Monday reality check: he might need the epidural

March 15, 2010

Somewhere along the line my husband–the guy who has broken numerous bones doing stunts on various types of high-speed vehicles and spends half the year doing some form of hunting, which naturally involves some exposure to blood and guts–developed a totally inexplicable fear of human blood and anything bodily-fluid related.

I should be a supportive wife and avoid medical shows for the sake of sparing him from hyperventilating, but it’s just so funny to change the channel to Grey’s Anatomy, just as a patient is being wheeled in for surgery. He will seriously SPRINT out of the room at the mere sound of heart monitors beeping on tv and start screaming, “MY ARMS FEEL LIKE JELL-O! MY LEGS ARE NUMB. I AM DEFINITELY GOING TO PASS OUT!!!!”

It’s hilarious.

So we explained this little aversion to my doctor at our first baby appointment. Well actually, I should say my husband pretty much ignored the fact that I am the pregnant one, and began questioning the doctor “who will be my labor coach? will I be offered pain medication? will I be able to have my own bed next to her? will someone be there to help her in case I pass out?”

Good ole Dr. G just giggled and said “ohhhh boy, by the time we get to game time, I’m going to have you cutting the cord!” RH immediately started sweating and asked if it was suddenly a little hot in the exam room.

I always thought he was slightly exaggerating also, and figured like Dr. G that once he’s in the moment, with his own wife and baby, all the fluid-y, yuck stuff won’t be so life-threatening for him.

But last night I came to grips with the fact that any day now I’ll be in the delivery room birthing my child while in all likelihood simultaneously tending to my husband as he comes in and out of consciousness.

Ever since they diagnosed me with gestational diabetes, I have to test my blood a couple times a day. They gave me this handy finger-pricker contraption and all it takes is a couple seconds and a quick prick in the finger you can’t even feel, and a little monitor tells you what your blood-sugar number is.

So last night I dared RH to let me test him. He only asked me a million times if it hurt, and when he had finally convinced himself to try it, he only stuck his finger out just to pull it back in about 20 times. Finally he got the nerve to hold his finger out so I–VERY SLOWLY–approached his finger with the little pricker-device thingy.

He started breathing harder and yelled “I DON’T THINK I CAN HANDLE IT!” just in time to flail his entire upper-body on top of the kitchen counter as his legs all but gave out underneath him.

Then–after the shock and terror of OMGSH SHE ALMOST TOOK A TEENY DROP OF BLOOD FROM MY FINGER” wore off, he announced, still half-laying face down on the counter,

“I am GETTING the epidural.”


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