by Kenzy England

Created on: April 08, 2009

Don't Forget the Gloves, Doc!

It was a beautiful day in May on the Texas Gulf Coast. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, and I was in hard labor with my first child. I swore to God Almighty that it would be my last. How do women do this? More precisely, what woman in her right mind would do this more than once?

I had gone into labor at about 10:30 p.m. My mother and husband loaded me into the car and made a mad dash to the hospital. I wasn't dilated enough to be admitted at that point, so we returned home. None of us got any rest that night as I was forced to labor at home.

Early the next morning, my contractions were coming fast and furious. It was time to go to the hospital. Before being allowed into his new car, my stepfather lined the floorboard with newspapers "because women in labor tend to get sick", he said. My husband, mother, and I loaded up for our harrowing sprint into Houston to the hospital. My husband had been timing my contractions with a wrist watch. The hands, he said, are at mach-1 as they sped around the face of the watch. I wasn't impressed. At that point, the moon could come crashing down and I wouldn't have cared in the least.

We finally arrive at the hospital and the first stop was Triage. You know, they have to make sure you're in labor and won't take your word for it. Give me a break. The doctor arrives to examine me. I'm mortified when he checks my cervix without wearing gloves. I came straight up from a flat position on the gurney, grabbed his hand, and bit him as hard as I could! Holding his hand, he lets out a yelp of pain and left the examination room post haste. A few minutes later, I was transported to the "green room" where I would labor until it was time to be taken to the delivery room. Bitten doctor all but forgotten.

As I lay in my bed, doctors and nurses coming in and out, hooking up this machine and that machine, I was anticipating the arrival of the blessed epidural. They promised it would help the pain (they never did get around to me on time. No epidural for me). As I glanced to my right, I spied the doctor from triage sheepishly checking on me as he hid behind the curtain. As our eyes met and he realized I had seen him, he quickly replaced the curtain and left. After the birth of my son, I had time to reflect on the happenings surrounding this event, and I thought about the doctor. Sure, I sort of felt bad for biting him, but not that bad.

I laugh about it now, and often wonder if he remembers the patient who bit him.

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