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Encounters of the Kid KindLife With A Man |
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Natural . . . Smatural |
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. . . Bring on The Drugs! |
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© 2002 Carole Moore |
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The nurse in the labor and delivery section of the hospital looked like Alfred Hitchcock with lipstick. I'm sure she was an excellent nurse, but she was of the old drop-them-in-the-field, then go back to milking the cows school of childbirth. I, on the other hand, wanted drugs – the more of them, the better. For, you see – I am a coward. |
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Who was that deranged woman screaming for drugs? |
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I hate pain. If I were a captured spy, I'd give away our national secrets the moment the word "bamboo shoots" entered the conversation. Sedation is my friend. Paper
cuts send me flying for the ibuprofen. And I approached childbirth with only one thought in mind: An epidural. Yes, of course, I took Lamaze. Focus on the clock, pant like a dog, suck the lollipop. But when the time
came and I found myself hyperventilating like a mad Pomeranian at only four centimeters. I discovered something no one in any of the childbirth preparation classes told me: It still hurts. So I asked Alfred to find
me some drugs. Something quick and effective. And Alfred smiled and told me my pain was merely trivial at this point. My pain trivial? Perhaps to Alfred – a woman who obviously delivered her children drug-free while
climbing Everest without oxygen. But I am not a long suffering, stoic type. I am a short-suffering screaming, complaining type. I wanted drugs. And I wanted them right that moment. The doctor finally showed up and
told me the anesthesiologist was on vacation and I would have to pant my way through delivery. My husband, who until that time was unaware I had such a colorful vocabulary, urged me to push as though he understood what
it was like to be in my place. I found it interesting that everyone understood where I was coming from, but no one could or would cough up any painkillers. Finally, having no choice but to give birth – drugs or no
drugs – I did it. We have a video tape of my daughter being born. In it her father stands proudly alongside the doctor, ready to cut the cord. A woman who bears a striking resemblance to a certain deceased English
director patrols the delivery room, crisply slapping items in the doctor's waiting hands. And if you listen closely, somewhere in the background is the voice of a deranged woman offering to trade what she knows about
national security for a measly couple of Darvocets. |
