At the Primate Center, I worked on the
fourth floor. Another secretary was hired for the third floor and her name was
Paula as well. They referred to her as Little Paula and I was Big Paula…she was
shorter than me.
Little Paula got pregnant about a
month before I did. There was a huge difference between how the two of us
prepared for childbirth. The majority of the other women at the primate Center
were older and had already had children. Once we informed them of our
pregnancies, coffee breaks and lunch topics became all about childbirth.
Every single one of those older women
had tales to tell about themselves, relatives, acquaintances, whoever that had
horrible experiences in childbirth.
“Oh, I remember cousin Emma. She was
in labor for three days.”
“I remember my mother when she had my
little brother. She labored for days without any medication.”
"Poor Sue. Her baby was so big. She was so torn up and could hardly sit or walk for weeks."
They just went on and on and on and
on. When this would begin, I’d make an excuse and get up and leave. I think I eventually
stopped going to coffee. I didn’t need to hear their horror stories. When I had
my child, I’d have my own story and it would not be a horrible one. I was going
to think positive. I knew by doing that, I’d be just fine. For all of my life,
I have never ever shared a childbirth horror story (and I do have one) with a
pregnant woman. They don’t need to hear that shit.
Anyway, both Little Paula and I
breezed through our pregnancies. I believe she left a couple of weeks before I
did because she was due way before me. So, imagine my surprise when they put me
into the labor room and finished asking me questions to hear this little voice
say, “Paula is that you?” Little Paula and Big Paula were sharing a labor room.
You could have knocked me over with
the proverbial feather. Surely, she’d already had her baby. When we got a
chance to talk, I found out that she’d been in and out of the hospital for the
last couple of weeks, maybe more. She was so tired and angry that her baby had yet to
appear. She’d come in, be in labor, it would hurt, they’d give her medication,
the labor would stop and they’d send her home.
That day, it was pretty much the same
thing. Whenever it began to hurt, they’d give her medication and the contractions
would slow. AJ was born at 2:43 pm, plus there were five other babies born before AJ. In fact, her intern showed up in my delivery room while I was
holding AJ and waiting to be taken out. He rather snottily thanked me for
having my baby. When I was taken out of the labor room, Little Paula lost it
completely…like it was my fault.
I didn’t have any medication until
they got me in the delivery room. There they rolled me onto my side and put a
needle in my back. I could have shot them for that. It was on the orders so I
had to have it. At that point, I had two pushing contractions to go. I could
have done without, especially since I wasn’t allowed to sit up for six hours
after. Can you picture me lying flat in bed, starving, and being given food? I
somehow managed to shove it into my mouth without making too big a mess; and
boy, it was the best chicken and rice I’ve ever had. When I had my second child,
I made it crystal clear…unless I request it, no medication.
Later that evening, Little Paula and I
went to the nursery to look at our babies. She told me then, “This was the
absolute worst experience of my life. I’m never ever doing it again.” I don’t
know if she ever did.
So, I guess the significance of this
story is to encourage people to keep horror stories to themselves unless writing
a fictional horror story. Or, if someone absolutely has to share their, or that
of someone they know, experience with you that’s absolutely beastly, walk away.
