All in family
I wasn’t the birth warrior type, I knew I wanted drugs. I didn't have a plan, but based on what my medical team prepared me for, I expected to labour at home, have what my midwife referred to as a “tylenol-wine bath”, which to a nine-month sober person with a penchant for drinking, sounded really fucking good. I'd wait until my contractions were consistent and strong, and then I'd call my midwife, who would come to me.
Here's a blurb that didn't make "the cut" for my book. I think I tossed it because I thought it felt redundant; that I have perhaps made enough references to my broken vagina, my baby's facial injuries, the act of birthing him. But then it occurred to me that I might just feel that way because I still think about it so much.
The cold really shrinks my fingers. I'd deduced it fell off into a snowbank, after I tore my house apart once I realized it wasn't on my finger. Part of me expected to find it when I moved six months later. I'd had some drinks the night I lost it, and, not being a stranger to losing things and terrified of having to relive the pain of losing it again in the morning, I scrawled myself a note on the chalkboard in the kitchen thinking I could ease into it.
