The Cesarian Story

I have a birth story and it goes like this:

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful 30 year old woman who pushed and pushed. She had been trying to conceive a child for many years. She and her husband had finally achieved their goal, at least in part with the help of some friendly and spiritual folks in the Caribbean. She pushed for over 30 hours to no avail, and the baby’s heartbeat was slowing down. She was wheeled into an operating theater, as a crew of student nurses and doctors looked benevolently down upon the scene from above. You see she was a nurse then and wanted to give students the chance to witness these magical things. And then finally and swiftly, the doctor pulled out a healthy redhead girl to the great applause of the admiring crowd. And oh what a girl, never a “fully dependent baby” her mother said, wide awake and aware from the start. I have heard this story, with slightly different embellishments, my whole life. I have always felt special, like the world greeted me with joy upon my birth. Like I had been reincarnated 1000 times.

I have to wonder now what that little baby girl was thinking (though of course it’s hard to tell what newborns “think”). She had been being squished and pushed and probably hurt for that whole time, struggling to end the lengthy journey and get out of there! And I have been struggling in one way or another ever since, despite ample evidence that the do or die struggle is no longer necessary for me. That baby-me probably felt the panic, adrenaline and fear of death emanating from those involved (parents, doctor, witnesses) and perhaps from myself. I have always pointed to my cesarean birth as influencing my life, though most people think that’s nuts, or at least SO thirty-three + years ago. I always judged the cesarean itself when it in fact was my salvation. I know that I have long had symptoms of trauma that I haven’t been able to account for in any other way. Regardless of their source, I am exploring ways to heal that little part of me that tries so hard, crumples in terror sometimes at the fear of failure, feels the need to act so independently yet at the same time desperately craves affection and comfort. You see, I’m not sure either my parents nor myself have fully gotten over it, them the fear of my death (and subsequent need to prop me up and applaud me, make sure I’m feeling good), and me the ache to break free and not be trapped by a tight, contracting uterus anymore. I have been whirling around in a heady mix of fierce independence and strong need to please, and I’m ready to stop the bus and move on. I am looking for balance, for peace. I want to be less attached to perfection and success, relaxing into each moment, knowing from evidence that it works out well in the end anyway. Integrity and faith are my two good friends in this regard. 

My new mantra, which sounds a bit like a Pride march slogan is “I’m out now, I’m safe now, I can let others help me now.” Perhaps next year, some calm night after putting our baby to bed, when I am feeling at peace with my traumas and fears, I will start trying for my own pregnancy again.

E