When my son was two, a fellow mother from my son's play group told me that in Bali a child is revered as a gift from God. The Balinese believe that their babies descend from the world of God and until their child reaches six months in age, the baby holds a god like status. Once a Balinese child has reached six months, a ceremony, or oton, is held. During this ceremony the baby is allowed to touch the ground for the first time as a sign of joining the human world. How beautiful I thought, that children are like pieces of God. There was something comforting in the knowledge that perhaps we all grow into adulthood with an intimate connection to a higher power.
As we continued our conversation I commented that Balinese beliefs seemed distant from the ones we see every day in America. We lamented over the recent news story about a man who had been arrested after he broke his eight-month-old son's leg just to know what it would sound like. A woman was released from prison after serving six months, plus time served, for killing her two-year-old child. “But, is it any wonder that we place such little value on the lives of children when we place no value on the lives of little babies?” she said.
I confessed to her that even I had once succumbed to the pull of society, to the lies we tell our young girls about being strong, independent women. Then, I began to tell a story about a hot June morning, fourteen years ago, when I had sat in the girl’s locker room of my high school. The changing room was small and what little light we were afforded came through three basement type windows that sat in shade for much of the day. The sunlight that did find its way in seemed to be instantly absorbed by the gray walls.
Most of the girls had left, no doubt to wait for final announcements. The idea of being left alone in the grimness of the changing room hastened me into action. As I began to dress, I noticed another girl leaning against her locker with her hands on her abdomen. I found it startling that although we had been in the same gym class for an entire year, I still did not know her name. She seemed to be a ghost of a girl who rarely said anything, hardly participated, and was often marked absent even though she stood a few feet from the gym teacher.
As a sixteen year old, I thought I had the world figured out and wasn't afraid to be an assertive woman or speak my mind about any issue. Therefore, I had no problem speaking to this girl even though she was a senior, a full two years ahead of me. “Are you okay?” I asked.
She complained of cramps, and I offered her some Midol. She accepted but said she didn’t know if it would do any good. These were cramps from an abortion earlier in the week.
For a moment I was stunned. Although I considered myself pro-choice at the time, I had never actually met anyone who had undergone an abortion. I was also shocked in her ability to confess it so openly, as if we were talking about the boys we had crushes on. I wanted desperately for her to believe that I was a strong, young woman as well, and that abortion was our right because it was our bodies. However, I never once took the time to truly consider what all of us “independent” women were doing to children who had no voice.
Something within me shifted, and there was a feeling of disconnect. “Was it difficult?” I asked.
“No. Actually, it was my third time so the routine is pretty much the same.”
My ribcage expanded then tightened against my shirt. My lungs no longer wanted to breathe. My ears did not want to listen. Something didn't seem quite right. Against the voice stirring in my blood, the knowing I held in my heart, I assured her that, of course, it was her right to do it. We'd been taught by society that the baby within her was an it, and if you couldn't feel it, hear it, or see it; than it didn't matter. And, after all, we were women, equal to men. We could make decisions on our own about our own bodies since it didn't affect anyone but ourselves.
Fourteen years later, at the age of thirty, I became connected to something larger than politics. At six in the morning my husband helped me into our vehicle, and we began the drive to the hospital, nearly thirty minutes south of our home. Our son was overdue and stubborn, so the doctor would have to induce. As we drove down the highway in the darkness of a January morning in Maine, the snow began to fall. Though it accumulated quickly on the road, it never seemed threatening. Instead, it seemed as if the universe had come along to welcome our son and had insisted on escorting us down the highway. The snow swirled on our windshield, played along the hood of the car and created a sensation of peace that connected to my spirit. I felt at one with everything God had created.
For seventeen hours I labored with my child. It seemed that even the snow had tired and by evening, had stopped completely. Finally, at three in the morning I was wheeled to surgery. Unfortunately, the spinal didn't seem to be working as I had been able to wiggle my toes on command for the doctor. I would have to be fully sedated.
