The theme for today's class seemed to be pain. Pain and I don't really get along, but seeing as we'll be sharing close quarters in a few short weeks, I'm okay with getting reacquainted over ice cream (or fruit snacks from the snack table, as was the case for this class).
The problem is that we're taking a class taught by a woman (and her sidekick) who seems to embrace pain and wish it upon us--but only in the nicest way. I don't think we're the only ones in the class who are a bit disconcerted by this, but we wouldn't know, as we're only allowed to admit our fear if we're writing it in colorful marker on a large piece of kindergartenesque white paper.
We were happy to find that the white paper was nowhere to be seen this class, but that meant there was no way to let my instructor(s) or fellow students know that I'd rather give Matt's ex-spider a big kiss than go through labor. I felt emotionally gagged.
Our instructor, by the way, said she'd rather go through labor than have food poisoning. Really? I didn't know whether to be encouraged by this or take away a few credibility points from everything she tells us from now on.
This week, we held ice cubes to mimic the pain of labor. If labor is anything like holding an ice cube (and I've been assured it's not), I will do surprisingly well. If labor is worse than holding an ice cube, I may need the #$*@&.
No, I didn't just swear at you. The thing is, when you're taking a childbirth class taught by a lamaze-trained instructor/doula (we unwittingly got ourselves into this situation, although we really have enjoyed most of the class), there's only one topic that's off-limits. It's what everyone's been telling me to get to relieve pain. No, not candles and deep-breathing techniques. It starts with an E. Got it?
The #$*@& is inserted into your spine when you (or your husband) just can't take it anymore. People ask me if I want to get the #$*@&. No, after seeing the video (and even before that), I absolutely don't. Nor do I want to face labor pain. Nor do I want to eat any more salad, ever. There are women out there who are either ultra-tough or have ultra-easy labors, or a combination, and don't opt for an epidural. I know I'm not the first, and I think the second is akin to winning the lottery, so I imagine I'll be offering anyone who could push a rusted needle into my spine my firstborn if they'll just make the pain stop. Although I suppose that would defeat the purpose.
But our class instructor doesn't know this. In fact, much of the class was spent watching the instructor and instructor sidekick dance around the #$*@& issue every time it came up, yet pretend to be accepting of it at the same time. In fact the instructor compared the #$*@& and other interventions to weeds--if they're planted in the right place, they can be beautiful flowers. Yet still weeds.
One girl was brave enough to say that she was planning to get the #$*@&, and did manage to get a certain amount of approval from the instructor sidekick only because she's having twins. The rest of us have no excuse.
We were reminded of all the evils that result from the #$*@&: being confined to bed, constant fetal monitoring (Matt and I are still trying to figure out how that's evil), reduced ability to labor and push effectively, a damaged reputation in the lamaze community. I realize they're simply trying to open our minds to this new idea of not getting an #$*@&, but knowing most of us probably will, can they please tell us how to make the best of it? Remind us to bring magazines or something for our long hours of lounging?
We were read an inspirational quote this class, but not given one. I don't remember what the quote was, but it worried me. Something about how the pain can't overcome you because the pain is you. Would that make you feel better?
Despite the #$*@& issue, we thought last night's class was informative and helpful. Next week is the last one, but, as a bonus blog, you'll be hearing about our hospital tour the following week.
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