The only thing I knew I wanted to do when I grew up was become a mom, and I did it. Mine was not the fabled dream pregnancy, if such a thing exists, but I made it through a very difficult one with a mysterious medical ailment dogging me every bloated step of the way. As of October 9, 2007, I have one beautiful, spunky, madly grinning daughter to show for my pain.
As my new-mom belly sagged from a wonderful, poignant emptiness and I gained mastery over early jobs like breast-feeding, changing diapers while sleeping standing up, and generally keeping a little human alive, I assumed that my illness was a thing of the pregnancy past. Call it wishful thinking. Call it denial. Three months after I left the hospital with a little baby girl in tow, my horrible chest pain returned.
In the days following delivery I developed a 102-degree fever, and the doctors determined that there was a small amount of 
“Wayne” is the kindly young doctor from the South who calmly ushered me through this stressful pregnancy and who goes by his first name with most nurses and residents. He struts into my hospital room with his friendly, competent game face on. I am thrilled! He tells me that he has switched shifts with another doctor to be here for my delivery. I tell him he can have my first-born.
I was five centimeters dilated when I got the 
1. No matter how much you want to have a child or how much fantasizing you do about what it will feel like to be pregnant, this is one of those times in your life when you have no control over the kind of experience you will have. 
The 
