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Courtesy of Lateefah Torrence

I really should have listened to Frank.

Countless times during our labor practice, Frank said to me: "Here's a suggested book about back labor. Maybe you should get it." But I wouldn't need that. Our baby had been head down and facing in the right direction for months. Isn't back labor caused by sunny side up babies? I'm thinking no. As we walked to the waiting car service, all of my labor pain pulsed and surged through my lower back.

The view of the Hudson along the West Side Highway soothed me as we sped to the hospital. Thankfully, Dr. Y spotted my chart in triage and sent me directly to a labor-and-delivery room. However, due to HIPAA regulations, I was separated from Frank while a nursing assistant asked me 100,000 admission questions. Didn't we pre-register to avoid this? I constantly repeated to anyone who would listen: "My husband has a copy of my medical records."

Yet the hospital's system required that I give fresh answers to inane questions such as, "Do you remember when you had your last period?" while I was having intense contractions. There were also incredibly vague questions like, "Do you have any medical issues?" Later, a resident came in to ask me the same questions yet again and when I mentioned a tonsillectomy a few years back, the nurse's aide admonished me, "You didn't tell me that!"

Well, you didn't ask about surgeries, lady. "Medical issues" is a really freaking vague topic. Oh, and have I mentioned that I am in extreme pain? After doing a cervical check for dilation, the resident said with a quizzical tone, "Wow, you seem to really be suffering. Do you want something for that?" Yes. I wanted to leap off of the bed and strangle her.

A few times, a higher-level nurse came into the room and asked, "Is she done? Her husband really wants to see her." I felt like a widget. I appreciate that the staff needed me alone so they could ask me several times if I was a victim of domestic violence, but I don't understand how my husband is by default the administrator of my health care directives, yet couldn't be in the room with me while I was quizzed relentlessly about my medical history. Finally, the powers let Frank in and I was shocked by how visibly upset he looked. Separated from my primary labor support and in my haze of pain and annoyance, I had not realized Frank had been trying to get in to see me for an hour while I dealt with my contractions and hospital bureaucracy on my own.

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