The birth narrative--what can we learn from it?

Six weeks after my first son was born, I went to see an expat massage therapist in Cairo. I know my body needed some care and healing. When I arrived, she gave me a questionnaire to fill out. I had answered these type of questions before when in the States, but there was one question that surprised me. What is the story of your birth?

No one had ever asked me to recount the story of my birth. I could tell her the story of my son's birth, but that it not what she wanted to hear. She wanted to know what my body remembered.

I had never thought of my body as having a memory until then. I preceded to tell her that I think I was stuck in birth. I know my collarbone broke on the way out. I was a big baby. That is all I knew. I was sad I did not know more about my body's physical and emotional histories.

I went home that day and started to write the story of his birth so he would know something of what his body might remember. Maybe years from now someone might ask him. I want him to know.

In writing that narrative, it was clear to me that the story of my body was intricately linked to the story of his body in that moment. The magic of birth stems from all the work the body does to do what it naturally wants to do: to birth.

And then in writing that narrative, I realized that wrapped up in the story of his birth was the story of my emotions. This is crucial. If the body holds a memory like the massage therapist suggested, then certainly emotions hold a history. I could tell him two narratives of his birth. Hour by hour, I can chart what happened physically. I can tell him what the birth was like for me. I can share what I think it might have been like for him.

Then I might tell him the story of my emotions. I might use these words to give voice to this story: anxious and yet calm, scared and yet powerful, rhythmic like the ocean, afraid to let go. Afraid to let go.

I remember my midwife, who was a friend, said to me, "why are you holding back?" At the time, I didn't think much about it, but while I wanted to birth this baby, I was also scared of my loss of control. I want to be able to write the story, all stories, beginning from end. I want to know how everything will end. I want to plan and write my way to it. It was the same for his birth, but I knew that in the moments of his birth, I was loosing control. Tight lipped and holding on for as long as I could, I finally allowed my body to do what it needed to do. I finally let go, with a bit of kicking and screaming. I simply did not want to let go and thankfully, my body won.

If a body holds on to an experience like birth, and if a body holds on to all the emotions of that experience, then certainly my current relationship with my son, even ten years later, holds some of that experience, holds some of those themes, and holds some of that fear of letting go.

Letting go in birth is probably one of the most common ways women might begin to articulate what birth is and can be like. And with one's first born, I think there is a common tendency to hold on too tightly. Every stage we go through with our first born child is always new. We don't know what to expect or how it will end, but I now realize this: every birth has its own narrative or its own theme and somehow the way we tell the birth story reveals something about the way we might relate to that individual child. For instance, the phrase I might use for my first birth might be "Letting go." My second birth, "I caught you." My third birth, "Wow, my body really did that standing on my two feet." Each narrative can have the power to shape my relationship with my children. I might have not had power to coerce my body or my emotions during birth (I would never dream of doing that now), but I do have the power to heal old patterns.

Letting go more fully. Letting go of the whatever I hope the outcome might be. Letting go of even thinking that I need to focus on the outcome of any situation, yes, that is where I want to be. Letting go and allow my son to be who he is becoming. I have very little control over knowing or shaping the end of his story or mine for that matter, but in the act of letting go, I can focus on what really matters--filling our relationship with lots of love, understanding, and listening ears.

Birth is that powerful because it still teaches me so much.