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They Call Me Doctor, Doctor Love

Hats off to all you gals who bypass the epidural, but that ain't for me.

Yesterday we left off as Serge and I drove the hospital, with him congratulating himself on his super sperm.

So we were advised to check into the hospital at eight in the morning. By nine I was all hooked up to monitors and the Pitocin drip was started.

I told my nurse I wanted to see how long I could go without an Epidural, you know, for kicks and whatnot. She kind of smiled to herself and reminded me that I needed to hold extra still for the anesthesiologist so I probably didn’t want to wait until the pain got too bad.

I had a mental image of myself in so much pain I was writhing in agony and the anesthesiologist declaring me unfit for an Epidural.

I thought about that for a few minutes and two Epidural-less contractions later, in which I was only dilated to a three, I rang the buzzer and requested the Epidural. I had no interest in flirting with that kind of pain any longer. In fact, I’d rather pluck out every pubic hair on my body with shoddy tweezers than experience that kind of pain ever again.  But hey!  If natural childbirth is your bag, go on with your bad self.  It just ain’t mine.

The Epidural had been administered,  I was feeling good in an I-Just-Had-A-Few-Hits-Of-Weed kind of way – well, that’s what my friends who smoke pot say, anyway – but I couldn’t keep the damn monitors they use to keep track of the baby’s heartbeat attached to my belly.

So Dr. Love takes matters into his own incompetent hands:

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