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I had made it through 39 weeks of pregnancy. My water broke and I was in labor. My contractions were painful and consistent. I was ready for pain relief.
Once you are admitted to the hospital, you begin to see pain charts in each room. The chart reads, “What is your pain level?” Ten is the highest and there are small cartoon faces that go with each number. As the numbers increase, the cartoons show increased discomfort and at ten, the cartoon has tears.
“What is your pain level?” my nurse asked me. “It’s ten!” I manage to say as I breathe through another squeezing contraction. “Let’s see how you are progressing,” says the nurse. As she checks me, her smile starts to fade. “You are only dilated to a two. What’s your pain level??” “It’s ten!” I tell her again, feeling a bit annoyed. Selfishly, I am pretty sure that I am in more pain than most women despite how dilated I am. With every contraction, I wonder how women do this all the time and why would they possibly do it more than once. My nurse begins to explain to me how I need to dilate a little more before getting the epidural.
I will admit it. I am weak when it comes to pain. Or at least I WAS, prior to giving birth to my three sons. Giving birth turned me into a stronger person. Now, when faced with a difficult or painful situation, I remind myself that I have gone through labor THREE times. I have pushed a little person out of my body through an opening that doesn’t seem to be possible, THREE TIMES. I am strong and I can work hard. No doubt about it.
Because of my fear of pain, I had a strong interest in the pain relief options that were available during childbirth. After doing some research, I believed that an epidural was the right option for me. My husband was not so sure. He was very concerned about the possible risks and thought that it would be a good idea to take an epidural class so we could be better educated on it. I was happy to take any class that would make him feel better about it because I was determined to get one.
So the time finally comes when the anesthesiologist is called and I just have to wait for my turn. By then, I was having such painful contractions that I actually felt like my body was twisting and squeezing itself inside out. I would cry out loud and didn’t care how many nurses were around.
Finally, the anesthesiologist arrives. “Hello,” he says. “I am…” That is when I stop listening. Please. Just give me the shot. Please. So to get in position, I sit on the side of the bed. My husband sits on a chair in front of me and I wrap my arms around his neck. The area on my back is cleaned with something cold and wet. I know that I need to stay very still but I am nervous that I may have a contraction as he is placing the needle in the correct spot. I am reassured that if I have a contraction, we will wait until it is over. As I look at my husband and the color begins to drain from his face, I realize that the needle is ready.
“Take a deep breath and blow it out. You will feel some pressure,” he tries to prepare me as the needle starts to go in. OH MY! OH MY! PRESSURE?!? NO! It feels like someone is sticking a huge needle in my back!! I remember squeezing my eyes closed and clenching my teeth. My hands were squeezing someone’s hands. I am not sure if it was a nurse or my husband but I held on tightly and pictured the skin turning white from my strength.
Soon after it began, it was over and I was getting helped back into bed. Then the magic moment happened and the anesthesiologist turned on the drip. “It will feel a little cold down your back.” It did. It felt like jumping into a Wisconsin lake in the summertime. It was a wave of cold straight down my back and before I knew it I was comfortable.
I smiled. The intense pain was going away and I could sleep. I needed rest before I had to push that baby out. I smiled at the anesthesiologist. Thank you! Thank you for coming into my room today. Thank you for studying medicine. Thank you for being born.
I was ready to enjoy my labor.
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