What – No Mint On The Pillow?
Wednesday night, Brad and I took a tour of the Labor & Delivery floor of the hospital where I will be traumatizing my brewster begging for narcotics trying not to poop during labor having our baby.
A really terrible date movie.
The group of midwives that we’ve been seeing conducted the tour, and they started out the evening with an informal Q&A session down in the waiting room. At first, it looked like we’d be the only couple there, but soon we were joined by:
- A very timid and frail-looking couple, the female half of which was due any day and randomly chose to overshare that she “bled and tore a lot” with her first baby.
- A completely joyless and miserable-looking young couple, newly pregnant with their first, who both looked like they were five minutes away from paper-cutting their wrists open with the Highlights magazines. Seriously, I never saw either of them smile once, not even when one of the midwives uttered the phrase “The perineum that ate Cleveland.” YOU’RE HAVING A BABY, LUCKY ASSHOLES – CHEER THE FUCK UP.
- A couple of insanely young-looking, 7-foot-tall Stretch Armstrongs, who I figured were also pregnant with Baby #1 until the wife said they were expecting BABY #5 in two months. Friends, she looked about as pregnant as my left pinky. Clearly she was put on this earth to be a procreatin’ machine, as was further evidenced by her cheerful announcement that she was planning “another” natural childbirth this time around.
So after the Q&A (during which I really couldn’t think of anything to ask that I haven’t already extensively and neurotically researched on the internet), the Timid & Frails, Joyless & Miserables, Stretch Armstrongs and us started the tour. We were taken through Triage, the Jacuzzi Room (which was disappointingly void of champagne and hot nude ladies), and finally the birthing suites. I kind of knew what to expect out of the birthing suites, since my sister had been in a similar set-up when she had her baby in November, but still: the birthing suites?
OK, maybe not THAT sweet, but let’s just say things have come a long way since my grandmother’s time, when she was forced to have my father in the hallway of the hospital due to the lack of available rooms – to which I say: FUCK A BUNCH OF THAT.
Anyway, I kind of half-expected to get a little freaked out by the tour, which was just another reminder of how real and imminent this whole baby thing is, but the opposite happened. I was ready to check myself in that very instant, hop into that comfy-looking Craftmatic-Adjustable-Vagina-Tearing bed, fire up some HBO on the TV and get this show on the damn road.
I may have been forgetting the tiny detail of BEING IN EXCRUCIATING PAIN, but don’t harsh my buzz, yo.
I’m pretty sure my excitement was coming from my unnatural love of staying in hotels, and since this is a love that Brad shares, he totally understood my giddiness over the individual private bathrooms and nearby refreshment stations (almost like a free continental breakfast!).
Of course, there is a small (or medium-ish) (OK, large) part of my brain that cautions me not to be too excited about the nice hospital set-up: I mean, being excited over something in this whole precarious pregnancy process is a surefire way to make the shit hit the fan, right? But I can’t help it. I’ve worried over every other last fucking detail the past 6+ months, can’t I at least look forward to someone providing me with bedside cherry Jell-o service?
And I might never leave if they provided these.
Entry filed under: Gobble-gobble.