In my last blog post I mentioned the fact that nurses and teachers are my heroes, and it’s true. After giving birth three times, my appreciation of nurses has grown exponentially. Having a good nurse makes all the difference in the world when it comes to those times when you really need to rely on someone to help you push through. Most of my maternity nurses were very sweet, but there was one who was tough as nails. At one point I seriously wanted to slap her, but in all honesty she was probably the best nurse I ever had. This was my nurse for my first baby. I think her name was Joan.
When I got to the hospital to deliver my first daughter I was understandably nervous and excited, but I was also a little bit cocky. I had read all the baby books, been to all the lamaze classes and had watched all the way-too-graphic birthing movies. I knew what to expect. I knew and had practiced all the breathing techniques and I definitely knew all my drug options of which I had fully planned to take advantage. However, when the time came during my labor to ask for my epidermal there was a mad rush of other emergencies in the maternity ward. All THREE anesthesiologists were unavailable to give me my meds. How could this be? This was not one of the contingencies I was prepared for. The pain was quickly intensifying and panic set in. All my preparation went right out the window. I stopped my “hee, hee, whhoo, whhoo” and started something more along the lines of “What the ****!”