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For me I was always more worried about my wife than anything else. The doctors sat her on the table, and the previously friendly anesthesiologist began to have a bit of a tiff with the surgeon in charge about where the site the spinal. Glances across the room to the wonderful midwife and theater staff revealed more than a little panic on their faces, I can only imagine how mine looked. I held a sick bowl for Kat and tried to calm her as best I could. Despite repeated attempts to tell them she could still feel they pressed on and cut into her, causing her much pain. Later, by her bed side while she slept off an interminable amount of morphine, the anesthesiologist would put it to me in a round about sort of a way that he thought that she was making up the pain. When they decided to put her under I was rushed out of the room quickly without a chance to tell her how much I love her, and then left into a hallway holding a sick bowl with no idea what I should be doing, if anything. A brief, ugly skirmish with the non-english speaking gentleman that shoved me out of the theater ensued when all I asked was where to put the sick bowl, and where I had to wait. The exchange left me in tears lying on the floor of the recovery bay, still holding the bowl, which he had deposited my glasses into. This is a man that works in surgery. I was terrified.