From the moment I knew I was pregnant with David, my world was rocked. I had never been more excited for anything in my whole life. I had never been more scared in my life at that time too. During the pregnancy of David, I had never felt so beautiful and so feminine. I felt as though my body was magic; ethereal. It was an amazing experience to see how my own body shifted and stretched and expanded. To know the feeling of a baby you created, move inside you; a reminder that I was never alone, and wouldn't be for quite some time. I was full of life! Literally.
It opened my mind to the polar opposite of life: Death. Two sides of the same coin. This brought on feelings of anxiety, and guilt even! Had I doomed this child to be born, only to one day experience Death? Was his life going to be better than mine? I sure hoped so. What if he didn't love me? And what if I died and he was forever tarnished by loss. I know what that feels like.
My body was strong. She was full! Like the moon.
The kicks would get more intense. The rolls more uncomfortable. Walking was a chore. My belly said it was time to move on. And so David was born. Cut through seven layers of my body. My womb cut for the first time. A little, tiny child pulled through my body. Crying, tears, love, fear. Then, emptiness.
Hollow, like a rotten pumpkin. Pain. Blood. Bodily fluids. Catheter. Cold.
And then I held him in my arms, the first time I ever held a baby. Instant euphoria. Like I had died and gone to heaven. And I never wanted to come down. It was me and my baby boy; him looking up at me, right into my eyes for the very first time. And I swear we could see the universe inside each other. Tears of joy fell onto him, little tiny raindrops. Kisses, and the words, "I love you with all my heart, baby boy."
Putting him to my breast and watching in wonder the instincts of a baby, being in awe that my instincts were so in sync with his. We were one again.
The first time I stood up, the rotten pumpkin feeling returned. The emptiness. I felt like a melting candle. I never knew a body could feel like this. Just like the experience of Life and the wonderments of Death, the journey of pregnancy inevitably ends and then you are hollow.
The only time I felt whole again is when I had my baby in my arms. And this would become a problem in the long run.
But my body would heal. It would regain strength. And maybe it had changed a bit. And maybe there was a scar to remind me of the journey, but I was proud. Through the trauma that came through that day, and the ultimate trigger to my mental and emotional wars I would experience for perhaps the rest of my life, my body still held my soul, my spirit, my love, and my strength. My breasts, although forever changed, had purpose. And to me, purpose is all I need as a reminder of why I am here on this Earth. If my sole purpose was to have this baby, through my own body, and feed him to sustain his life, I could die proud and happy of what I could provide to him. David became an all-encompassing mission. A mission full of passion and fear. Would I be the best mother for him?
Later, I would conceive my daughter. And the fear I had for her was more intense than the first. I was afraid of her. I was afraid of what doors she would inevitably open for me, such as David did before her. I was so depressed, and so anxious. I was convinced that she would come out with a frown on her face, thinking that I did not love her. But again, seven layers deep into my body, another cut on my womb, she was pulled through my body and her and I went straight to heaven, just as me and David had done. The same look into each others eyes for the very first time. This little soul. An entire universe. Tears of joy fell onto her, little tiny raindrops. Kisses, and the words, "I love you with all my heart, baby girl."
Feeding her felt like razorblades for at least two weeks. And I almost gave up! But it was as if she understood and day one of week three, the pain went away, and breastfeeding her was incredible. I adored everything about this baby girl. All the excitement and wonder and awe in her eyes as she became more aware of her surroundings.
This time around, my body had melted and hardened just a bit more. Stuck in place. A tad squishier. But again, my body held strong my soul, my spirit, my love, and my strength.
I got pregnant a third time. This one I couldn't keep. My body felt incredibly sad. As if it was frowning for months and months. Though I had not had the opportunity to grow this baby, I felt just as empty as I did whenever I gave birth to my other children. The contractions reminding me of my sin. The blood pouring out of me, like a sacrifice. The tears I hoped would grow something beautiful out of this mess.
And still, my body would heal and held strong my soul, my spirit, my love, and my strength.
