When I got pregnant with my daughter, I was an intensely private person in a lot of ways. The thought of disrobing in a doctor's office on the regular wasn't on my list of Awesome Shit I'd Love To Do. Still, the exams were nothing in comparison to what I knew was coming.
"You're gonna poop, you know." Maybe I just know a lot of weirdos, but this was the gleeful response news of my impending child received. Usually followed by hasty "congratulations" that had about half of the enthusiasm in it. What was once a closely guarded secret of childbirth had become headline news, and like most first time expectant moms, I was not 100% stoked at the idea of shitting myself in front of a roomful of people.
For a few months, the idea of losing any semblance of dignity and control in the delivery room had me dreading the experience. At check-ups, I still cringed when doctors asked me routine questions about my bathroom habits. And then, two months before my due date, I developed a condition straight from the depths of hell: kidney stones.