My mother
claims that her pregnancy with me almost killed her. Apparently, she was severely
sick for ten months, throwing up every
hour of every day, in her body’s attempt to expel the parasite from within.
She tells everyone that she weighed 12 pounds more before she got pregnant than on birthing day, and that I simply sucked
all the nutrients from her, rendering her barely human. I was difficult from the very beginning,
I’m always told.
Yet I
wonder if it ever occurred to Mom that maybe I wasn’t particularly happy in
there myself?! Some people may like the concept of a womb, but to me, it just
seems overwhelmingly confining. Squishy. To begin with, our souls are stuck in this teeny
body with all these annoying limitations…and then we’re placed in a small round
area where we’re supposed to grow and develop into something functional. There
aren’t even any corners to hide in or turn….or paint yourself into. Smooth and
round. Safe and controlled. Yawn. No wonder I was a fussy fetus....I get bored easily and like
adventure! Just how much fun can one have in a room with no view and maximum security? How can a soul thrive in a container?
To top it off, everyone then makes
this big deal about being born, when in reality, you simply exit from the dark and
painful ‘canal of false hopes’ still imprisoned in a body, but now in yet another container called Society. Your
new container now bombards you with information and attempts to control and
shape your brain in ways that are often ridiculous and filled with even more
limitations. Sheesh. Damned either way. Hey, wasn’t there some kooky
Czechoslovakian scientist who researched PTSD in babies their birth experience?
Hmm. Well, it's no wonder I’m ‘difficult’. And no wonder I’m occasionally cynical about
the world as well. Just think, the light at the end of my first tunnel turned
out to be fluorescent buzzing ceiling lights in a drab rose colored room filled
with screaming, overly excited people who wouldn’t leave me alone, but rather
poked bulbous suctioning devices in my nose and shook and spanked me until I
cried. Whew. Good thing I only had to do that once.
But
it’s just when my poor mom thought the nightmare of pregnancy would end that I
ultimately displayed my petulance. All the commotion of those frantic trips to
the loo must have made me a little cranky, because, at the magic 40 weeks, I
decided to be obstinate, stay an extra 15 days in utero, and gain a couple of
more pounds so that I would pushing the 10lb mark on exit day. Ouch (sorry,
Mom). But who could blame me? It was 1966…..and people were wearing flowered
corduroy pants, for god’s sake.
And so
I dissented right to the end, deciding to campaign for an additional 18 hours
during labor, while endeavoring to assert my opinion. I know I fought hard, challenging the entire process, because I have
actual evidence that a struggle took place. It’s my head….the sides of which I
swear are still indented from where that bloody doctor pulled at me with those barbaric
forceps. No wonder I get migraines. I probably would have had a nicely rounded
head, if I hadn’t been forced down that canal against my will to begin with,
and then viciously plucked out with large merciless tweezers. As it stands
now, it’s sort of a long and narrow noggin, indented above my ears and best
described as….oblong? Peanut? Corncob? It’s a shape that is great for
putting through railings (something I was quite proud of as a young ‘un), but
not so great for the puffy-height-enhancing-face-lengthening-flip-up-dos of the
80’s. Thank god the bob came back.
In any
case, I do hang onto a great black and white ‘1-hour-old’ photo of myself that
serves as a reminder that I have feistiness about me. Whenever I need to feel
strong or muster up some courage, all I have to do is focus on this photograph
for about a minute or less. In it, my arms are raised high above my head, and
my fists clenched so tightly that my chubby fingers almost disappear against
the white background. My eyes are two swollen slits, closed tightly, in an
attempt to will myself back into the womb…or maybe another universe altogether.
I don’t seem to have a neck, but rather two chins, both of which are pressed
so hard against my chest, that my very large bottom lip is forced downward in
protest from it’s lesser upper companion. My head is huge, (ballooned with
rage I guess), very pointy on the top, and I can see the offending prominent indents
on my temples from those prehistoric tongs. I am definitely in disapproval of
something. I have an objection… and I could possibly be lambasting all those
within earshot too. Yup. Feisty.
Today,
during my birthday call where my mother reminisced about her horrendous
pregnancy and labor (speaking of PTSD) and reminded me that I was difficult and
stubborn from the moment of conception (an annual conversation), I told her
that I was not planning on changing anytime soon. I like who I am, and at 44
I feel that my personality is pretty much set in stone, although maybe a little
more polished (?)...Besides, according to Roger’s Thesaurus, ‘difficult’ and
‘stubborn’ can translate into ‘intricate’ and ‘committed’ or ‘original and
‘steadfast’, right?
Hey,
give me a break. I think I might have PTSDD: Post Traumatic Symptoms of
Delivery and Dispatch.
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