I had a rather erotic dream about Dr. R. the other night. It wasn't sordid. He was very sweet and gentle. (I was pregnant in the dream, and he caressed my belly.) I don't feel an erotic attraction at all for Dr. R. in waking life, although I do love him -- in the same way I'd love the pilot who rescued me from my desert island (were I shipwrecked, with only my favorite book [War and Peace] and piece of music [hard to choose one, but at this moment I'd say John Coltrane's "My Favorite Things"] for company).
In other words, he's my savior, or at least my baby's savior.
Still, when I entered the clinic this morning and he called out "Good morning!" to me as he walked down the hall, I stammered out "Hello!", blushed, and looked down at the floor. Still later he inserted his fingers into my person to examine my cervix. It's just too weird, the intimate-yet-not relationship I have with him. How could anything be more personal than the kind of medical care I require? Unless it's the fact that he'll probably be delivering our baby girl when the time comes.
Although, if it's anything like the Henry delivery, I will be so exhausted by the end that the entire U of MN football team (Go, Gophers!) could be between my legs, cheering me on, and I wouldn't feel the smallest slice of embarrassment.
It did feel like that, during the last hour of the delivery nearly five years ago. There was a team of nurses and a perinatologist helping to get Henry -- stubborn thing! -- birthed. They piled on top of me, so it seemed, one nurse shouting, "C'mon! Get angry! GET ANGRY!!" to encourage better pushing.
Surreal, to say the least.
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