Why I Was Too Chicken to Have a Medicated Birth

Reader Contribution by Lisa Marie Morgan
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The first birth I witnessed was rather intense, especially for a 7th grader. I was 13 years old and wanted desperately to be present for the birth of my first niece. My sister-n-law and my brother agreed to my pleas to be there. Melanie, my sister-n-law, was to be induced. On the appointed day, we all packed our bags and in the evening, headed to the hospital.

We hung out a while waiting for doctors and nurses to start Melanie’s labor – boredom set in while we were waiting and I started to play with all the buttons on the bed. I leaned the head portion all the way down and discovered it wouldn’t come back up. I had broken the hospital bed moments before Melanie was to be induced; they had to find her another bed. Who brought this pesky, freckled, red-haired, 7th grader anyway?

Once Melanie’s Pitocin was started, the boredom was chased away as she became quite vocal about the fact

that my brother, Rob, has done this to her. He had single-handedly flew a stork in from Spain and placed a baby in Melanie’s belly and was now forcing the baby out. In the middle of Melanie’s anguish, a needle made an appearance…the biggest needle I had ever seen. And they took the needle and slid into the spine of my sister-in-law’s back. HOLY CRAP! Did I just see that? My skiddish 7th grade mind prayed I would not relive that visual ever again.

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