Thursday, September 22, 2011

A Cry for Pity...and Morphine

Someone kill me. Quickly and with something sharp. Do that whole SAS thing where you shove my nose into my brain with the heel of your hand. Or better yet, since I'm not actually suicidal, just give me drugs. Oxycodone, morphine, Vicodin, an epidural, anything. We're past the kiddie phase here, people: no wimpy aspirin or paracetamol or Tylenol...even my beloved Excedrin wouldn't cut it (if I was even allowed to take it when I'm pregnant, which I'm not), because this, people is serious pain. Aside from being in labour, which I can't imagine being too much fun either, this is probably some of the most annoying pain I've ever experienced. I've never broken my arm or leg or finger or anything and only ever sustained mild to moderate bruises, burns, scrapes, and cuts. Unless you count that time that I nearly took a chunk out of my thumb when cutting potatoes, but that didn't hurt so much as make me light-headed from rapid blood loss.

My hips are being torn apart. Wrenched from their sockets as part of a medieval torture. Someone has taken a sledgehammer and rammed it repeatedly against my pelvic bones. I'll never walk again. Hobbling, I can do. Maybe be a genius in a wheelchair like Steven Hawking or Christopher Reeves, but slightly less impaired and slightly less impressively talented. But only slightly. Or, I can follow the shining example of Hugh Laurie as Dr. Gregory House and let my pain make me a bitter, sarcastic, Vicodin-inhaling ray of sunshine, whose wit is matched only by my youthful good looks.

I submit the following universal truth to you: the only thing that makes pregnancy worth it is the cute baby you get at the end. There is nothing else to recommend this ages old practice. I tell you, God wasn't kidding in the Old Testament when He said, "I shall greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow shalt thou bring forth children...". Just when you think it's not actually that bad, pregnancy comes back to bite you in the ass. It makes you eat your words when you say, "Actually, I feel pretty good!" It will not endure such blasphemy. It's like Machiavelli: it would rather be feared than loved.

Oh, if only the next month would fly by...

No comments:

Post a Comment