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War Story - Cesarean Poetry (Angry)

WAR STORY
by Mary Most
June 94 After her first ICAN meeting

I wish someone had told me,
I wish I knew how much the section would hurt
for weeks, months later.
Years.
My throat closes up just remembering,
I shudder and get quieter.

The ICAN meeting was a forum for my feelings
at last, at least.
Though I don't see anyone there
forgiving themselves for this operation,
this interventive delivery,
this surgical birth.

What do you want? A baby. You got one.

No, more. An image of
laboring in harmony with the child,
in a loving helpful embrace with my husband,
soft music, a gentle cheering section
of nurses and midwives and doctors
in clean white gloves handing
the squirmy grateful puddle
onto my nurturing breast.

Not beeping machines and IVs and
stretched out on this strange cruciform
each arm reaching to the walls,
tubes in my spine, and the reflection
of my own bloody entrails
in the overhead fixture.
I'm shivering, so cold, please hold
my hand, don't go
away, don't leave me now, they're not
done with me, I'm lying here
awake and my body is open
to the air like some awful hara kiri,
crucified and
DISEMBOWELED ALIVE

and you have left me.

Now the whole room only cares about him,
why is he crying too
what are they doing to my baby let me see
him let me have him let me hold him
I can't ask with this mask on my face,
my empty arms strapped down,
my legs numb I cannot move.
Why am I here alone, no one left
to hold my hand and they're putting
bloody organs back inside me,
I am open to the wind and so alone

I don't even have my baby anymore.

I was just a body,
these methodical doctors and
technicians working efficiently,
coldly, mechanically
Like a car they could just
disconnect the battery and close the hood;

I was not a person.

I was not a person for weeks, for months.
Dehumanized.
Until I closed the door
on the Room Of Pain, picked up my child,
and went outside.