Cankles, tent dresses, Dr. Womb Doom and the miracle of life

by Julianne Hale

Are you ready for nine months of no personal space, the disappearance of modesty, and a loss of dignity?

If you answered yes, then congratulations! You are ready to reproduce!

These sacrifices may sound a little exaggerated, but one honest conversation with a pregnant woman will reveal the truth. I enjoy reading about the miracle of childbirth as much as the next gal, but I would like women to be aware that there are many non-miracles that take place during those fateful nine months that no sing-song pregnancy book will ever prepare you for.

Let’s start at the beginning. Contrary to popular belief, most women do not find out they are pregnant because they look in the mirror and notice a beautiful glow radiating from their face or because they feel the beginnings of a miracle brewing in their midsection. No, most women discover their pregnancies because, without warning, they find themselves becoming intimately acquainted with the toilet bowl, or they simply feel lousy with no external explanation. Shelley Ealy, Ooltewah mother of two who, when I interviewed her, was 38 weeks pregnant, is all too familiar with this sensation. “I tend to be sick with all of my pregnancies,” she explains, “and I was really sick for a good, long time with this one. I haven’t felt good the whole time I’ve been pregnant.” When asked what her favorite part of pregnancy was, Shelley responded, “Birth. I know some may find it strange, but I enjoy the whole birth thing—but not pregnancy. I do not like being pregnant.” Isn’t honesty a beautiful thing?

One unexpected side effect of pregnancy that only reveals itself when your stomach starts to swell is the blatant lack of respect for your personal space exhibited by strangers. Imagine riding in a public elevator, minding your own business, when suddenly, out of nowhere, a random person places her hand on your stomach and rubs it gently. How would you react? Would you slap her hand away and give her a dirty look? Would you assume she was mentally challenged and let her do her thing? Would you threaten legal action? This scenario happens to pregnant women all of the time.

I cannot tell you how many unfamiliar hands have touched my belly during my three pregnancies. The offenders smile and ask questions like, “When are you due?” or, “Boy or girl?” all the while rubbing my belly with a sappy look on their face. What is my recourse? I normally smile and back away politely, out of reach of their hands. (I’ve been tempted to start rubbing their belly, just to see what would happen, but alas, I don’t have the fortitude for something so bold.)

Along with personal space, modesty is a concept you might as well toss out with the soft cheeses and sushi during pregnancy. From the first prenatal visit to the brutally invasive process of giving birth, modesty is laid on the sacrificial altar of reproduction. More people than you ever imagined possible will see you naked, and very few of them will actually look at your face.

If you have the rare honor of being a “high-risk” pregnancy like myself, you will find that you are sometimes treated as if you are an annoying distraction—a barrier between the medical professionals and your baby. My womb, for example, was continually referred to as a “hostile environment” by one particular doctor. The first time I heard it come out of his mouth, I wanted to jump out of the stirrups and show him what a hostile environment really was. I never had the guts, though, and I eventually found myself growing accustomed to the term, even using it myself.

Friends would approach me, smile warmly at my growing midsection and say, “Oh my goodness, look how adorable you are!”

I would respond with a smile and say something like, “Don’t get too close. It’s a hostile environment in there, you know.”

My close friends would laugh and give my belly a loving rub. The not-so-close friends would smile uncomfortably and bolt in the opposite direction. I’ve always assumed they had visions of Sigourney Weaver in Alien dancing through their heads. I did, at first. I even dreamed about the alien child I would give birth to. Oh, but I’d love it anyway! I’d never let our society’s limitations on physical beauty impact my baby!

Towards the end of my pregnancy, said doctor became obsessed with removing my poor child from the den of horrors that was my uterus. He went so far as to perform a fairly risky procedure to test my baby’s lungs to see if he was ready to be ripped from the dungeon of his creation. He wasn’t. Poor guy had to make it another week and a half in there, only to emerge as healthy as a horse, scoring a 9 out of 10 on the APGAR scale. Apparently my hostile environment had managed to produce a bouncing baby boy with nary a health issue.

As I write this, I’m 34 weeks into my third and last pregnancy. Nothing’s changed with me. I still have lupus and I’ve still never had an actual problem during pregnancy. Things in the prenatal care department, however, have done a complete 180. I have not heard the term “hostile environment” once in the past 34 weeks. This could have something to do with the fact that I have yet to encounter Dr. Womb Doom in my visits to his practice. Regardless, I’m having trouble coping with the positive feedback I get from my obstetricians.

“Everything looks great. We don’t need to see you for another four weeks.”

“There’s no need to schedule the C-section at this point. You are doing great, and the baby looks healthy.”

Statements like these would make most expectant mothers beam with joy—but not me. I feel like it’s some sort of karmic joke that this, my last pregnancy, should be the one where I’m treated with dignity, like a human being, and not some sort of ill-fated science project. Every time I hear positive feedback about my health, I want to jump out of the stirrups (I do a lot of that in my obstetrics-related fantasies) and shake the shoulders of my healthcare providers and yell, “Can’t you see the hostility in my uterus, the imminent peril of the poor child growing within its walls? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Fortunately for me, there are some wise mothers-to-be in the Chattanooga area who provide me with comfort—and a reminder that there really is a miracle in there. Jenna Bolger, a Ringgold, Ga., mother of two who’s pregnant with her third child, relishes the daily beatings she receives. She explains, “I love it when I am sitting, watching TV or on the computer, and I feel the baby kicking or punching me in the tummy. It gets me every time!”

The past few weeks have provided me with the opportunity to let it sink in: My womb is not a hostile place. I try to find comfort in the kicks and use positive imagery to picture a happy baby, floating around in there in a baby-sized recliner, swaddled in a soft blanket and listening to the sweet sounds of James Taylor or Cat Stevens (pre-Muslim conversion). In just four short weeks I will meet that baby, and she will fill a hole in my family that I didn’t even know existed. That, my friends, is the miracle of childbirth, and the reason that, for nine months, we waddle around in tent-like clothing on our swollen cankles.