Lying on my back, I looked at the white light above me, could hear the steel instruments being laid out, felt my husband's hand slipping away as they led him out. The surgical mask gripped tightly against my mouth, and I panicked, afraid that I wasn't receiving enough oxygen. Desperately I struggled to remove the mask. My shoulders lifted from the white sheets but movement seemed to stop at my elbows. In the fear of the moment I did not realize that restraints were holding my arms firmly in place. My lungs screamed for more air. I began yelling for help,but the sound was muffled under thick plastic, and the doctors averted their eyes. Perhaps if they pretended not to see me or hear me, it made their job easier. It was as if I didn't exist. Tears fell down the sides of my face. “Please, God.” I thought, “Just don't let me die before I see my son.”
When Spencer was brought to me nearly an hour after he was born, I sat upright in my bed with my arms stretched out anxiously. He was gorgeous. His hairline was like the top of a heart that framed his round face. As if he knew who I was, he opened his eyes and they seemed to be completely black, almost other worldly. In that moment my love for him was absolute and complete. My tears seemed to be an intrinsic response to the connection we shared. At that moment I understood his significance in this world.
Soon after, his little tummy full of my milk, he fell asleep in my arms. Carefully, I unwrapped the hospital-issued blanket that surrounded his body. Everyone says you should count their toes and fingers but I just wanted to look at them. His fingers were long, the nails oval. They were my hands. My mother's hands. His eyes were round and blue like my husband's.
My husband and I lay watching over him. All three of us cuddled on the hospital bed and marveled at the feeling of being a family. My husband and I were amazed at the creature sleeping between us. We seemed captivated and in awe of his perfect little parts. To think, my husband said, that at the moment of his conception there was a plan. He wasn't just a blob of cells but a person, someone of meaning. Each cell knew exactly what it would become right down to the smallest details: the shape of his knees, the little freckle on his lower back, the curve of his ears. It had all been created in an instant, a complete human being no bigger than the top of a man’s pinky.
In the dark of early morning and against light cast from street lamps, I watched the snow pile on the ground and along the ledge of the window. The storm had picked up again to create a beautiful, wintry setting for our son’s birth. The serenity of the storm seemed to seep into our hospital room, lulling us into a sense of contentedness as we fell asleep. In the moment before sleep I understood God’s connection to me and through that my connection to all things and all people.
I wish I could go back to that moment in high school when I sat with a girl so wholly unconnected to herself and the children she had carried. I would sit on the hard gray bench that lay between our lockers. I would tell my classmate, that the strength of an independent and capable woman, of all humanity, lies in our ability to connect with one another. The connection is a gift given to us before we are born, pieces of God, given to all things. Perhaps in Bali they understand a child’s connection to God, and in turn, a woman’s connection to her body and the child within her.
As we continued our conversation I commented that Balinese beliefs seemed distant from the ones we see every day in America. We lamented over the recent news story about a man who had been arrested after he broke his eight-month-old son's leg just to know what it would sound like. A woman was released from prison after serving six months, plus time served, for killing her two-year-old child. “But, is it any wonder that we place such little value on the lives of children when we place no value on the lives of little babies?” she said.
I confessed to her that even I had once succumbed to the pull of society, to the lies we tell our young girls about being strong, independent women. Then, I began to tell a story about a hot June morning, fourteen years ago, when I had sat in the girl’s locker room of my high school. The changing room was small and what little light we were afforded came through three basement type windows that sat in shade for much of the day. The sunlight that did find its way in seemed to be instantly absorbed by the gray walls.
Most of the girls had left, no doubt to wait for final announcements. The idea of being left alone in the grimness of the changing room hastened me into action. As I began to dress, I noticed another girl leaning against her locker with her hands on her abdomen. I found it startling that although we had been in the same gym class for an entire year, I still did not know her name. She seemed to be a ghost of a girl who rarely said anything, hardly participated, and was often marked absent even though she stood a few feet from the gym teacher.
As a sixteen year old, I thought I had the world figured out and wasn't afraid to be an assertive woman or speak my mind about any issue. Therefore, I had no problem speaking to this girl even though she was a senior, a full two years ahead of me. “Are you okay?” I asked.
She complained of cramps, and I offered her some Midol. She accepted but said she didn’t know if it would do any good. These were cramps from an abortion earlier in the week.
For a moment I was stunned. Although I considered myself pro-choice at the time, I had never actually met anyone who had undergone an abortion. I was also shocked in her ability to confess it so openly, as if we were talking about the boys we had crushes on. I wanted desperately for her to believe that I was a strong, young woman as well, and that abortion was our right because it was our bodies. However, I never once took the time to truly consider what all of us “independent” women were doing to children who had no voice.
