The nurse croons encouragement as the anesthesiologist mumbles, “It will sting.” I nod, but my contractions’ sweeping pain overwhelms the prick at my spine. “Let me try again,” he murmurs, then pokes me twice. Thrice. My tears pool in earnest; the nurse soothingly rubs my skin. “Count backwards from twenty,” the anesthesiologist commands as the nurse lies me down, as the drapes are raised, as I no longer feel my toes. “My husband,” I croak. No one hears me over the surgeon’s orders, the beeping monitors, the clanking tools. Again, “My husband . . . .” I need him here to greet our son.
Sarina Caragan is a DEI consultant and freelance writer. An SF Bay Area native, she writes about identity and the intersection of equity and art. www.sarinac.com Instagram: @sarinacaragan