Labor nurse adds unnecessary pain at the wrong time

No matter how hard I scratched, my ankles would not stop itching. My nails scraped my skin, but I couldn’t stop. I knew I needed to call my midwife. I had experienced this when I was pregnant with my first son. This was cholestasis of pregnancy.

During both of my pregnancies, my liver was not releasing bile properly. It usually happens during the third trimester, and I was in my 39th week. Intense itchiness is one of its symptoms. Stillbirth is another. It usually occurs in 1 percent of women of Northern European descent.

I met the midwife at the hospital. She confirmed what I already knew and that I would need to have a labor induction. I could meet my second son in hours. A few hours turned into 36 — one and a half days of labor.

On the second day, I met the nurse who would help me bring my baby into the world. Her name was “Becky.” She was upbeat, giggly and pleasant. I liked her.

She told me she lived in a suburban, wealthy town, which was next door to New Haven.

Becky told me about her kids and her husband. She was trying to build a rapport with me, which I didn’t mind, since she would be in charge of managing all of my bodily functions and fluids for at least the next eight to 12 hours of her shift. I appreciated her.

Becky wanted me to know that she liked blacked people and that they liked her back.

“My friends — they’re sistas. They tell me I’ve got a badunkadunk,” she said.

Becky was telling me that the black women she knew said she had a big butt.

My eyes widened and locked with another family member’s eyes that displayed surprise, but also pity for Becky’s ignorant comment.

The room was quiet. No one said anything ... except Becky. She repeated herself.

“The sistas say I have a badunkadunk,” she said as she wiggled a bit as if she wanted me to examine it and confirm what the other black women she’d come across had told her. She had probably done this same skit for them, too.

I didn’t appreciate Becky anymore.

It was totally unprofessional for Becky to talk to me about her butt. It was irresponsible for her to assume that I would want to talk to her about her body, especially while I was in that hospital trying to figure out what was going on with mine. Becky’s asking me to observe and comment on parts of her body was actually sexual harassment.

Furthermore, a white woman talking about her butt to a black woman is a horrible way to try to connect with her. Too often, black women are criticized by white women for their figures, but then they imitate us. My curves were inappropriate for a “proper” ballerina, yet I’m inundated with constant images of Kim Kardashian, who I’ve mistaken for a black woman in her photos an embarrassing number of times.

I would have been more willing to continue conversing with Becky about black culture if she wanted to talk about a book, a movie, a television show, music, sports ... almost anything other than a perpetuated stereotype.

In hindsight (I did that on purpose), I should have reported Becky to a hospital administrator, but I was in labor. I didn’t have the energy to file a hospital complaint while my abdomen was trying to turn itself inside out.

I could have reported it after I delivered my son, but I wanted to stay consumed with him. I didn’t want to think about Becky or her butt.

I could have done some things differently, but she could have also used better judgment.

At a time so scary, sensitive and sacred, a white person was inappropriately reminding me of my race.

Too often, black women are criticized by white women for their figures, but then they imitate us.