I had a c-section. I didn’t really have a lot of processing to do afterwards. There was nothing traumatic about the experience for me. Nonetheless, the post See Birth at mamalooma has a lot of raw, real parts that I can identify with. (Emphasis original.)
I had Expectations. I had envisioned this amazing, empowering she-woman lioness roaring in the forest moment. Instead it was really scary, abruptly surgical, and cold. It’s hard to feel like an amazonian lionness giving birth with one’s arms strapped down.
See, when you give birth by cesarean (or c-birth, as many advocates of birth empowerment-by-any-means-necessary like to call it), you enter a new society. You are pushed through a door you only caught a glimpse of in all your childbirth prep classes, reading, preparation, hopes, dreams, etc. You’re suddenly in this room with a bunch of other women with puffy, numb curved lines drawn beneath the top of their underwear.
This is what rakes at my insides. I know the way I felt, the way I judged, the way that I looked for the secret loophole in the story – the fuck-up, the “mistake that was made.” I would scan the story, listen to the story. Look for that loophole, gleaming white and silver.
There, my mind would exhale, relieved. There. Pitocin. Okay, no pitocin.
But you know what? Sometimes it’s not about the loophole. Because you know what? THERE IS NO LOOPHOLE. There are only parts of a story, that grow and glimmer, that melt into themselves and unravel and join again.
Like when those sweet cells first meet and then divide, and then reunite. The cells themselves are not the story, not the loophole. They are the first part of the story. And those cells, taken as themselves, are incomplete.