A sharp and unbearable pain suddenly pierced my side.
"OUCH!" I yelled.
It was early in June, starting to feel like summer.
Like any other teenager, I was hanging out at the playground, leaning against a fence.
"What’s wrong," asked my friend, Julie.
"I don’t know," I said, innocently.
I was seventeen years old and nine months pregnant.
I had heard rumors of how painful child birth would be.
But really, I didn’t know what to expect.
Every few minutes, I’d clench my teeth until the pain settled down.
Julie and I walked a quarter of a mile to a hospital.
At the emergency room, a doctor immediately brought me into an exam room.
"Get undressed and put on this gown," he said.
He told me to lie back on the examination table.
I did.
He told me to spread my legs wide.
I did.
He inserted two of his fingers into my vagina.
"Your cervix is dilating," he said. "We will need to break your water."
The midwife used a small hook to pierce what the doctor called an "amniotic sack."
Quickly, I was moved to the delivery unit.
I was like a child, confused and overwhelmed by the many pieces of a puzzle.
I didn't know which pieces to join next.
As if helping that child, the doctor said, "Talia, now push."
I pushed.
Sweat dripped from my forehead.
I screamed.
"Push," the doctored encouraged me.
"I can’t!" I cried.
I was exhausted.
"Push," he said.
I pushed again.
Then she screeched.
I lifted my head to see her.
She was tiny, five pounds and five ounces.
I rested my head on the pillow, completely numb, and fell asleep. Like an exhausted child waiting to be tucked-in.
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