by
Kerry Connelly
My pregnancy was difficult. Not difficult in that it became life threatening with blood pressing too
high on my veins, not difficult in that the baby was forming badly. It was just difficult - my body
was no longer my own, taken over by some alien life force that disallowed me to savor wine or a tuna
fish sandwich. It started with a certain buzziness - a feeling much like a caffeine high - and a metallic
taste in my mouth that prompted the trip to the drugstore, where adolescent feelings of shyness and
humility sought dominion over the confident, feminist personality I’ve nurtured since my twenties.
I picked up the pregnancy test carefully – almost two-fingered – brought it to the counter, and
handed it to the check out girl with my left hand so she’d be sure to see my wedding ring. I threw in
a pack of gum, thinking it would be obvious that this was the item for which I’d really come; the
pregnancy test was just an afterthought. I looked around to see if a septa-genarian had left any
AARP materials laying around so I could feign interest in them, just to make it perfectly clear that I
wasn’t a teenager in trouble. It did not occur to me until much later that I certainly look all of my 35+
years, and that in this day and age there would be no judgment. If, in fact, even a second glance.
I was a grown up woman purchasing a home testing kit, I might as well have been buying hair dye.
Still, the squeamish, giggly teenager in me dies hard, and I suddenly understood why my eighty-
three year old grandmother once told me she still felt thirty.
The feeling of being just about to vomit began the next day, and did not subside for thirteen weeks.
After that, it would return once in a while, startling me with its sudden onset, to intermittently replace
the heartburn and acid reflux that became permanent buddies of mine. I asked the doctor what I
could do to quell the stomach problems. Aside from suggesting lollipops, she told me feeling ill was a
sign that lots of pregnancy hormones were raging around in my body, and this insured a healthy
baby. I told her I thought that was equivalent to telling a bride that it’s good luck if it rains on her
wedding day. It’s just to shut her up. She laughed, and I popped another Tums.
In the second trimester, I had to give up running because it felt as though someone had inserted a
water balloon into my abdomen. I could no longer bring cases of bottled water up from the
basement, or carry the laundry upstairs; legally, I was considered disabled and this qualified me for
state funds. I could not change the cat box when it was dirty, and I had to give up garlic bagels
because they made me feel like I was going to puke. I sought out doctors to stick needles in all sorts of
body parts to alleviate the pain; I sought chiropractors to adjust my bones. Every food item placed in
my mouth became the object of intense scrutiny and carried with it an immense amount of guilt –
could this be the thing that will ruin my child?
I swallowed Gas-X on a regular basis, and craved mayonnaise and hot dogs and grilled cheese
sandwiches. I felt what had to be a foot stuck in my diaphragm, on the right side – it felt like I was
leaning on a broom handle that had been inserted just under my lowest rib. I often had to take deep
breaths to get rid of the feelings of suffocation. By the third trimester, my pelvis felt like it would fall
apart at the joints; and in the last two weeks of my pregnancy, my hands started to tingle constantly,
as if I had just come in from the cold. My ankles swelled to the size of grapefruit. I gained four
pounds in three days. The exhaustion was complete.
But she’s worth it, right?
My water broke in the checkout line at the A&P, just after the cashier asked me when I was due. I’d
just answered her, “In exactly two weeks,” when I felt a small gush. It might have been enough to be
seen on my shorts, but I couldn’t see past my belly to be sure. That was at noon on a Wednesday.
Twenty-eight hours later, after twenty-six hours in labor - three of which were spent pushing - my
daughter was born via emergency C-Section. I hadn’t been allowed to eat since my water broke; I
had a catheter in my spine and one in my urethra. I had endured two of the three hours of pushing
without any pain killers; and the anesthesia I had been given for the C-Section made me convulse in
horrible shakes, but no one would tell me when they might stop (not for an hour). I was tied down,
arms spread out crucifixion style, and I couldn’t feel my legs. After the doctor pulled my beautiful
daughter out of my belly, she was flung into the air over my head for a fleeting moment - her purple,
slimy belly coming into view - then whisked away for cleaning. When she was brought back for a
moment, I begged to touch her. I was told me I could, yet no one untied my hands. No one was
listening to me. I finally wrestled my hands free, so I could touch her tiny face for a second before she
was taken away again.
