Hi all,
Did you know I still have a blog? I mean, I haven't updated since 2020 and tbh only one of those posts really counts (the Josie and the Pussycats post is like my magnum opus, I think we can agree). But the point is, I still own this blog. And I could still, theoretically, use it to share writing. If I still wrote. Which I don't.But I did write this little poem and I wanted to put it somewhere. So.
I will note, it's called "Part 1 - Childbirth" so a) content warning for pregnancy/childbirth stuff and medical content and b) there is more, there's a Part 2, but it was more just cathartic for me to type whereas this is actually a halfway decent piece of writing I feel, so you only get Part 1, sorry.
♥Nancy♬
♥Nancy♬
Part 1 – Childbirth
There was a baby inside me and it had to come out.
I was a functioning regular normal person and I had a baby inside me by choice (I wanted this) (I accept the consequences of my actions).
There was a baby in my belly who I loved more than anything before it even came out.
There was a baby inside me and then there were tools inside me too, and needles and tubes attached to my hand, and the doctor opened a chasm in my belly and her gloved hands made my insides go wibble wobble wibble wobble.
There was a baby inside me and then it was not inside me anymore, and I loved her more than anything before they even put her on my chest, and I felt love like forceps squeezing my heart as I waited the mere seconds that felt like hours to hear her cry and announce herself to the world.
There was a crying baby on my chest and I said to my husband, “look what we made,” and we named her and loved her, and all the while there was an open chasm exposing the wet and bleeding contents of my belly and there was a tube going into or coming out of my hand and the tubes and cords were too short and when they tugged I felt them move inside me, wibble wobble wibble wobble, like the doctor’s gloved hands in my belly.
There was a crying baby on my chest that had been in my belly that now was stitched and glued closed again, and when she didn’t feed well I learned that my nipples were wrong and I learned how not only had I failed in birthing my baby the way I had told myself I was meant to birth her but I would fail to feed her the way I had told myself I was meant to feed her too (these were possible consequences of my actions) (I knew this could happen and it was my choice to grow a baby on my insides so these consequences were mine to accept).
There was a baby in my belly and when they pulled her out of the gaping chasm that now was my abdomen, my brain turned to liquid goo but I didn’t realise because all I could feel were the tubes in my hand with the too-short cords and the way they went wibble wobble wibble wobble inside me.
There was a real live baby in my arms and it had been inside of me and now it wasn’t and I felt the loss of her on my insides even as I embraced her and loved her on my outsides, as well as I could with the tubes in my hand and the goopy goo of my brain gently melting in my head.
There was something wrong with my nipples (with me) or something wrong with my baby (I made her, I did it wrong) but we fed her colostrum (I made it, this I could do, this proves my success, my competence, my worth) with syringes and a nurse hand-milked me like a cow so that we could feed my baby again and again and again.
There was a baby (our baby) in my husband’s arms (tubeless, unlike my hand) and he held her while the nurses took me into the bathroom for a shower (yes good, a shower, let me be normal and functional again) (let the water wash away my failures and remake me as the mother I have chosen to be).
I stood in a hospital shower and I could see water running down my tired and aching and stitched up body and I could see blood running in rivers down my legs but I could not see my goo brain leaking in gooey goopy drip drops out of my ears and running down the drain because I was too distracted by the tubes in my hand and the way the too-short cords made the tubes go wibble wobble wibble wobble.
My red blood was stark against the white towels (normal, they said) but I was too caught up in the juxtaposition and of the thought that the blood was coming out of me the way my baby should have come out of me and how I had failed (she’s safe, that’s all that matters) (but I wanted to feel strong as I bore down and pushed her out and doesn’t that loss to me matter too?) (FOMO of the worst kind) and in the wibble wobble wibble wobble of the tubes inside my hand that I didn’t notice the drip drops of what was my brain but was now just goo leaking out of my ears and running down my body and dripping onto the towels with the bright red blood.
There was a beautiful wonderful perfect baby inside me (a normal functional totally regular person) and when they took her out of me my brain turned into goo and fell plop onto the shower floor and didn’t come home from the hospital with us.
There had been a brain inside me but when I had a baby it had to come out.
I was a functioning regular normal person and I had a baby inside me by choice (I wanted this) (I accept the consequences of my actions).
There was a baby in my belly who I loved more than anything before it even came out.
There was a baby inside me and then there were tools inside me too, and needles and tubes attached to my hand, and the doctor opened a chasm in my belly and her gloved hands made my insides go wibble wobble wibble wobble.
There was a baby inside me and then it was not inside me anymore, and I loved her more than anything before they even put her on my chest, and I felt love like forceps squeezing my heart as I waited the mere seconds that felt like hours to hear her cry and announce herself to the world.
There was a crying baby on my chest and I said to my husband, “look what we made,” and we named her and loved her, and all the while there was an open chasm exposing the wet and bleeding contents of my belly and there was a tube going into or coming out of my hand and the tubes and cords were too short and when they tugged I felt them move inside me, wibble wobble wibble wobble, like the doctor’s gloved hands in my belly.
There was a crying baby on my chest that had been in my belly that now was stitched and glued closed again, and when she didn’t feed well I learned that my nipples were wrong and I learned how not only had I failed in birthing my baby the way I had told myself I was meant to birth her but I would fail to feed her the way I had told myself I was meant to feed her too (these were possible consequences of my actions) (I knew this could happen and it was my choice to grow a baby on my insides so these consequences were mine to accept).
There was a baby in my belly and when they pulled her out of the gaping chasm that now was my abdomen, my brain turned to liquid goo but I didn’t realise because all I could feel were the tubes in my hand with the too-short cords and the way they went wibble wobble wibble wobble inside me.
There was a real live baby in my arms and it had been inside of me and now it wasn’t and I felt the loss of her on my insides even as I embraced her and loved her on my outsides, as well as I could with the tubes in my hand and the goopy goo of my brain gently melting in my head.
There was something wrong with my nipples (with me) or something wrong with my baby (I made her, I did it wrong) but we fed her colostrum (I made it, this I could do, this proves my success, my competence, my worth) with syringes and a nurse hand-milked me like a cow so that we could feed my baby again and again and again.
There was a baby (our baby) in my husband’s arms (tubeless, unlike my hand) and he held her while the nurses took me into the bathroom for a shower (yes good, a shower, let me be normal and functional again) (let the water wash away my failures and remake me as the mother I have chosen to be).
I stood in a hospital shower and I could see water running down my tired and aching and stitched up body and I could see blood running in rivers down my legs but I could not see my goo brain leaking in gooey goopy drip drops out of my ears and running down the drain because I was too distracted by the tubes in my hand and the way the too-short cords made the tubes go wibble wobble wibble wobble.
My red blood was stark against the white towels (normal, they said) but I was too caught up in the juxtaposition and of the thought that the blood was coming out of me the way my baby should have come out of me and how I had failed (she’s safe, that’s all that matters) (but I wanted to feel strong as I bore down and pushed her out and doesn’t that loss to me matter too?) (FOMO of the worst kind) and in the wibble wobble wibble wobble of the tubes inside my hand that I didn’t notice the drip drops of what was my brain but was now just goo leaking out of my ears and running down my body and dripping onto the towels with the bright red blood.
There was a beautiful wonderful perfect baby inside me (a normal functional totally regular person) and when they took her out of me my brain turned into goo and fell plop onto the shower floor and didn’t come home from the hospital with us.
There had been a brain inside me but when I had a baby it had to come out.
