Friday morning, whilst my two sons were engrossed in the Disney channel’s morning programming, I slipped away for a quick shower. As I normally do, I secured the bedroom door with a quick whisk of the hand and a gentle yank at the knob to ensure the door was closed. I went on to shower and then entered the bedroom to clothe myself. I was taken by surprise when the bedroom door flew open and in a blink of an eye my two year old was standing right in front of me. With lightning speed I reached for the nearest article of clothing to cover my naked body – specifically my pelvic area.
I soon discovered that my efforts were in vain when in a very squeaky two year old voice my son asked, “Mama you got ouchie?” as he pointed to the horizontal crescent shaped c-section scar that spanned my lower abdomen that I desperately attempted to cover.
“Yes sweetie. Mommy has an ouchie. Now go to other room and watch t.v. with your bro-bro.” I quickly rebutted to encourage him to leave the room so that I could finish dressing outside of his inquisitive eye.
My son seemed unaffected by my somewhat agitated response and stood firmly planted in front of me. He gazed at my attempt to cover my pelvis with wide probing eyes that resembled two hard boiled eggs with a splash of black ink in each center.
“Mama, you ouchie hurt?” He started in on me again.
“No, Mama’s ouchie doesn’t hurt anymore.” I replied while reminiscing about the weeks of pain and discomfort my scar had in fact caused me in the past.
Just before turning to leave the room, my two year old gave a final look at the covered area and then stated, “Mama, I don’t like that ouchie.”
Well, that makes the two of us… I thought sarcastically to myself.
The truth is I don’t like my scar. At times, I’ve even hated it. Over the years I’ve moved choppily from having disdain for my scar to simply feeling indifference toward it. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to reach a place where I accept it. My struggle is, in fact, that my scar isn’t going away; it’s a permanent marker – a forever reminder – of my inability to give birth naturally. But why am I unable to succumb to this realization?
Is it because, as a commenter to Dying to have children stated, my scar makes me feel like a failure because it bellows that my body refused to do what it should have done naturally? Perhaps. At times, I’ve felt less of a woman because of it. Women have been spitting out babies from their wombs since the dawn of time, so why couldn’t mine cooperate, I’ve often sulked. I imagine there is something empowering, bonding, connecting for a woman to give birth vaginally, knowing that other women around the world have enjoyed that same success. She automatically gets entry into the sisterhood of the natural-birth achievers. I’ll never get a pass into that accomplished club. My body failed me.
Although, I didn’t procure membership into this group, at my core I wonder if this is the true reason I feel shame regarding my c-section scar. Do I get so emotional about it because it reflects on my courage or daringness to be a risk taker? I pride myself in being a revolutionary thinker, an adventurer looking to push myself beyond my own expectations. This is probably the reason I begged and pleaded with my ob/gynto give me a chance at a natural birth because I was certain I could achieve this despite his assurance that my situation was grave enough to potentially lead to death for my son or me. Needless to say, I went with his advice because there was never a question in my mind that it was worth it to be a risk taker at the expense of my children’s safety. Again, I’m left questioning the real source of my feelings toward my scar.
I was raised in a family of believers, where the sky was truly the limit. I was taught I could do anything I wanted as long as I subscribed to strong worth ethic and took into consideration all my options. This mindset was securely engrained in my psyche when I left my parents’ home and it shaped my approach to education and career. I surrounded myself with choices and gave each opportunity great forethought. This approach was also evident in my spiritual journey and world view. For years I deviated from my cultural upbringing and examined other philosophies and religious doctrine. It was important to me that I didn’t simply endorse my parents’ values and beliefs simply because I was nurtured in a certain environment.
In our progressively pro-choice society, where we as women are continually gaining authority to make informed decisions regarding our bodies, it’s ironic that I wasn’t permitted a choice concerning the most basic primitive right of a woman – birthing a child. I always assumed if I chose to have a child my dilemma would be whether or not to choose a home birth or a hospital birth; a midwife or a doctor; a water birth or hypno-birthing and the list goes on from there. The thought that I would be forced into a decision that would leave a permanent scar both physically and mentally never crossed my mind. I’m conflicted with my emotions because beyond the agony of two c-sections I was gifted two bouncing amazing little people that I absolutely adore. I’m trying to reach that place of acceptance. It’s a work in progress for me. Share with me, my fellow moms of hue, I am the only one who has difficulty finding beauty in imperfections?
About Ana Gazawi