My son's second birthday was a couple of weeks ago and I found myself thinking a lot about our birthing experience. Both the joyful and the painful and scary moments. He was born with an emergency cesarean section after 20+ hours of intense labor (a story for another time). And while that can be upsetting for me to dwell on, the experience of giving birth to my son has truly shaped my identity now. I don't want to forget what made me who I am today.
Most of the details of my labor are blurred to me. It's hard to stay lucid when you’re in deep pain or under anesthesia. But the hours and days after his birth are still quite clear. My cesarean scar brings a lot of those memories back for me every time I look at it or touch it. And for that, I'm somewhat grateful for its visibility.
The first time I actually looked at my cesarean incision was over 24 hours after my surgery. One of my nurses had helped me shuffle slowly to the shower so I could gently wash the sensitive area and my body. This was also the first time I had actually looked at myself in the mirror in days. That morning, our pediatrician —who had an incredibly calming presence — had told me I looked very well. I tried to take his word for it but really had no idea how I looked. At that point, I was still in a hospital gown and I had barely gotten out of the bed. I had also lost my glasses in all the commotion and could barely see anyone besides the dewy newborn that was barnacled to my breast.
After our labored journey to the bathroom, the nurse left to give me privacy. It was the first time I had been alone in a room in days. I looked in the mirror and the person that looked back at me was unrecognizable. Lines had appeared seemingly overnight, my hair had knotted into a bird’s dream nest come true, and acne had sprouted amidst the sweat and tears of labor. What of it, I thought and proceeded to slowly disrobe out of my sticky hospital gown and gingerly lower my hospital mesh undies.
The warm water sprinkled down on my hunched back, curving protectively over my stomach and the pain. I had to hold away my ample stomach flesh to get a good look at the cesarean cut. "Oh, that's much smaller and lower than I thought it would be," I thought. What a pleasant surprise. It was sutured up well, with both stitches and staples and those little white strips of tape. Fresh blood was seeping through the cracks of dried blood that had formed on the cut. I sudsed up some soap on my fingertips and gently dapped along the curved line. I focused on this meticulous wound cleaning and my mind distanced... as if it wasn't my own stomach or that this was the result of intensive surgery. It just was and this was the shape it was in and I was cleaning it but I had to hurry and get dressed and get back to the hospital bed so that my baby could eat because it had already been much too long since I got to the bathroom and he probably needed me and wanted me and I was taking too long… and just like that, hello anxiety.
*This is my first time sharing longer-form writing for one of my Postpartum pieces, and doing so here on my website instead of on Instagram. It feels good to have it here where I can write more and not feel the vulnerability of social media peering over my shoulder.