Delivered

Cats and dogs do it, squirrels and rats do it, even the spotted hyena does it, labouring sedulously, giving birth to their young through a narrow penis like organ, with a birth canal space maxing out at one inch. Suddenly 10 centimeters doesn't sound so bad.

I can do this.

Why are the others screaming? They sound like angry hyenas. Have they no shame? No doubt, contractions hurt like a mother f'r, coming in waves unrelentingly, making me feel like I've been placed inside a vice controlled by some demonic craftsman determining my fate, tightening and tightening and tightening my entire bodily midsection until I am on the brink of a spontaneous eruption and then the damn devil takes his foot off the gas abruptly but barely long enough to allow me to recover my shit, and repeat, but I will not scream like the others.

I'd rather die.

These angels keep coming to me, I'm pretty sure more than one, bringing me ice chips, wiping my forehead with a cool cloth, telling me preprogrammed things that they must say inadvertently when they are off duty, even in their sleep. "You're doing great!" "You're almost there!" "Don't push just yet."

Don't push just yet? Is that something I can control?

And then the doctor comes in. Maybe I'm hallucinating from the prolonged pain but I believe he may have just placed a bet on a pony or was it placed on the weight of an enormous baby just delivered down the hall? There is some type of an exchange, maybe money, maybe a handshake, maybe both, I don't know for sure cause I can no longer open up my eyes or receive the appropriate auditory signal from my brain to my ears to fully capture my environment.

He introduces himself as if I don't already know him, but I think he uses the wrong name, "Hi I'm Patrick Saltzman," or maybe he said, "Why not pass me the salt," which makes even less sense. I do not reply. All the energy I can muster is happening down below my neck and anyway, my lips are now sealed; my silence is what it is; just a knee jerk response to trauma. I was trained by a maestro to keep my mouth shut; trained to keep secrets in the throes of a battle.

Next thing I know the doctors hand is up inside me, not in a good way and I am caught quite by surprise, a deer in the headlights, letting out a scream, a long primal guttural scream as powerful as a bomb or an oil rig under pressure sprung loose and it occurs to me that all these years I'd only been storing up my screams, like the squirrel that busied himself burying a big bushel of acorns but then forgot all about them. Releasing it feels so much better than dying, I can only surmise, and I don't see the need to apologize to anyone in the room, since they've obviously heard it before, although I am ashamed of myself for judging the others. They are after all only human, we all are after all only human and currently right here right now me and my birthing co-conspirators are kick-ass baby makers. Triumphantly, hear us roar.

The doctor says, "Okay Momma. "We" are ready to push." He says this to me nonchalantly like there is a magic button to press or a pedal to push. He looks like he could serve up some serious burgers right now, his bluish white hairnet neatly cradling his doctoral head and I do not balk at his use of the word "We" instead of "You" since what exactly do I stand to gain by correcting the man who is responsible for getting me over the finish line?

Women who are pregnant should not listen to the horror stories from other women about childbirth. One cannot prepare for excruciating pain. Fact is, childbirth hurts. A lot. Probably more than any other physical trauma the human body can withstand besides a conscious amputation which I am fortunate to know nothing about. Wanna know a secret? The end, the pushing part after the labour, does not hurt. At all. Don't get me wrong, it is hard work. Harder than anything else I've ever encountered. But I have survived countless battles and I will survive this one. I am using up every ounce of my strength beyond what I ever imagined I was capable of, but I feel no pain as my jewel presents herself to the world.

And one last really long satisfying push and she is officially born. Breathing with her lungs the same air that I breathe. I know this because the room erupts in a cheer, and she may have just left my womb but I can still feel her as a part of me. I lay back depleted, but undefeated, I am a victor, a champion with wide seeking eyes and searching arms, waiting patiently for my jewel.

"I want my baby." I say this commandingly as a mother through a flood of tears. I am a mother. She is my daughter and I am going to be her protector. "I want my baby."

"Okay Momma. She's coming. We're just checking all her vitals. She's doing fine. Yes she's doing fine. She's perfect."

Oh I know she is without looking at her. She is delivered, and so am I. Now in my arms, looking long and hard into her angelic face up close for the very first time, she gives birth to me. Everything I want and need is right here and everything else unsavory just withered away. The past is irrelevant.

I kiss her gently on the top of her head and breath.

This is my love story.

I am a mother.