I am floating above my body. I cannot feel anything from the waist down beyond pressure and tugging. I cannot feel anything in my heart except exhaustion and defeat.
This is how I am the moment that I was reborn, the moment I became a mother. I do not remember if my baby cried or not when they pulled him out of my body. I do not remember the first time I held him, my firstborn child.
I only remember my body hidden from my view behind a sheet, there on the table as they tugged and pulled. I was far away, taking in bits and pieces, snatches of the song that was playing, snippets of conversation between the staff. And my baby, born at 8:13AM, sunny side up and alive. That’s what matters, right? We survived.
I don’t recall thinking about my relationship with my body prior to getting pregnant with my first baby. I think most of that is due to privilege, my white skin, my thin, able body that moved with ease through a world that was pretty much tailor-made for people who look like me. Yet, a question continues to nag at me that I’m not sure how to answer: Can I not remember much about my relationship with my body because I felt comfortable in my body, or because I was disconnected from my body?