No Epidural Without Your Signature
Language: en
My husband, Brandon, was meticulously peeling an apple by my bedside while I drifted in and out of consciousness, my body being torn apart by the rhythmic, agonizing waves of labor. My water had broken an hour ago, and the world was a blur of sterile white lights and the sharp tang of antiseptic. A nurse hurried in during a brief reprieve between contractions, her face tight with urgency. She pressed a stack of consent forms toward Brandon, urging him to sign so they could move me into the delivery suite. Brandon didn't reach for the pen. Instead, he sliced a perfect crescent of apple and…