Can you imagine a veterinarian using such “heroic” high tech measures to birth a cat? No, because cats know how to give birth. At least if they’re not laying on their backs in stirrups with strangers milling in and out and idle conversations about football or golf and intercoms bonging and tv commercials prodding and partial paralysis from epidurals and violent contractions from pitocin and the smells of stress and chemicals and plastic wafted in from barely subaudible ventilation factories humming in the sub basement. And the clock clicking its way through the minutes on the wall, with the implied threat of scalpels and additional “heroics” in the event of disrupted schedules. And then there’s the gloved fingers.
It would require a heroic effort to take a crap in such an environment.
The wire-connected corkscrew in the head is a perfect metaphor for the way medically induced imprinted birth trauma puppets the rest of our lives.