For someone who loves birth stories, just ask me and I’ll give you all the details of my kids’ birth…and I’ll make most of you regret you even asked…there are two birth stories that I don’t like. I’ll share one now; the other one will have to wait. This is my mom’s birth story of when I was born. She would tell it to me when I was a child, and I would cringe deep within me. I never let on that I didn’t like the story. In a strange voyeuristic—watching a traffic accident kind of way—I wanted to hear it…again, and again…
As my mom tells it, she was looking at a calendar trying to calculate when I’d be born. It was probably one of those free calendars hanging high on the wall, given out by churches , grocery stores, or gas stations. (side note: why do Mexicans hang pictures and calendars high on the wall, way above eye level? So the kids don’t mess with them? I know you think it’s a stereotype, but just take notice…).
My mom said that I was still two months away, but at that moment…my mom is a little bit dramatic…she said she felt something warm traveling down her legs. She looked down and felt between her legs. It was blood. Warm, wet, and red…not a good sign. My mom had miscarriages before and lost my oldest brother at delivery (the other birth story I hate), so I can somewhat imagine the fear that engulfed her, especially with a seven-month pregnancy. (I had a miscarriage once, and even at six weeks, the alien shaped clot of blood that passed through me onto the toilet paper was traumatic). She said my dad wrapped her in a blanket and whisked her off to the hospital. I can imagine he was probably driving at full speed. He always did have a heavy pedal, even when trying to get me to school on time, the few times that I asked him. He was one of those drivers who couldn’t fully stop at a stop-light or stop sign…he was an “incher” if you know what I mean. Inch Up. Stop! Inch Up. Stop!
At the hospital, my mom said the doctor couldn’t locate my heartbeat. She said she remembers him putting his hand on her forehead and saying something to the effect that he didn’t know (no sabia). He didn’t know if I was alive or dead. They cut her open. They took me out of her womb that had experienced both the gift of life and the sorrow of trauma. I was born back in the day… Today this might not be such a big deal…fetuses as young as 25 weeks old are being brought from the brink between life and death. Not to say that it’s the norm, but the technology has made my birth less “miracle” and more “mainstream.”
My mom said the doctor told her I was a “miracle.” That I had survived was a miracle. I don’t know what caused my premature delivery. Perhaps placentia previa? I don’t know…I’ve always been weary to ask…maybe for myself, but also for my mom. Would she want to relive these moments? And why, anyways, did she feel the need to tell me all of this when I was a child? (I think I have an inkling).
I think my mom wanted me to know that I was a survivor. At least that is how I choose to read it now. I made it through…no one was going to declare me dead before me time. As a kid, though, I felt the weight of guilt every time she told that story, whether it was just to me or to a group of family members. I was conflicted…I wanted her to stop, but I wanted to hear it.
And then it just got worse…she said that I was so strong that I was able to go home before she did. She told me the doctor had said that we almost both died. What? Yes, we had almost BOTH died. So, how does that make a child feel? I’ll tell you now. It made me feel guilty as all hell, thinking that I almost killed my mom. I couldn’t articulate that as a child, but, damn…I’m sure that’s why I always hated the story of my birth.
And even then, an intersecting story is what my mom told me about my tia Anita’s comment when I was born: “no tiene ojos de color” (she doesn’t have eyes of color). Recall, brown is not a color. My mom was older when I was born, and it was pretty clear I was the last baby. My beautiful mom with the green eyes and white skin had four (maybe five; I still don’t know how to count my oldest brother) brown eyed, brown skinned children before me, and my tia said I was the last hope for “ojos de color.” Even at near death, …the message was that ”ojos de color” are important…
As an adult, I just wish to take with me from that story that my mom thinks I’m strong…”ojos de color” or not, she thinks I’m strong. We are both strong.
beckygmartinez 