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LJ Idol Week 31: “The future outwits all our certitudes” (or, "The Mourning After")
Demons live a long time. We have centuries to explore and perfect our appetites, whether for grief, fear, or pain. I have one compatriot who delights solely in the tang of a boy-child's first stubbed toe. My tastes are not so rarified; I can quench them in plenty.
You wouldn't expect to find a demon in a birthing unit, but I never have been. Found, that is. I cultivate the demeanour of a competent midwife, and the practicalities are trivial compared to the reproductive requirements of Hell. I work for my keep, and I'm good at it.
My desire is pain. I can spot my next meal a mile away; they're the ones who come waddling in, armed with birth plans, and empowering mantras they've practised for months. You can practically smell them, though that might be the rescue remedy drops and raspberry leaf tincture.
There was one just a couple of days ago. Heather, her name was, and the hovering, solicitous husband was Ben. I saw them stumble in together just after lunch, pausing to breathe through contractions. The uncertainty on their faces marked them as first-time parents. Perfect.
They were guided to my birthing room, and I hadn't even introduced myself before she brandished a birth plan at me. I skimmed it rapidly; no IVs, check; labour to proceed at its natural pace, check; no pain relief to be offered, check; no extended monitoring, check. This was going to be good.
I went through the usual procedures. Heather was a chatty blonde, made garrulous by nerves, but the regular pattern of silence told me she was having to concentrate through her contractions. Things were moving along nicely, though at the usual sedate pace of first births. A cervical check showed she was at a stretchy three, and I couldn't resist whetting my appetite by performing a little unauthorised stretch-and-sweep. Delectable. Heather squirmed, and I apologised for the discomfort. I needed them to trust me.
Heather listened to her iPod, and leaned on the bed, rocking her hips. Ben swapped anxiously between rubbing her back and offering sips of water. I didn't discourage him; sometimes a full bladder can slow things down.
Five o'clock came, and with it the tired uncertainty of whether she could keep going. I reassured her that I was with them for the long haul. She was working hard, and starting to really hurt. Mmmm.
Seven o'clock, and it was time to begin the preparation. I expressed a little concern about her progress, and offered my professional opinion that it was time to do a little external monitoring. For the baby's sake, of course. Heather and Ben exchanged wide-eyed glances, and she nodded abruptly. With the Doppler pressed against the taut swelling of her abdomen, it was easy enough to subtly wiggle it in order to mimic heart decelerations.
It's a shame Zxxyx wasn't there; he thrived on fear. His work on the Harvard admissions board kept him satiated, though.
I assumed the proper expression of concern, and suggested that maybe it might be time to augment her labour. For the good of the baby, of course.
One IV later, and I'd breached the first condition of her birth plan. Boom. The oxytocin flooded through her body, and the contractions immediately picked up in intensity and length. There went another condition. She was hurting now, flat on her back in bed. My mouth watered.
I bustled about, pretending to make preparations, while Ben cast increasingly worried glances in my direction, flinching at every groan. The next time I came over to check her blood pressure, he muttered, "Can't you do anything for her?"
"Pain relief, you mean?" I said, quietly. He looked at his wife, and nodded. Heather had the distant, internalised expression of someone managing intense pain. She was ripe and ready. I raised my voice ever-so-slightly, to make sure she overheard. "We can place an epidural to stop the pain, but-"
Heather sat upright, as best she could. "I want an epidural, and I want it NOW," she snapped. I nodded and obliged, paging the anaesthetist.
He placed the epidural with his usual skill, accustomed to the fractious nature of labouring women, and their universal insistence that they can't lean forward with the damn belly in the way. Heather slumped against the bed as the cool relief eased down her body. The pain was gone.
My stomach growled, its supply denied.
The rest of the evening proceeded with the usual human messiness. She squeezed out a human spawn, squalling and pink, and I suppressed the familiar nausea at their joy. The pay-off would come, in the morning.
The next day, I made my rounds. A blood pressure here, a "Have you opened your bowels?" there, and off to Heather's room for a well-deserved breakfast.
Heather huddled in her bed, cradling her son in her arms. It wasn't visiting hours yet, and I knew that Ben would be deep in sleep that the new mother had been denied by the incomprehensible demands of her son. She raised her eyes, black-ringed with exhaustion, and reddened with tears, and returned a trembling smile to my greeting.
"How are you today, dear?" I asked.
"I'm okay."
I crouched beside her bed. "How are you, really?"
"I... why couldn't I do it?" Heather sobbed. Human mothers are so temperamental, so predictable.
I laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. "Sometimes we have to do these things for the good of the baby."
