I’m draped over the top half of an L-shaped hospital bed, kneeling spread-eagle and hugging the pillow for dear life. Every time a contraction ends, I’m so exhausted I could fall asleep. The wave begins again, and I scream to my midwife, “Here comes another one!” She presses my back, tells me to breathe, and counts down until it’s over. My husband, Zach, stands beside me and tries to hold my hand for support. The bed feels sturdier than he, and the pain is so unbearable that all I can do is grunt my way through the torment while smacking Zach repeatedly in the shoulder. I can’t tell if it helps relieve my agony, but something about inflicting damage to the man standing helplessly next to me while I attempt to squeeze a human life out of my vagina is comforting. Another contraction, and the baby is still inside of me. “What the fuck is taking him so long?” I can’t stop swearing and whining. This is not how I envisioned the bad-ass, warrior-woman, refusing-all-pain-meds birth I chose.
What do You think about Maternity Leave (9781466871533)?
