, I was suddenly awoken by a blast of pain in my belly. It was Tuesday, February 27, which was a week before your due date. But all of a sudden, I was experiencing a pain like I'd never felt before. I thought I could maybe sleep through it, that it would eventually—ARGGH—calm down after a while and slowly—OUCH—fade out. After about two hours, I finally accepted that these pains were actually contractions, and I needed to start timing them. 

At that point, they were about 10 minutes apart—too far apart to go to the hospital. But gradually, they became seven minutes and then five minutes apart. Still, too early, I told myself. Right?! I remember staring out at the moon from our living room window and listening to U2’s “Drowning Man,” trying not to spiral out of my mind since I was scared shitless of actually giving birth. OOH NOO, there it was again! Now contractions were four minutes apart! A very acceptable amount of time to head to the hospital, actually! Still, I told myself to wait—I simply wasn’t ready for what was to come. 

As time passed, I tried the many suggested positions that would supposedly offer some relief to my aching body: squatting on my knees, bent over and reaching towards my toes, you name it. But nothing was settling the pain. Then the contractions were three minutes apart and then two minutes apart. That’s when it hit me. “Wait, I should probably wake up my husband!" I went into the dark bedroom and shook him. He awoke, startled. “Uh, I think it’s time," I said. "These contractions aren’t going away, and I’m... a couple minutes apart… oops.” 

We tried calling a nurse because I had a fear of being sent home if I arrived at the hospital too early (in hindsight, that was a silly thought because I was about to give birth), but no one answered the phone, so we decided to call your uncle Cedric. As your dad dialed the phone, I used the restroom, and that’s when I saw it… a sea of red in the toilet bowl. 

I screamed. "Oh no! No! No! Jake, there’s blood in the toilet! I think the baby is dead!” I cried like I’ve never cried before, wailing to the point of almost hyperventilation. Your dad, the calm voice of reason I need in such moments, put my face in his hands and said, “Eva, breathe. The baby is not dead, everything is fine. This is normal, everything is going to be fine. I love you, and you’re doing great.” (Your dad would talk me off a similar ledge after you were born when I almost had a postpartum breakdown thinking I had accidentally starved you. But that’s for a later time.) 

The next calls we made were to your grandmother, your godmother Julia Massey (winner of the Kindest Person of the Century Award), and our doula Molly Sides. (Yes, she’s also the frontwoman of Thunderpussy... how rock 'n' roll is that?) My loves Julia and Molly have been on this motherhood journey with me from when you were just a tiny bundle of cells, Henny. They're family.

Your uncle quickly got to the apartment, and we hurried as fast as we could at 4 a.m. to arrive at the hospital, where they welcomed us to triage and checked how dilated I was. Now, at this point, I was in uncharted territory. This was the beginning of an experience I wasn’t sure how to handle. So, I dealt with it with humor… a lot of humor. When the nurse came in and had to put her finger in my (let’s use my favorite guitar pedal and euphemism for vagina) wah-wah, everything was so sensitive and painful that I squirmed away. This happened for far too long until another doctor came in and just fucking went for it. I squealed and yelled, “AHH WOW! Good for you, Doc!” She was a no-bullshitter, and I personally appreciated it. It turned out I was six centimeters dilated (at 10 centimeters, you’re ready to push!).

When I say I needed humor to get through this, I’m not kidding. At one point, there were several white people helping me in the triage room (including your dad and godmother), making me comfortable, massaging my feet. I looked around and belted out, “Wow, thanks, everyone! This almost makes up for slavery! But not quite.” The room filled with a bit of awkward laughter—just how I like it. By that time, Molly and your grandmother had shown up, and I officially had everyone I needed for our big day! Your birthday.

Don’t let my tattoos fool you, Henny. I have a pretty strong fear of needles, and unfortunately for me, I needed antibiotics during labor, which meant an IV. Apparently, my veins are too fucking small to see because it took five different tries and three people to get the damn thing in. It was awful, and that wasn’t even the worst part. The contractions got stronger and stronger to the point they were unbearable. I tried to go as long as I could to avoid the Ultimate Needle, the Needle of Dread, the Stuff Nightmares Are Made Of… the Epidural. “Ahhh! This shit is killing me! Doc," I said, "I think I need the epidural now… AHHH!” Then suddenly, POP! “Uh, I think my water just broke, Doc.” 

At this point, I burst into tears, not necessarily from the pain, but because I knew what was coming—that fucking needle! If you’ve never seen an epidural needle, then Google it. The thing is approximately a mile long. In fact, I had rules for the birth, which included not seeing it, and the doctors and nurses weren’t allowed to even say the fucking word "needle." (Both Julia and Molly made sure those rules were known.) I screamed and cried and screamed and cried. I was told they would put a cooling something-or-other on my skin, and that would numb the area a bit, but Henny, I felt that fucking thing not only pierce through my back but through my spine and out my fucking guts, it was so long. I was speechless, I could only scream. From that moment on, I knew you were going to be an only child.

As we awaited your arrival, we sat in the hospital room listening to Kraftwerk. Incredibly, your workaholic father went out into the lobby and conducted an interview with former basketball players for an article, which was something he'd been looking forward to for weeks, and of course, it landed on your very first birthday. But I chatted about any and everything with my awesome nurse and the gals in the room. My nurse mentioned that there was another nurse who found out I was here and was a big fan of my radio show on KEXP. She said she was too nervous to come in and say hello. I immediately said, “Oh my god, tell her to come in here! Are you kidding, that's awesome!” 

Eventually, after another dilation check, it was time to finally push. So how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? The world may never know. However, I do know how many people it takes to help me deliver a baby. The answer: Seven, including my nurse and doctor. Two people on each side, each holding a limb and squeezing me like a strawberry Gusher; one person staring at my wah-wah on the lookout for your head; one person to count slowly to 10 in between pushes; and a doctor to deliver you. 

It took two hours to get you out—my goodness! The length of my radio show, Early, actually. The doctor pulled you out in that final minute after that final push, and I felt like a giant cork was just yanked out of me as my stomach sunk in, and a gulp of air followed. You arrived at 4:04 p.m., some 12 hours after we arrived at the hospital, to the soundtrack of Kraftwerk. You didn’t cry at first because there was a little bit of fluid in your lungs (which the doctors squared away not long after). I could only have you on my chest for a quick sec. "Hey, you little weirdo!” I said. Yeah, sorry about that—it’s just what came out of me! I was in love then, just as I am now. 

That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Would I do it all over again to have you in my arms? Absolutely! Quicker than a bumblebee heartbeat. Including that damn epidural. Because now that I have you, I can’t imagine my life without you. That’s life, Hendrix. Some really beautiful things can come from some really scary beginnings—like blood in a toilet. And a few days later, when we drove you home, guess what song was on the radio when we got into your uncle's car. "Dear Mama." You can't make this shit up! 

Eva Walker is a writer, a KEXP DJ, one-half of the rock duo the Black Tones, and mom to her baby girl, Hendrix. She also co-wrote the book The Sound of Seattle: 101 Songs That Shaped a City, which was released in 2024. Every month for The Stranger she writes a letter to Hendrix to share wisdom learned from her experiences—and her mistakes.