I don't do pain well. At all. When labor pains strike, sweet little Laura transforms into a screaming, reptilian-like Hydrosaur (I've been watching Diego dinosaur adventures with Em lately), sitting on the toilet screaming curse words at anyone close enough to hear them (Yes - curse words). My poor husband, after being sent to find out what the H-E-double hockey sticks had happened to the anesthesiologist for the second time, wandered the halls supposedly in search of said anesthesiologist but really just fearing my wrath upon returning without her. He stopped at the nurses' desk, chatted up the orderlies, and pretty much avoided me until he saw my nurse walking to our room. He then discreetly followed her so that I would continue to think he was my knight in shining armor who worked so diligently to bring me relief from this hellacious and excruciating pain. It's a good thing I didn't know the truth at the time - I might have ripped his head off.
My husband's take on things:
"You know, it's called self preservation. I could have gone down to the nurses' station and told them what they already knew: 'Hey, my wife really needs that anesthetic now.' To which they would have replied, 'Thank you for telling us...again, we're working on it. Why don't you just go back to your wife, Mr. Prascher?' 'Well, I can't really do that because she's sprouted six tentacles and I'm afraid she might pull me into her beak and eat me if I go back. And by the way, it's Dr. Prascher."
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