The soul of this potential baby was not squandered or destroyed. I could feel it in the cosmos. I knew that one day, I would meet this little soul.
Two years later, in an extremely unplanned manner, two more lines showed up on a test. And it would be 10 long months of...debilitation. Bouts of numbness, depression, anxiety, and abandonment. This period gave me a lot of time to do some internal work. Lots of shadow-work. Lots of forgiveness, not just of myself, but to those who had caused me pain. The desire to live a life of beauty and happiness. Freedom, Beauty, Truth, and Love as Toulouse would say. And it was not here.
A 36 hour labor, resulting in an emergency cesarean. 36 hours of my body being the strongest I think it's ever been. 36 hours of rocking, and moaning, and sometimes screaming, with the last 30 minutes of our labor sitting in silence as we waited for his heartbeat to regain strength. Holding our breaths as if to give him what he was struggling to do for himself. Fear. Strength. Courage. If my body could be this strong, was it capable of killing my little baby? Was it possible for my body to be too strong?
And then through seven layers of my body, a third cut on my womb, and my baby boy pulled through my body. Was he alive? A moment passes. Little cries like a mewing kitten pushed gently through the OR. Relief. Exhaustion. This was the time when my body was spent but I had my mind take over to make sure to stay awake for my baby. Until he was safely in my arms, I would not close my eyes. I would not rest.
He was in the NICU, our heaven delayed. I lay there on the hospital bed, a deflated and traumatized woman. Empty again. The meltiest of melted candle. The time was impossibly slow. I swore I would look at the clock and it would say 6:15pm and five minutes later it would say 6:00pm. My body was dead-weight. My arms, still empty. I was in the waiting room of heaven, waiting for someone to open the doors and let me come in so I could meet my little boy.
Finally, almost 10 hours had passed. And though heaven was a bit tarnished (a story for another time), it was our heaven. And just like that, we saw into each others eyes, the universe inside, expanding forever. Tears of joy fell onto him, little tiny raindrops. Kisses, and the words, "I love you with all my heart, baby boy." My little Roux. Our instincts in sync. My sweet milk. And the warmth of each other reminding us that we were in this together. Forever.
I could tell this time around, that my body was pretty damn defeated. It was beyond exhausted! It was caving in on itself. And though it made a squishy, comfy, stretchy plaything for my kids, the pain my body had been in for so long was needing to come to an end. It needed a change. It needed it's strength and stability back. It needed to know that it was still capable of living a life that could carry my soul, my spirit, my love, and my strength to the finish line.
And so I needed to find a solution. I owed my body that.
The beginning of this strength regaining journey started with yet another surgery. It seems contradictory, I know. But we didn't cut through 7 layers of my body. We didn't add another cut to my womb. Instead, we stitched my body back together, the ragdoll I had become. My muscles came back together, giving me my core stability back; the thing that was going to set me on my path to healing and strength regaining. We removed just about 10 pounds of my body...my final delivery. One that was proof of the babies that came through me. One that I owed to the Gods as forgiveness for abandoning myself all these years. A piece of me that was the most important. The skin that cradled all of my babies and kept them safe inside. The other side of that skin, a place where each baby would play with and knock on, to make sure I was paying attention. This skin that was fragile, and made my center vulnerable, yet kept me intact, even when it took every once of strength to do so.
I am forever grateful for that piece of me. And it will never be forgotten for everything it went through.
Now, as my body recovers, I am again amazed by my body's ability to heal and regenerate. We may not regrow lost limbs or second organs (yet), but our bodies regenerate in their own way, and that, to me, is incredible.
My body, has grown with me. Grew babies. Birthed them. Fed them. Been sliced and diced so many times. Holding onto internal scars for the rest of my life. And yet, it is still capable of living a life that can carry and hold strong, my soul, my spirit, my love, and my strength.
To my body: Thank you forever. This is my love letter to you. My sincerest appreciation and gratitude. Thank you for being my vessel for this life. I cherish you, all parts of you, old and new.
Love,
Me
