Birth Stories.
Most of us know the story of our birth, in many households it’s practically mythologized. My mom says that I was an entire month overdue and in no hurry to make an appearance. She resided in a maternity ward for most of that month, and my dad paid someone under the table to make sure she was looked-after. Eventually, the doctors induced labor, and many hours later my furry head appeared. The story goes that I was born right at midnight, but the doctor noted 12:15 to simplify the paperwork. I was placed on my mother, and that was it. The adrenaline had passed and her body had cooled by the time someone bothered to stitch her wounds. My mother was alone just like every other new mother on the ward. My father met me through glass.
Fast forward 36 years. I’m holding back tears in therapy, as I try to explain how I felt during my own labor. J’s birth story goes like this: She was said to break her own water. One second I’m watching a movie, and the next there’s a sharp POW in my abdomen. The contractions came on fast and furious - immediately at 5-minute intervals. An hour later someone is wheeling me down a hospital hallway, asking if we know the sex of our baby. I did know, but M had wanted to be surprised. I kept this ginormous secret for 20 weeks, and remember smiling to myself as M suspected we were having a boy. I labored unmedicated for nine hours, and remember telling myself not to be one of “those” women. I was oh-so-careful to keep my voice calm, my requests measured, and my demeanor generally pleasant. I didn’t dare create any conflict amidst the agonizing pain. J’s story is even punctuated with a little comic relief. Her father laughs as he recounts his bumbling complaints about having to stay up all night after a long day at work.
This little anecdote isn’t funny to me. I was in a literal life-or-death situation, but I still didn’t feel like the top priority. For all those who are starting to seethe as you read: a) the nap conversation happened after my epidural, and b) M has since apologized many times. But the apologies have felt half-hearted, as if he doesn’t truly understand why his desire to nap wounded me so deeply. Cut to our therapist’s office. I’m struggling to explain myself when she asks if I would engage in a brief exercise. She asks me to recount all the childhood messages I received about labor and delivery. My list included the following:
Death is a real possibility. A very close relative lost his first wife and twin babies during childbirth.
Even if the mother survives, the child’s wellbeing may be in jeopardy. My mother was born breech. I was born via induction because her embryonic fluids were dangerously low.
There are too many unknowns. In America, most women are induced two weeks after their due date, but somehow I was a month overdue.
Once the baby is out, the mother is neglected.
The process is long, cold, tremendously painful, and lonely. (See above)
How could M have understood?
These statements are all part of family lore, ingrained in my very being. I needed an outsider to point out that in America, these are pretty unusual birth stories. Yes, labor and delivery are always scary. But if you’re a white woman in America, you’re raised to believe that all will be well, and soon you’ll be taking photos in matching outfits. Popular media tells us that American birth stories are more dramatic than traumatic. And even though I was raised here, among those same stories, my body carries a different kind of knowing. My body carries inter generational trauma. My body was afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing while in labor, and ending up alone and cold.
My eyes are burning as I’m writing this. I’m sad and mad for that laboring woman who was so insecure that she worried about upsetting others during her time of need. I’m sad and mad that J’s birth story has that extra twinge of pain from a wound that is far more than five years old. I know better now, though I don’t feel better yet. Maybe I can work through this pain and begin to heal our maternal line. Maybe J will internalize a different kind of birth story.
Mother and daughter, 1985.
