I have found within me reserves of strength and love I didn’t know I had. I am surprised by my patience. And even the aspects of infant care I had been most apprehensive about feel like a joy to perform
The last seven days haven’t been as smooth as I would have liked and I had to accept that my post-C-Section body is still struggling with producing milk, but I am learning to be patient and to delight in every drop that I am able to secrete
Representation pic
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It has been exactly a week since I crossed over. An opaque surgical-green curtain divided my body into two unequal parts—a conscious torso, with arms splayed out and clamped down, a blood pressure-monitoring device firmly attached to my right hand, my left, relatively less weighted, and an anaesthetised lower body.
Last Thursday morning, before we left for the hospital, my partner, ever attentive towards beauty, invited me to step onto our balcony to gaze at the predawn sky. We saw Venus in all her radiant glory, and a half-moon. On our way to the hospital we amused ourselves at the sight of everyone dressed for their regular routine in Carnival costumes, a reminder that it was ‘Nonsense Thursday’. I listened once more to Miss Hill’s To Zion, an empowering ode celebrating what it means to accept motherhood as a way of answering a call, and a love poem from mother to child, thanking her offspring for choosing her womb as a portal through which to enter this world.
The last piece of grace I needed in order to make the surgical transition from pregnant to post-partum finally entered the room. My partner was dressed in scrubs and he sat beside me and looked into my eyes so intently I could see myself reflected in his lenses, reminding me of the first time I truly ‘saw’ myself through his gaze.
A team of surgeons took their position behind the curtain. At every stage I was spoken to with empathy. I was informed about the bodily sensations I would and would not feel. A tingling warmth would take hold of my legs from the bottom of my spine until my toes and while I would be immune to pain, I would still ‘feel’ movements being performed. I performed the breathing exercises I had been training myself to rely upon for exactly such a moment, and allowed myself to surrender entirely to my partner’s reassuring presence and the professionals. It must have been around 9.25 am or so when suddenly I sensed a weight being lifted from the centre of my body. We heard our child’s first cry together, the most exhilarating sound I have ever known.
Soon enough he was brought forth to the front of the curtain so I could turn my head to the right and behold him. The first sounds he would have heard would have been multilingual—the surgeons marvelling in both German and Italian about how much hair he had on his head, my partner and I speaking in English. He was brought towards us and I got to spend some time with his cheek caressing my own. My partner then stayed with him in another room until the surgeons could perform the more intricate part of the operation, returning all my organs to their rightful place. I found a spot to fixate upon, a clock on the wall, and suddenly found I couldn’t stop smiling.
I don’t think I’ve ever known a joy like this. Even though I had anticipated a mixture of relief and happiness, the final feeling was so much headier, so much more intoxicating. The child that we had conceived together, that I had nursed so diligently within my womb for 39 weeks was finally a sovereign being. My body was suddenly postpartum.
Six hours later I was grateful to be able to stand, for the catheter to be detached, and to walk, however much it hurt. Among the challenges of the next four days spent in hospital was taking care of our child while nursing a body post-operation. I found within me reserves of strength I didn’t know I had, as if all along I had been building muscle. I don’t know from where I found the stamina, especially as I gradually entered a state of sleep deprivation, as different kinds of hormones began to kick in and I felt so much more vulnerable to emotion than I already was, and yet capable of centering myself, holding my body and my being with both patience and kindness. I encountered hunger like I had never conceived, so voracious and expansive. The aspects of infant care-giving I had been most apprehensive about—especially changing diapers and cleaning up meconium—were a joy to perform. I was unexpectedly elated by all of it and continue to be, and even when intense exhaustion kicks in, I am surprised by my patience, by my capacity to love.
The last seven days haven’t been as smooth as I would have liked them to be. We have had to contend twice with a 20 per cent weight loss and I had to accept that my post-C-Section body is still struggling with producing milk. But I am learning to be patient and to delight in every drop that I am able to secrete. When I look at my postpartum body in the mirror, I feel as if I have beatified.
Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.
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