The Birth
The labour went on and on, hour after hour, contraction after contraction, no progress and no respite. Lamaze was useless; we tried everything. Exhaustion threatened and the doctor became worried.
I was worried and lost, exhausted and absorbed in pain. What was I even doing there, in the wrong place? In the wrong body, the pregnancy uncomfortable, the birth agony. My role useless.
When finally my daughter arrived, I was detached. She, mine and yet not mine. I, neither father nor mother. It was seven harmful years before I could bond with her, until I became me and so fully hers, when she did have me for her mother and I could care for her as my child.
I was present at my daughter’s birth, which was very difficult for all of us, each in her own way. Later divorced, a deeply troubled and distant ‘father’, I raised my daughter from age 5. She was 7 when I began medical transition, and we finally began to bond. It was not easy, we had so much to recover from and I had so much to learn. Single motherhood is hard, but we became very close and got through it. We both became better, healthier, happier people. We made it.
This is #9 in the Transitional Moments series.
#1: Livename, #8: The Book, #10: Fish Sandwich
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