You stand there, a picture of righteous indignation, and protest that I am "ruining your life".
Allow me to retort.
You went home to your nine-months-plus-pregnant wife at five o'clock this morning, after pub-crawling all night.
Thirty minutes after getting to bed, your offspring decided -- as is Mama Nature's prerogative -- to begin the whole "Hello, World!" thing; necessitating your wife (being the pregnant one, and all that) waking you up with the Time Honoured News that it was time to go to the hospital.
According to statements from residents of the four adjoining apartments, your response was to bellow -- and do let me quote -- "You [deleted][deleted], how could you [deleted] do this to me?!"
Seeing as how your wife was going into labour, you pretty much had to know this was coming for a least a month or two.
Anyhoo, again according to witnesses, you followed up this wonderful display by flinging the car keys out of the window of your second-floor apartment into the parking lot, where they went Goddess-only-knows-where.
While your wife tried to find the keys to your family's only means of transportation to the hospital (have I touched upon the whole going-into-labour bit?) you went to the bathroom, where you consumed the contents of a bottle of Tylenol PM; a bottle of melatonin; a bottle of prenatal vitamins and six Sudafed -- and this is the truly heroic bit -- washing them all down with half of a bottle of Listerine.
Dude ... Listerine?
Apparently being somewhat of an over-achiever, you then proceeded to pound upon several doors in the apartment complex, demanding that the inhabitants there-of -- and, please, allow me to paraphrase -- "Shoot you and put you out of your misery".
Unfortunately, no one stepped up to do society a favour, and you wound up -- unventilated, damn it -- back at your apartment, beating your head on the door and wailing at the top of your lungs to an uncaring Fate, until your complex manager -- for the sake of peace and quiet -- informed you that your father-in-law had taken his Baby Girl to the hospital.
By-the-by, your wife's loving father has tried to post your bail. Four times. Apropos of nothing, if I were you, I'd meditate on the fact that the weather in Outer Mongolia is absolutely splendid this time of year.
I'm just saying, is all.
Somehow you managed to find the car keys that you had previously chucked into the parking lot, and proceeded to drive your hung-over, buzzing, yet fresh-breathed self to the hospital to demand the whereabouts of your wife.
I'm sure that you are correct and that your in-laws did arrange for your wife's admission to be kept confidential, however, the proper way to deal with this is not to sit down on the floor in front of the Admissions Desk and continually bellow your spouse's name.
I'm guessing that you have figured out all on your ownsome that flinging yourself onto your side when Hospital Security arrives and kicking your legs in a circle, while shrieking at the top of your lungs is also not a wise response.
I'd dearly like tell you that the sentence in the Security Incident Form that reads, "... forcing us to deploy PepperFoam and our flashlights to gain compliance ..." doesn't make me giggle like a school-girl -- but I'd be lying.
So. Here you are, sniveling that if we don't let you go attend the birth of your child, we're going to Ruin Your Life.
Old cock, I think you've already got that part sewn up quite nicely.
You'll be out of here in four hours -- if you're sober. Shut your mush and go to sleep.