Illustration by Lilli Carré
I was born in a Dallas hospital, during that time when fathers paced outside delivery rooms. I have a hazy image of what childbirth demanded of my mother: dilation did not progress; there was an emergency Cesarean surgery that left a conspicuous pink scar on her lower abdomen. My brother’s birth left a second scar and a puzzling difficulty walking, which was never diagnosed despite another emergency hospitalization. She eventually regained her strength, but the ordeal of childbirth was precarious for her, and ramifications lingered.
She prefers to recall the joy and gratification of our much-hoped-for birth events. But that isn’t the whole story. The pain was excruciating enough that at one point this normally demure woman grabbed her obstetrician indecorously–by his Star of David necklace–and pulled him toward her,…
