That I am pregnant again is an act of either incredible optimism or mind-blowing amnesia. As the sonogram technician squirts jelly over my abdomen for my 20-week checkup, I think it's the latter. Watching this baby, who the tech tells me is a boy, I am not caught up in visions of his future; I'm caught up in visions of mine. All of a sudden, I know with a certainty I haven't allowed myself to confront before: Somehow, I am going to have to deliver this baby.

Obviously, you say. But my first birth was traumatic, and although my son and I emerged fine, I lost a year seeking treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder and all the depression, fear and anger it brings. I imitated mothers who seemed normal to me, cooing and tickling my son. In truth, I was a zombie, obsessing about how I had ever let what happened happen.

What happened is this: In my 39th week, I am induced because of high blood pressure. At the hospital, I am given Pitocin, a synthetic form of the labor-inducing hormone oxytocin, and Cervidil, a vaginal insert used to dilate the cervix. Within two hours, my contractions are one minute apart. I had lasted as long as I could without an epidural because I had read that they sometimes slow dilation. That's the last thing I need: I'm at a pathetic 2 centimeters. My doctor comes up with a solution for the pain: a syringe full of a narcotic called Stadol.

"I have a history of anxiety," I tell the nurse who has brought in the syringe, as I always warn any medical professional who wants to give me drugs. "Is this drug OK for me?"

"It sure is," she says.

It is not. Within 10 seconds, I begin hallucinating. For five hours, I hallucinate that I'm on a swing that's soaring too high, that houses are flying at my face. My husband has fallen asleep on the cot next to me, and I'm convinced that if awakened, he will turn into a monster—literally. I'm aware this notion is irrational, that these images are hallucinations. But they are terrifying. I buzz the nurse. "Sometimes that happens," she says and Purells her hands before leaving the room.

By noon the next day, 24 hours after I had arrived, I am only 3 centimeters dilated. The new nurse, a nice lady, tells me the induction isn't working. "Your blood pressure isn't even high anymore," she says. "Tell the doctor you want to go home."

When my OB comes in, I say, "I'd like to stop this induction, if that's possible. I'm worn out. I hallucinated all night. I'll go on bed rest, if you want. I just don't think this is working out."

"OK," he says. "Let me examine you. If you're still not dilating, we'll talk about going home."

My previous dilation exams had been quick and painless, if not entirely pleasant. This one takes a long time. Suddenly, it hurts. "What are you doing?" I scream. "Why does it hurt?"

No answer.

"He's not examining me," I scream at my husband. "He's doing something!" My husband grips my hand, frozen, unsure.

I scream to the nurse, the nice one who had suggested I go home. "What is he doing?" She doesn't answer me, either. I writhe under the doctor's grasp. The pain is excruciating.

The first sound I hear is the doctor's directive to the nurse, in a low voice: "Get me the hook."

I know the hook is for breaking my water, to speed my delivery by force. I scream, "Get off of me!" He looks up at me, as if annoyed that the specimen is talking. I imagine him thinking of the cadavers he worked on in medical school, how they didn't scream, how they let him do whatever he wanted.