Scar

Am I 

Less of a woman? 

I look down at my body and see

The lumpy flabby small stretch of flesh that

Just a few days ago was taught and large

Like a beachball people said

My navel back in place

And no trace left of the

Small bump they said would slowly deflate

Just this fold of flab that was inflated so

And beneath that

A scar

Four inches long

Healed in the fastest time that defies logic

A scar

That sits between my navel and crotch

That few people will see

But will define me forever

A scar

That was cut so you could breathe your first breath

So that you could come gasping into the world

Small mouth gulping 

Crying as I was told 

That you were 'he' and not 'she'

A scar. 

Unplanned is the preferred term

Instead of emergency

In half an hour my labour changed from pain to bliss

As my agonising pains became paralysis

As you took your first cry and breath

As your father held you, tears streaming down his face 

Relief after the potential loss of you and me

This is my reality now

A scar 

That defines me 

That challenges me

To think what the terms 'giving birth,' 'delivering,' and 'labour' mean

Even the term 'woman' 

Am I less of one now? 

Are these tears ones of joy or

Ones of sorrow? 

But I look at your face

Your uncompromising, beautiful face

That mop of fuzzy fair hair

And deepest darkest blue eyes like an ocean

This is my reality

You are my reality

And my world

And though our meeting was unplanned

Though you stubbornly remained in that warm, dark space of the womb 

I know for certain

You are worth a thousand scars 

The mother

The mother is twenty seven years old.

She lies in a fairly uncomfortable bed in southside Glasgow, facing the bright lights of a midnight metropolis. A series in two parallel lines pointing to the sky paint a picture of a Thatcher era skyscraper. They are white, pure white like the sun on a warm spring's day. Yet this is not spring. Nor is summer. Instead it is the dead of autumn, with leaves steadily falling across the view like droplets of rain.

In her belly is a human. A human who is very reluctant to leave the safe, warm environment into which she was grown. After all, who would want to leave their mother's womb? Who would optionally vacate such a practical place where one is fed, watered and cared for every day? The world is a dangerous and scary place. It is better ones remains inside where it is protected, secure and one needs not care about the problems facing the future.

The mother, however, is not fond of this arrangement. Her belly is large, a girdle as big as any woman's, a weight far more than she has ever known. It has been forty two weeks and this partnership has gone on enough, in this way at the very least. She longs for the small infant human to be out, to agree that they should embark on the next phase of their relationship. Exhaustion, tiredness and emotional distress plague the mother and she longs for only relief and release as her joints begin to ache from all the suffering. But she cannot sleep in her own bed. She cannot curl up with her own husband and pillow. She cannot howl for the moon in her own home, stuffing her face with her own homemade cupcakes.

Why? Because her parasite is stubborn. Because her baby is unwilling. They are unhappy to be removed and have decided that to be born would be a mistake. And thus, the mother is in agony. She feels incredible sorrow. Tears flow down her face as she takes yet another breath and fears she will not be able to sleep.

Time is of the essence. Hours come and go, the second hand ticking by counting towards the next treatment. The next examination. The next midwife. Agonising hours. Hurtful hours. So long, yet so little time.

The baby stays where they are, not budging, refusing. The mother cries.

She is twenty seven years old and has never been more in pain.