Night fell, and the various segments of my extended family withdrew into their own lives once more, leaving me with the shattering remains of my own. We retired for the night, all too glad to surrender our pain and troubles to that cure-all called sleep. Or so we thought.

Not yet 2a.m., I found myself holding on for dear life as wave after wave of unbearable physical pain plowed through my back, my belly, my legs, ripping me apart, disemboweling me wholesale. Rocky soon realized that D-day had arrived--and within minutes had me safely delivered to the local hospital. Doctor after doctor was followed by a phalanx of nurses, each asking the same question over and over again:"So, Mommy, are we going to bottle feed or breast feed the baby?" My charts quite clearly showed a month's worth of tests that indicated that our baby would in all likelihood be stillborn, yet these nurses were too busy to take a minute and acquaint themselves with my file. At first, I responded as politely as I could--but I soon descended to swearing at these thoughtless ignoramuses. Poor women, I gave them blue hell for heaping those piles of coal on my head.

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