I did not get to hold my baby for three hours. By then she was already asleep, exhausted, with no
idea who I was. I had missed that initial bonding moment, the first opportunity to breast feed, that
warm and fuzzy Hollywood movie part where I get to cry as I am handed my freshly baked baby.
The part that all the parenting classes, and all the books, claimed was so important. Unless, of course,
you were denied that moment. In which case, hands were then dismissively waved in the air and the
moment deemed, “No big deal.”
But it was all worth it, right?
While I was pregnant and would tell people that I wasn’t enjoying being pregnant, after I gave birth
and then told people it wasn’t the warm-fuzzy experience I thought it would be, everyone’s reply was,
“But she was worth it, right?” This always bothered me. It’s one of those statements that feels like a
backward compliment, or a snide remark in polite company. You’re not sure what to do with it, yet
you are desperate to give the person the benefit of the doubt, to believe they didn’t really mean it that
way. It was as though they were telling me I should shut up already about my discomfort, about the
searing pain in my back, about the constant nausea, about the trauma of giving birth. It got to the
point that, when I got done telling my birth story, I would preempt them, and finish by saying, “But
she’s worth it.” This would please them, but the words felt wrong in my mouth, as if I were making
an excuse for something.
I was lying in bed one night, after a 3 am feeding, when I realized what truly bothers me about the
"worth it" statement. Why is my daughter’s worth as a child, as a person, or as a daughter, in any
way related to the pain or discomfort I experienced in bringing her into this world? And by the same
token, why is the pain and discomfort I experienced somehow mitigated by her incredible worth?
When I express the trauma of her delivery, or the displeasure I had while being pregnant, I am not
saying, “I hate my daughter, my daughter is worthless.” I am merely painting a picture of truth. So
why is it that people seem to want to paint my experience as worthless, or, at least, less worthy, in
comparison to her worth? Why do they need to compare it at all? Why do they need to be sure I
value my daughter?
What’s up with this warm-fuzzy image we have of pregnancy and childbirth, anyway? I do know
women who claim that pregnancy was the best time of their lives, that they were happiest while
pregnant. And I believe them. But the experience these women explain is, to me, like a glossy
magazine ad in a parenting magazine, a baby-powder scented insert between the pages. It is not real
to me. This is the birthing experience the marketing companies said I would have. It is not the
bloody, liquid, gooey event that happened to me.
I relate to the women who say they hated being pregnant, that childbirth truly sucked, and that they
are now madly in love with the product of all this pain and suffering. My protective instincts, my love
for this child, my fascination with her – these are fierce and strong willed, and altogether very
separate from my negative emotions regarding how she came to get here. The two issues are separate
and distinct, one having nothing to do with the other. Her worth is not intrinsic to my pain. My
experience is not dulled by her value.
The truth of the matter is that this is not a Barbie and Ken world, where you lift off the top of your
belly and pull out the plastic infant that is nestled in your otherwise-empty abdomen. In my real life,
the doctor cut me with a scalpel and seared me shut with some tool that cauterizes flesh. My
daughter will know the story of her birth. She will, as she gets old enough to hear it, know about the
discomfort. Surely, spanning the years this journey of parenthood will take, I will make mistakes. I
will experience lapses of judgment. I will undoubtedly injure the psyche of my child irreparably, as
only a mother can. But if there is one thing I vow to do, if I succeed at only a single goal other than
simply keeping her alive, well fed, and warm, it will be this: She will always know her worth.
to Normal From the Crisis Mode, and raising her daughter, Delaney. More of her work will appear in The
Normal Review, to be published in Fall 2006.
