Childbirth: Let's *Not* Talk About It!
I don't know why it is, but there are certain things in life that begin psychologically, but end with devastatingly physical results. For instance, when someone rakes his fingernails across a blackboard. As a result, why do we cringe and experience chills?Or, as we have often seen in movies, whereby, someone speaks about the symptoms of some debilitating physical condition while we watch another person nearby, who is listening to the description, start to react to each symptom in tandem.
But, there is one discussion that, not only drives me to my knees, but has the potential of forcing me to, preferably, lie facedown in the middle of a freeway and allow an 18-wheeler to flatten me more than an IHOP pancake. And, that is the discussion of childbirth.
Now, as I have watched four of the five births of my daughters by force (my wife's), with two being Caesarians, I have the utmost respect for women delivering babies. In fact, I have come to the conclusion that, after witnessing such, every woman should be issued a small automatic firearm (and loaded, mind you) upon her arrival at the hospital. Because, if this setting is not the perfect proving ground for justifiable homicide, I sincerely do not know what is.
I remember the good ol' days, when men were either not allowed in the delivery room, or it was an accepted fact that they would remain outside of it. Why couldn't I have had the good fortune to be born in the 19th century, when the first birthing experience for the father, were the initial wails of the newborn?
But, somewhere along the line, someone got the smart idea (probably, a pregnant feminist) that men should be present with the wife during delivery. Hence, when it was almost time for my first child's delivery, I found myself caught up (unwillingly) in the era whereby men go with their wives, lest an ensuing divorce awaits them upon completion of delivery.
In fact, if memory serves, I was threatened with just such an alternative should I have failed to show up for psychological support. Support? What about *my* support in having to watch? Oh, well...
Let me state for the record that I, occasionally, pride myself on being a "man's man," with having served as an army sergeant, prison official and police officer. However, I am now wondering if all of these positions were 'positions of facade', as I have always been extremely queasy and weak of knee at the slightest hint of flowing blood.
Oh, heck, while I'm being 'Honest John', I might as well also admit that the blood doesn't even have to flow in order for me to become sick to my stomach.
But, I believe that what I cannot stand, more than anything, is when my wife gets together with her girlfriends and begins discussing hardcore medical procedures. This usually occurs when I am enjoying one of my favorite television programs (definitely *not* ER).
For some reason, when she and her friends are well into the discussion of being prodded and poked with sharp shiny metal objects that are cleaner than the silverware at five star hotels, I start to instantly experience violent physical reactions, just as I mentioned with the fingernail-raking blackboard.
I actually get weak in the knees, and there are also accompanying stomach pains and cold sweats beyond belief or relief. And, as I can bear it no longer, and begin to beg them for mercy in changing the subject, this only seems to inspire and urge them on with the discussion even more so, as they turn with glazed eyes and daunting smiles to relish the sight of a two hundred pound man reduced to a seven-pound baby. After all, what are friends for, right?
I, for one, am glad that the childbirthing days and their anticipated association are well behind me. Fortunately, I did not need to witness the birth of "Kitty-Boy," our Tabby.
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