A Mother's Initiation
by Frances Greenslade
EXCERPT
THE MOTHERS AND THEIR BABIES sat on the floor in a circle, with older babies squirming and reaching for each other’s toys and younger babies on their backs playing with their feet. The mothers looked calm and competent. I was overheated and I was late. But I was there. “Welcome,” said the group leader. “We’ve already introduced ourselves. Would you like to tell us your name and your baby’s name and how you’re doing?”
“My name is Francie and this is my son, Khal. And . . .” I hesitated and considered the question. How was I doing?
Suddenly I felt a choking rise up in my throat and my eyes filled with tears. I tried to recover, tried to laugh it off, but it didn’t work. Big blubbering sobs rose up out of me. I buried my face in my son’s neck, embarrassed. A shadow of alarm crossed the group leader’s face and I felt that I had spoiled something, the cozy little group with their Tupperware containers of digestive biscuits and Cheerios. It seemed I should have an explanation and I didn’t know how to explain myself. But seconds later I saw that about half the women in the circle were crying too
Something had cracked, the veneer of our confidence, the smooth surface of the performance that was required to be recognized as a good mother. I told these women who I didn’t know about the hysterectomy. I went backwards and told them about the weeks of bleeding and the delivering physician and the fact that I couldn’t have any more children.
“Have you considered suing?” someone asked. “That’ll get him thinking about his practice.”
“You should at least look into suing. I know someone you can talk to.”
The idea of revenge made me feel, not better exactly, but fiercer. I had some power. I could choose to use it.
A woman named Marilyn spoke. I liked her instantly. “My story’s a bit like yours. Nothing’s really wrong,” she said. “Everything’s fine now. My in-laws help a lot. My husband helps when he’s home. I really get a lot of help.” She said it apologetically. “I had to have a caesarian. And then I had a blood transfusion. I don’t think I’ve healed properly. I still have a lot of pain from my episiotomy. Maybe it’s just that.” The unsaid hung in the air.
“My partner’s really good,” said another woman. She had a practical buzz cut and a nose ring. “He helps out. I’m still taking a class. I should have dropped it but I thought I’d be okay. The baby’s really colicky. But Josh takes her when I’m trying to study.”
Okay, okay, my husband’s really good, too. I needed to say that, just to be clear. He’s not a beer-guzzling Homer Simpson or a prim traditionalist. He grew up with a single mother; he knows what it’s like to be left to struggle alone. He’s a wonderful, aware and competent man and a capable father.
Another woman spoke. She looked tired, dressed in a stained sweatsuit. “It’s been positive, overall. The birth went well. I had a Caesarean, but I’m healing now. I had some time in there when I had a hard time getting around the house. Stairs were a bitch. I just kind of camped out on the main floor.” She laughed. “And my husband kept taking off on these trips. I don’t know anyone in town. He’s got family all over the north so he just takes the car and goes. There was one stretch I didn’t leave the house for nine days. He didn’t leave me any money for a cab or anything. He just didn’t think of it, I guess. So I couldn’t get to a bank machine. I can see why it’s easier to breastfeed; at least I didn’t have to worry about running out of formula.”
I was stunned by her story and felt ashamed at my petty complaints. But even more than that, I was stunned that she called her experience “positive.” It was horrible, it was unforgivable, but somehow she thought it was acceptable.