On Sadness, Holes, and the Business of Changing Pads

There are enough birth stories across the internet to keep one reading for years, containing enough drama and variety to scare anyone out of having any children, ever.  I don't want to write a birth story; I've already belabored (ha!) the details for so many people.  Although I do like Jennifer Fulwiler's notion of a birth haiku:

No medicine, please--
Epidural, c-section?
But I'm twenty-four...


I don't want to write a birth story.  I do, however, want to show that never in my life has the symbolism of a situation, of my body--the sacramental nature, really--been this vividly obvious to me.

So: fake contractions, mucus plug, fake contractions, real contractions, hospital, et cetera.  I was thrilled when my nurse told me I had dilated to 6 centimeters--at 2 PM.  I was not so thrilled with the same news at 3, 4, 5, or 8 PM.  When my doctor strongly suggested an epidural to try to get me to "relax," the sense of defeat and failure I felt was overwhelming.  I had wanted to prove to myself that I could do something insanely difficult.  For a long time I have had a sort of mental toughness complex--all because I quit cross country and track back in Junior High and because I have struggled with anxiety and depression.  I know it is irrational; in my head I know that neither of those facts make me weak, but the complex is there regardless.

At 2 AM, when my kind nurse told me that my body had only regressed and warned me of a c-section, I was absolutely devastated.  That's when I decided our little boy's name would definitely be Tristan.  Patrick and I had been considering the name, but the one thing I had been stuck on was its meaning: sadness.  I'm a melodramatic English major who thinks a name is like a miniature poem: its sound, meaning, and allusions are all very important, so using a name with such a dreary meaning felt wrong--until the nurse said c-section, and I cried some more, and I surrendered my body with the realization that sometimes sadness is necessary before joy, necessary for joy.   

Tristan was born abruptly at 2:43 AM.  My doctor was able to determine via surgery,

"Your pelvic outlet had plenty of space for him!  But your pelvic inlet is too small."

So you mean those baby-bearing hips were just an optical illusion?

Human beings experience life in a uniquely physical manner.  We have tangible bodies and we live in a tangible world for very good reason--to reveal to us an otherwise intangible spiritual world, to let us touch truth.  Our bodies are incredible, powerful signifiers--women's especially.  So it doesn't require much thought to recognize the significance of getting my baby out through a different route, a route that entailed cutting a new hole and bleeding and scarring I didn't ask for or plan.

The Sunday before Tristan arrived, I was very emotional during Mass.  I was having steady (though fake) contractions when the consecration line "this is my Body, which will be given up for you" hit me hard.  I cried steady tears of gratitude as I gripped my stomach with each contraction; I understood with acute clarity.  And I found nothing coincidental when a few days later I had to lie in the O.R. with my arms outstretched in a "T," as the doctor cut me open to make life possible for my child.

I am not calling myself Christ-like.  The insurmountable difference between me and Christ is that I would have never chosen the scar.  I am, however, awestruck and humbled by the manner in which He has allowed me to more intimately understand his Passion. When I look in the mirror and see the way that my linea nigra and my scar form an upside-down cross, I can dwell on  that instead of being angry.  Because oh, I was angry.  I still get angry.  Birthing a baby is the one thing that only a woman can do--and I couldn't.  The things we blame ourselves for are so strange.  My pelvic inlet was too small, will probably always be too small, and that defunct hole has absolutely torn a hole in my psyche that I need to mend.  I can start with the upside-down cross on my stomach.  I can continue by recognizing the ways that my body keeps expending itself to make life possible, the other holes that are doing their jobs just fine:

I've been bleeding for the past six weeks as my uterine lining is shed and replaced.
I'm constantly leaking breast milk.
A bloody pocket in my incision has been seeping blood and fluid as it heals.

Things are better now, but for weeks these holes held serious implications for the rhythm of my days and nights:

Feed Tristan.
Sop up excess milk.
Change diaper.
Change wet bra.
Change nursing pads.
Hobble to the bathroom.
Change pad.
Change gauze pad.
Change underwear and pants because I bled through the gauze.
In another two hours, feed Tristan.
Sop up excess milk.
Change diaper.
Change wet bra.
Change nursing pads.
Hobble to the bathroom.
Change pad.
Change gauze pad.
Change underwear and pants because I bled through the gauze.
In another two hours, feed Tristan...

A repetitive cycle of mending, tending, stripping, discarding, replacing.
You know what else is repetitive?  A marathon.  The rosary.

Repetitive is neither good nor bad, but prismatic.  Run a marathon for the heck of it and you'll tire after mile 2.  But run it in honor of fallen soldiers or run it to complete your bucket list and every mile gains meaning.  Pray a rosary just because your'e supposed to and you'll grow to begrudge your faith.  But pray a rosary while truly contemplating the mysteries and every Hail Mary reveals light.  Will I change every diaper wearing a serene glow on my face, keenly aware of the beauty and understated importance in this never-ending cycle?  No, I am human and I forget.  But the more I can remind myself of this at midnight with a restless baby in my arms, the better.    

It is incredible how much truth and emotion are mediated through the female body, rendering words unnecessary.  The pregnant woman, the new mother, the mother who has just welcomed her seventh child are all vibrant symbols of God's power and love.  I have never understood why people gripe about women not being able to serve as Catholic priests.  The feat of growing, birthing, and caring for a completely unique new life (and all the pains it can bring) is so directly parallel to Christ's work on earth.  He did plenty of foot-washing, bread-breaking, and healing.  He gave the world new life, but not without hurting, bleeding, crying, scarring, and being ridiculed first.  He started the Church; women continue to build it.

Sure, life has not been comfortable, but I was not created to be comfortable.  I was created to be a mother.


And oh, that is worth everything.

Comments

  1. This is stunning, real, and beautiful. Thank you for sharing. You're a phenomenal writer.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Welcome to the club, momma :) Remember you are never alone in this. It is always good to talk about how you feel and there is always one of us here to listen.

    ReplyDelete
  3. This was beautifully written and I felt your heart in every word. Keep up the good work of being a mother - God has greatly blessed you! By the way, he's beautiful!

    ReplyDelete
  4. this is wonderful and honest! i especially love the admission about wanting to deliver "naturally" and the feelings that come along with not being able to. thank you!

    ReplyDelete
  5. I absolutely loved this. I had a very similar experience with my son. Except mine happened too fast. Water broke, hospital, breached baby, foot sticking out, emergency C-section. And I had planned on an all natural labor. Oh and he was 6 weeks early. But I will never forget the feeling of being pulled down while they grabbed my arms and spread them out and then it hit me- arms outstretched like Christ's; sacrificing, bleeding, giving life. I couldnt help but cry and feel like although I couldnt brag about going all natural and giving birth without meds, God had allowed me to come so close to Him in such a particular way. So beautiful!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular Posts