But days in, hour after hour of amped up gutteral teeth nashing agony threw away any chance I had of my making that level of brutality a feminine trophy to report for later motherhood stories.
No, the pain won, as pain can sometimes do.
The affirmations I made to impress myself and other women at my baby shower, my vow to avoid the “hard meds,” were easy to say while I was in the middle of gurgling over lacy baby socks and discussing the mechanics of anal thermometers.
But once slumped over in the hospital for two days, my vow became laughable as my body felt as if it were being pulled apart by slow inches.
Courtesy of experimental dilation meds gone wrong, I moved past low primal grunts, past ripping my fetal monitor off, the one constant pipeline feeding my mind the safety of my baby, into chanting one thought and one thought only:
“Give me all you got or I’ll kill you.”