I grew up in the shadow of my mother’s childbirth stories. I was born in the recently post-Soviet Poland of the early 1990s. The hospital was cold, dirty, and institutional. Partners and family weren’t allowed in the room. My mother gave birth surrounded by strangers. My father couldn’t touch me for days. In the shared bathroom down the hall, cigarette butts floated in the toilet.
Maybe that is why, whenever I think about pregnancy and childbirth, I have a hard time imagining it as anything but lonely. Having a body already feels so alien, so cumbersome, so ridden with grief. And we put ourselves through this claustrophobic metamorphosis as if it’s just fine. It’s fine.
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As an eldest daughter, I started taking care of other children almost as soon as I could physically lift a baby. We were deeply churched, and our friends were procreating constantly. I volunteered as a “helper” in the nursery during church services f…