Childbirth Small Talk

January 2013 078At a kids’ party last week, I realized something: I am very uncomfortable around any discussion of natural childbirth. Like sweaty palms, looking for an escape, must use my baby as a buffer kind of uncomfortable.

I was those women, before I had my own babies. I watched The Business of Being Born and complained about the high rate of C-sections and how doctors rushed long labors even though both mother and baby were healthy. I might have even questioned women who actually chose C-sections or bottle-feeding over the more natural options, though I am no longer in any position to judge, if I ever was.

In many ways, I tend toward a naturalist way of thinking. I believe in recycling and reusing and reducing consumption. I cloth diapered both of my kids. Ask our contractor if I don’t love me some trees, and I’ve proposed adding chickens to our future garden. I love organic produce, and I only use cleaners made from natural and harmless ingredients, most of the time. I have a hippy bleeding heart for the natural world.

So, on one hand I totally get the sentiment that in pregnancy and childbirth, less is more when it comes to intervention, but I feel so uncomfortable when the topic of childbirth comes up. And with a bunch of women with small children, it’s bound to come up.

I can small talk with the best of them. My husband says I can talk to a fence post. But, childbirth is not a topic of chit-chat for me, and I can’t small talk birthing babies.

I remember the things I was asked to do in the trenches of emergency childbirth, and I am confident about the kind of woman I was when I was trapped in that dark corner. I know I was tough as nails. I know I was a fighter. I know my husband and family were proud of me. And I forgive my body for what it did to all of us.

But, in a conversation about the ills of C-sections, what do I say? Somebody, please tell me? Yes, so many women have C-sections for all sorts of reasons that probably don’t justify the risks and the expense of major surgery. But, I wasn’t one of them. Without medical intervention, my husband would be a widower who lost both of his tiny children. That is my reality.

What a conversation killer.

So, I keep my trap shut and don’t say a word. But, then I haven’t done myself or other women like me or the women who speak of things they don’t understand any favors at all. It’s all still too painful for me to casually mention that my body in pregnancy was like the bad apple in the Berenstain Bear book I read as a child: perfect on the outside and a mess on the inside. I don’t want to shock or frighten or sadden, so I do the worst possible thing, which is shut down completely. This is no way to make friends. This is no way to advocate for preemies. Shutting my mouth is no way to raise awareness about how more research is needed to understand even the basics of some of pregnancy’s most common disorders.

I sit there like a lump on a log, contributing nothing. Why do I clam up?

I am afraid. Of being judged. Of being pitied. Of being misunderstood. Because it feels worse to open up and then be shut down than to ever open up at all. I realize this sentiment translates to so many of us, and I wonder what kind of people we would be if we didn’t feel so isolated. The larger our communities get, the more lost I fear we are, away from the people who know us best. Some of my dearest loves in life who are my soft place to land are scattered–no lie–all over the world.

I realize that at the kids’ party I didn’t even give the childbearing-discussing women a chance to be curious or understanding or sympathetic. I prejudged them. But, then I picture myself in that situation again, the odd woman out talking about one of life’s most painful topics for me, and I still can’t imagine what to say or where to begin.

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