By Jane McBride Choate
I'm not interested in being Wonder Woman in the delivery room. Give me drugs.
~Madonna
My husband and I prepared for the arrival of our first baby with the attention of a general preparing for an invasion. We did it all: Lamaze classes, nutrition classes, even a pregnancy bra fitting, not an easy task for a girl who had been brought up to be modest at any cost.
I'm not interested in being Wonder Woman in the delivery room. Give me drugs.
~Madonna
My husband and I prepared for the arrival of our first baby with the attention of a general preparing for an invasion. We did it all: Lamaze classes, nutrition classes, even a pregnancy bra fitting, not an easy task for a girl who had been brought up to be modest at any cost.
No amount of preparation, though, could equal the reality of giving birth.
Two hours into labor, I promised to devote myself to good works if I survived.
My husband held up a wedding picture for me to focus on. I ripped it to shreds and snarled, "I want drugs."
"But, honey," my hapless spouse said, "we decided we were going to have a natural birth."
I grabbed him by the neck of his hospital gown. "You have it natural. I want drugs."
With my promise that I'd take a contract out on his life if he ever laid a hand on me (translation: got me pregnant) again ringing in his ears, he meekly asked the nurse for painkillers.
At six hours, I vowed celibacy for the rest of my life as the back pains hit. You know the ones I mean -- the kind that make the Inquisition rack seem like a session with a masseuse.
By the tenth straight hour of agonizing pain, I changed my mind and decided to skip the hit man. I'd do it myself. I fantasized about ways to do in this man I'd promised to love and cherish. First, though, I'd make him suffer.
Twelve hours into labor, I heard my husband excuse himself to go have breakfast.
Seriously? The monster abandons me in my hour of need and goes to have breakfast? Death was too good for him.
In between screaming, I plotted. Suffering took on new meaning.
The doctor had yet to arrive. Alone with the nurse from Hades, I felt an uncontrollable need to push.
"Get this thing out of me!" I yelled.
"Pant, honey," the whey-faced nurse with ferret-like eyes encouraged.
"You pant."
"We don't have to be unpleasant," she chided.
"We don't have to be anything," I snarled through gritted teeth.
She snagged a doctor unfortunate enough to stroll into the room.
"I'm not an obstetrician," he whined. "I'm a proctologist."
With my last ounce of strength, I roused myself and grabbed him by the neck of his green scrubs. "I don't care if you do nose jobs," I said in a voice hoarse from screaming. "I want this thing out of me, and I want it out now."
He stuck his head between my legs and held out his hands just in time to catch a nine-pound squalling scrap of humanity -- a beautiful daughter.
Eventually, I forgave my husband and allowed him to touch me again. The pain of giving birth must have faded for I endured it three more times. Each brought a miracle.
Thank heaven for drugs.
Two hours into labor, I promised to devote myself to good works if I survived.
My husband held up a wedding picture for me to focus on. I ripped it to shreds and snarled, "I want drugs."
"But, honey," my hapless spouse said, "we decided we were going to have a natural birth."
I grabbed him by the neck of his hospital gown. "You have it natural. I want drugs."
With my promise that I'd take a contract out on his life if he ever laid a hand on me (translation: got me pregnant) again ringing in his ears, he meekly asked the nurse for painkillers.
At six hours, I vowed celibacy for the rest of my life as the back pains hit. You know the ones I mean -- the kind that make the Inquisition rack seem like a session with a masseuse.
By the tenth straight hour of agonizing pain, I changed my mind and decided to skip the hit man. I'd do it myself. I fantasized about ways to do in this man I'd promised to love and cherish. First, though, I'd make him suffer.
Twelve hours into labor, I heard my husband excuse himself to go have breakfast.
Seriously? The monster abandons me in my hour of need and goes to have breakfast? Death was too good for him.
In between screaming, I plotted. Suffering took on new meaning.
The doctor had yet to arrive. Alone with the nurse from Hades, I felt an uncontrollable need to push.
"Get this thing out of me!" I yelled.
"Pant, honey," the whey-faced nurse with ferret-like eyes encouraged.
"You pant."
"We don't have to be unpleasant," she chided.
"We don't have to be anything," I snarled through gritted teeth.
She snagged a doctor unfortunate enough to stroll into the room.
"I'm not an obstetrician," he whined. "I'm a proctologist."
With my last ounce of strength, I roused myself and grabbed him by the neck of his green scrubs. "I don't care if you do nose jobs," I said in a voice hoarse from screaming. "I want this thing out of me, and I want it out now."
He stuck his head between my legs and held out his hands just in time to catch a nine-pound squalling scrap of humanity -- a beautiful daughter.
Eventually, I forgave my husband and allowed him to touch me again. The pain of giving birth must have faded for I endured it three more times. Each brought a miracle.
Thank heaven for drugs.
http://www.chickensoup.com
Комментариев нет:
Отправить комментарий