On Good Lighting
Sometimes the light is so bright, you can’t help but see yourself.
“She needs to go now.”
My OB was sturdy in the way you would want a woman retrieving a human from your womb to be. She was unruffled, efficient, and temporarily deaf when I asked her if I should plan to cook my placenta and ingest it in pill form. She was all business and at that moment, hers was to surgically remove the baby in my uterus with an umbilical cord wrapped snugly around her neck. The staff knew what to do, they had done it repeatedly. None of their lives were going to change from this, only mine. And his. My husband dutifully put on the uniform – blue scrubs, hairnet, mask, shoe covers. I was the only one whose face was entirely exposed. I scanned all of them, hoping at least one pair of eyes would meet mine, to ease the tsunami in my nervous system.
Even my husband seemed somewhere else, preoccupied and tasked with something uniquely important. In contrast, my job was to do nothing yet soon, be everything. He walked to my bedside and grabbed Lambie, my ratty, stinky childhood stuffed animal that had seen it all for better or worse, and shoved her in my overnight bag. He squeezed my hand, his eyes soft and worried. “We’re going to be parents.” The sentence left his mouth, settled in the air, pivoted and landed in my brain as, “see you on the other side.” It felt like two soldiers clasping hands before the battlefield pulled them apart. It felt separate, singular and far from what was depicted in movies. It felt like the experience solely hinged on me.
Many pairs of eyes rapidly rolled my bed through swinging doors and the room swallowed me in brightness. It was almost demanding, the light – harsh fluorescence exposed every surface, sterilized tool, every pore on the unmasked part of their faces. Even the antiseptic air felt stronger, the humming machines made louder. My doctor explained that under anesthesia, I will not feel pain but intense pressure. To deliver the baby, she would have to press down on the upper uterus to guide her out. This sudden emptiness and removal from the body can create a strong sensation of pressure on my chest. “It’s a redistribution effect and totally normal. It’s just your brain’s way of interpreting rapid shifts happening in your body. But, be prepared, it can feel like an elephant on your chest.”
She adjusted another screaming spotlight, addressed her team like a general to her soldiers and began her verbal safety check, stating my name, type of procedure and anesthesia given. The team settled in their places and their eyes finally met mine. I felt a sudden shift to not wanting the connection. I wanted the lights to dim. I wanted a mask. I wanted anesthesia to sedate the elephant that was preparing to climb onto my chest. I wanted more time to learn more and be better, stronger. I wanted to eat more spinach. I wanted more time to seal the cracks in myself.
I wondered what they saw, in me and all the first-time mothers at this moment. Could they see the fear and self-doubt I was carrying to get here after two 12-week miscarriages or were they immune to the novelty - making mental grocery lists or recounting a regrettable argument with a friend? The reality of it brought about my separateness once again. No one was thinking what I was; this was done many times a day to millions of women - most of it successfully - under unrelenting light where nothing goes unexposed.
Leading up to that moment, I thought I had to acquire the information, the knowing. I spent all my time looking outward, asking other people, reading books, embracing the blind consumerism that goes along with vulnerability of impending motherhood. You need this thing, it will help. You will sleep. I’m still on the parent path but I’m further down it and there is no destination. All I’ve learned so far is that knowing myself and listening to the organic rhythms that tell you what they need is the only way. You’ll still fail, because you’re human. But you’ll also succeed because you’re human and were literally built for this.
Under that light, I wish the people with only eyes on their faces would have told me to forgive myself over and over for as long as I’ll live. Not only because I deserve to be forgiven, but because my personal failings are largely universal, so shake hands with them. There’s no pressure to let them go, because they’ll be back. In elephant form.