Last night at the hospital’s Childbirth Education class, I exercised a level of restraint that was typical of a lady as reserved, demure, and close-mouthed as you all know I am.
The nurse was explaining the difference between the epidural space in your spine and the spinal space in your spine, and what will happen when each of those therapies- HOLY SHIT THAT’S MY SPINE! I NEED MY SPINE!- is applied to the patient. The nurse calmly explained that the - WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT THE ONLY WAY THE GUY KNOWS HE HASN’T SHISH-KEBABed MY ENTIRE CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM IS HIS FISHING FOR AN AIR POCKET IN MY SPINE! - epidural will numb women from the waist down and the spinal will numb women from the nipples down.
Thought: What happens to women like, uh, me, for whom waist-level and nipple-level are ultimately the SAME THING?
But here’s where you should be proud of me. I didn’t say that out loud. Nor did I scream aloud my horrors of the epidural procedure, even when the nurse brought out samples of the epidural needles and tubes and stuff. The “needle” looks like fishing wire, which isn’t that bad, I guess, but the doohickey they use to GET the needle into your - CHRIST ON A CRUTCH! SPINAL COLUMN!- is about the size of a Jack in the Box Straw. That sucker seemed like the diameter of my pinkie. It could unclog shower drains, I think.
I could feel the blood draining from my face as the nurse described the need to poke about the spinal column to find the HAIL MARY FULL OF GRACE right spot to keep the needle and the electric jolt women are likely to feel as the doctor brushes past the PRAY FOR US SINNERS nerves to settle into the proper space. She added that holding still is essential, even though we're contracting, so that the doctor doesn't stick the needle into spinal fluid, resulting in a debilitating spinal headache that will last a few days to a NOW AND AT THE HOUR OF OUR DEATH few weeks.
So after the epidural demonstration, Dimitri noticed the OH FUCK A DUCK WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO? haggard and pale expression on my face, rubbed my arm, and said “What’s the matter, honey?” He received Wife Glare #452: The “You Just Asked The Goddamned Stupidest Question on the Planet” glare.
Poor Dimitri. He tried to calm me down through the rest of the class by trying to be funny while we practiced the breathing techniques. He re-enacted Bill Cosby’s “Push ‘em out, shove ‘em out, wayyyy out!” chant. He received Wife Glare #37: The “You’re Not Helping Matters – Shut Up While You Still Don’t Have a Salad Fork in Your Neck” Glare.
He’s trying. He really is. I love him dearly, but when I go into labor, I think someone’s going to need to come to the house and hide the salad forks.