She shuddered, christening her baby boy with tears, and aching with the knowledge that her body had let her down. Her pain was delicious, flavoured with exhaustion, self-loathing, and regret, with a side-order of lingering physical discomfort. Just the way I liked it.
You wouldn't expect to find a demon in a birthing unit, but I never have been. Found, that is. I cultivate the demeanour of a competent midwife, and the practicalities are trivial compared to the reproductive requirements of Hell. I work for my keep, and I'm good at it.
My desire is pain. I can spot my next meal a mile away; they're the ones who come waddling in, armed with birth plans, and empowering mantras they've practised for months. You can practically smell them, though that might be the rescue remedy drops and raspberry leaf tincture.
There was one just a couple of days ago. Heather, her name was, and the hovering, solicitous husband was Ben. I saw them stumble in together just after lunch, pausing to breathe through contractions. The uncertainty on their faces marked them as first-time parents. Perfect.
They were guided to my birthing room, and I hadn't even introduced myself before she brandished a birth plan at me. I skimmed it rapidly; no IVs, check; labour to proceed at its natural pace, check; no pain relief to be offered, check; no extended monitoring, check. This was going to be good.
I went through the usual procedures. Heather was a chatty blonde, made garrulous by nerves, but the regular pattern of silence told me she was having to concentrate through her contractions. Things were moving along nicely, though at the usual sedate pace of first births. A cervical check showed she was at a stretchy three, and I couldn't resist whetting my appetite by performing a little unauthorised stretch-and-sweep. Delectable. Heather squirmed, and I apologised for the discomfort. I needed them to trust me.
Heather listened to her iPod, and leaned on the bed, rocking her hips. Ben swapped anxiously between rubbing her back and offering sips of water. I didn't discourage him; sometimes a full bladder can slow things down.
Five o'clock came, and with it the tired uncertainty of whether she could keep going. I reassured her that I was with them for the long haul. She was working hard, and starting to really hurt. Mmmm.
Seven o'clock, and it was time to begin the preparation. I expressed a little concern about her progress, and offered my professional opinion that it was time to do a little external monitoring. For the baby's sake, of course. Heather and Ben exchanged wide-eyed glances, and she nodded abruptly. With the Doppler pressed against the taut swelling of her abdomen, it was easy enough to subtly wiggle it in order to mimic heart decelerations.
It's a shame Zxxyx wasn't there; he thrived on fear. His work on the Harvard admissions board kept him satiated, though.
I assumed the proper expression of concern, and suggested that maybe it might be time to augment her labour. For the good of the baby, of course.
One IV later, and I'd breached the first condition of her birth plan. Boom. The oxytocin flooded through her body, and the contractions immediately picked up in intensity and length. There went another condition. She was hurting now, flat on her back in bed. My mouth watered.
I bustled about, pretending to make preparations, while Ben cast increasingly worried glances in my direction, flinching at every groan. The next time I came over to check her blood pressure, he muttered, "Can't you do anything for her?"
"Pain relief, you mean?" I said, quietly. He looked at his wife, and nodded. Heather had the distant, internalised expression of someone managing intense pain. She was ripe and ready. I raised my voice ever-so-slightly, to make sure she overheard. "We can place an epidural to stop the pain, but-"
Heather sat upright, as best she could. "I want an epidural, and I want it NOW," she snapped. I nodded and obliged, paging the anaesthetist.
He placed the epidural with his usual skill, accustomed to the fractious nature of labouring women, and their universal insistence that they can't lean forward with the damn belly in the way. Heather slumped against the bed as the cool relief eased down her body. The pain was gone.
My stomach growled, its supply denied.
The rest of the evening proceeded with the usual human messiness. She squeezed out a human spawn, squalling and pink, and I suppressed the familiar nausea at their joy. The pay-off would come, in the morning.
The next day, I made my rounds. A blood pressure here, a "Have you opened your bowels?" there, and off to Heather's room for a well-deserved breakfast.
Heather huddled in her bed, cradling her son in her arms. It wasn't visiting hours yet, and I knew that Ben would be deep in sleep that the new mother had been denied by the incomprehensible demands of her son. She raised her eyes, black-ringed with exhaustion, and reddened with tears, and returned a trembling smile to my greeting.
"How are you today, dear?" I asked.
"I'm okay."
I crouched beside her bed. "How are you, really?"
"I... why couldn't I do it?" Heather sobbed. Human mothers are so temperamental, so predictable.
I laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. "Sometimes we have to do these things for the good of the baby."
She shuddered, christening her baby boy with tears, and aching with the knowledge that her body had let her down. Her pain was delicious, flavoured with exhaustion, self-loathing, and regret, with a side-order of lingering physical discomfort. Just the way I liked it.