by Shannon S. Harwell

Created on: August 29, 2009   Last Updated: August 31, 2009

Far be it from me to tell any other woman how to have her baby, let alone what is right or wrong for her during the process. I have had two children and while both are glorious blessings today, the labor and delivery of each was as different as night and day. I have been on both sides of this spectrum: delivery without the epidural and delivery with the epidural. I can best describe the former as sheer HORROR and the latter as a piece of cake.

Both pregnancies were similar; I was sick much of the time and had premature labor requiring medication, bed rest, and hospital visits to stop them from arriving from about five months gestation forward. However, despite the similar pregnancies, the deliveries were wildly different experiences due to one big factor: the EPIDURAL!

I live in the South where we have sweltering, humid summers. With my first child, I was so sick of being pregnant in August that, around 39 weeks, I tried everything to get that child to move out. I stomped on a walk around the neighborhood, jumped up and down around the house, and even gagged down castor oil to kick my uterus into delivery mode. That night, shortly after 2:00 a.m., I awoke to find my water had broken. Yes! I jumped up, grabbed a quick shower and leg shave, and headed for the hospital. Because it was relatively new in those days, the thought of an epidural really didn't cross my mind. All I knew was that some time later that day, I would be meeting my daughter as angels sang, harps played, and family "ooh-ed" and "ahh-ed."

Once I got to the hospital, my labor stopped, so they gave me Pitocin to stimulate contractions. Soon, we were moving right along...2 centimeters, 4 centimeters, and then stuck for nine hours at 6 centimeters. The contractions were excruciating at that point, so they gave me some Demerol which did nothing but make me vomit. "Where's the doctor?" I asked. Oh, he was out for his Sunday golfing, but no worries. I still had plenty of time before he was needed...or so they thought. My truly wonderful nurse kept checking me, and every time, I was still 6 centimeters. Sure, maybe a 6 on the centimeter scale but a 10+ on the pain scale. Pretty soon, rage set in from the pain. "Give me an epidural. I can't take anymore. I just want an epidural." After a page to my oh-so-attentive doctor, I was informed that, at 6 centimeters, I wasn't ready for an epidural. I exclaimed, "WHAT?! I know women who were 4 centimeters and got theirs. GET THAT MAN ON THE PHONE AND GET ME

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