My first child was born surgically, any other way would’ve killed us both. When they started to put up the curtain, I declined. I watched the whole thing. I saw my intestines put into a bowl, saw the hooks they used to pull aside my abdominal muscles, saw them pull him from me.🧵 The entire time, my ONLY concern was for my CHILD. None of it gave me any pause, not the sight or smell of my own blood, or my literal evisceration. My universe hinged on awaiting a single nose:
His cry. His first breath. My life, my identity, was being the portal for him.