You do not know the true meaning of pain until you find yourself in the middle of a subinternship in the high risk obstetrics ward at a posh private hospital. Imagine your chief resident is a puffy-faced fascist named Satin (he pronounces it sa-TEEN, you prefer to pronounce it satan) who revels in terrorizing medical students. Your patients are upper crust ladies on complete bedrest, seething with hormones, bellies growing with multiple gestations courtesy of in vitro fertilization. They bring their own private masseuse, pedicurist, manicurist, gourmet chef. They hate you. They demand to know why you and the nurses keep barging into their rooms to take vital signs, manage fetal monitoring, check on their preterm contractions [Newsflash: This is a hospital]. You are looking at your watch and counting down the days until graduation.
Someone comes into labor & delivery, insistent on having a Silent Birth. Scientologist? Perhaps, but after 20+ hours of failure to progress, what she ended up with was a Silent Caesarean Section.
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