Diehl I was panting my way through a contraction when my cell phone sang out, “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” The contraction ended, but the cell played on. I turned to my husband. “Answer that, Dudley. I’m a little busy here.” “My name’s not Dudley. It’s Fred.” “Fine. Answer it anyway. Must be the scopolamine making me forget who you are.” The doctor shook his head and made circling motions with his finger. “Hey!” I sat up and pointed at him. “You were the one who gave me the drug.” Fred or Dudley or whatever was the name of the man responsible for putting me in this position, turned his back on me and whispered into the phone. “Give me that.” I reached for the cell. “Later.” What’s-his-name, the man I loved right up until the last contraction, ignored me and continued to talk. I grabbed his arm. “You’re supposed to be working with me, panting along, and cheering me on, not chatting on the phone. Where are my ice chips?” I knew my tone was accusatory, but I was not cheerful about how slowly this delivery was going.
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