Something within me shifted, and there was a feeling of disconnect. “Was it difficult?” I asked.
“No. Actually, it was my third time so the routine is pretty much the same.”
My ribcage expanded then tightened against my shirt. My lungs no longer wanted to breathe. My ears did not want to listen. Something didn't seem quite right. Against the voice stirring in my blood, the knowing I held in my heart, I assured her that, of course, it was her right to do it. We'd been taught by society that the baby within her was an it, and if you couldn't feel it, hear it, or see it; than it didn't matter. And, after all, we were women, equal to men. We could make decisions on our own about our own bodies since it didn't affect anyone but ourselves.
Fourteen years later, at the age of thirty, I became connected to something larger than politics. At six in the morning my husband helped me into our vehicle, and we began the drive to the hospital, nearly thirty minutes south of our home. Our son was overdue and stubborn, so the doctor would have to induce. As we drove down the highway in the darkness of a January morning in Maine, the snow began to fall. Though it accumulated quickly on the road, it never seemed threatening. Instead, it seemed as if the universe had come along to welcome our son and had insisted on escorting us down the highway. The snow swirled on our windshield, played along the hood of the car and created a sensation of peace that connected to my spirit. I felt at one with everything God had created.
For seventeen hours I labored with my child. It seemed that even the snow had tired and by evening, had stopped completely. Finally, at three in the morning I was wheeled to surgery. Unfortunately, the spinal didn't seem to be working as I had been able to wiggle my toes on command for the doctor. I would have to be fully sedated.
Lying on my back, I looked at the white light above me, could hear the steel instruments being laid out, felt my husband's hand slipping away as they led him out. The surgical mask gripped tightly against my mouth, and I panicked, afraid that I wasn't receiving enough oxygen. Desperately I struggled to remove the mask. My shoulders lifted from the white sheets but movement seemed to stop at my elbows. In the fear of the moment I did not realize that restraints were holding my arms firmly in place. My lungs screamed for more air. I began yelling for help,but the sound was muffled under thick plastic, and the doctors averted their eyes. Perhaps if they pretended not to see me or hear me, it made their job easier. It was as if I didn't exist. Tears fell down the sides of my face. “Please, God.” I thought, “Just don't let me die before I see my son.”
When Spencer was brought to me nearly an hour after he was born, I sat upright in my bed with my arms stretched out anxiously. He was gorgeous. His hairline was like the top of a heart that framed his round face. As if he knew who I was, he opened his eyes and they seemed to be completely black, almost other worldly. In that moment my love for him was absolute and complete. My tears seemed to be an intrinsic response to the connection we shared. At that moment I understood his significance in this world.
Soon after, his little tummy full of my milk, he fell asleep in my arms. Carefully, I unwrapped the hospital-issued blanket that surrounded his body. Everyone says you should count their toes and fingers but I just wanted to look at them. His fingers were long, the nails oval. They were my hands. My mother's hands. His eyes were round and blue like my husband's.
My husband and I lay watching over him. All three of us cuddled on the hospital bed and marveled at the feeling of being a family. My husband and I were amazed at the creature sleeping between us. We seemed captivated and in awe of his perfect little parts. To think, my husband said, that at the moment of his conception there was a plan. He wasn't just a blob of cells but a person, someone of meaning. Each cell knew exactly what it would become right down to the smallest details: the shape of his knees, the little freckle on his lower back, the curve of his ears. It had all been created in an instant, a complete human being no bigger than the top of a man’s pinky.
In the dark of early morning and against light cast from street lamps, I watched the snow pile on the ground and along the ledge of the window. The storm had picked up again to create a beautiful, wintry setting for our son’s birth. The serenity of the storm seemed to seep into our hospital room, lulling us into a sense of contentedness as we fell asleep. In the moment before sleep I understood God’s connection to me and through that my connection to all things and all people.
I wish I could go back to that moment in high school when I sat with a girl so wholly unconnected to herself and the children she had carried. I would sit on the hard gray bench that lay between our lockers. I would tell my classmate, that the strength of an independent and capable woman, of all humanity, lies in our ability to connect with one another. The connection is a gift given to us before we are born, pieces of God, given to all things. Perhaps in Bali they understand a child’s connection to God, and in turn, a woman’s connection to her body and the child within her.
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