Breathless

By Kristina Wright

As I write this in the wee hours of August 30, my stomach is undulating with my unborn son’s unsuccessful attempts to negotiate more space for himself in my womb. My ankles are nonexistent and my feet have swollen to the point that the only shoes I can squeeze them into are cheap Old Navy flip flops—and that’s becoming more difficult by the hour.

As I write this, I am excited and scared, worried and yet peaceful. My emotions rise and fall with my breaths, each one bringing a different concern or reason to be joyful. Above all else, I am filled with anticipation.

As you read this, I am in a bed on the third floor of a hospital in southeast Virginia, recovering from a Cesarean section and quite possibly holding my newly born son. My stomach is far from flat, but it is no longer stretched to capacity with the weight of the unborn baby. My ankles and feet are likely still quite swollen and I probably look like hell. And I don’t care.

As you read this, I’m likely in pain and/or on pain meds. I might still be feeling the effects of the IV drugs given to me during surgery. I have likely cried a lot of tears and laughed until I thought my incision was going to split. I am euphoric with the new mother’s high and I am filled with anticipation.

As I write this, I am attempting to focus on what happens after the baby is born instead of stressing about the surgery I’m about to endure. I am focused on getting through this last little bit of time before I arrive at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 6 AM on Thursday, September 1. I am trying not to think about the spinal block I will receive or the incision that will be made some time after 7:30 AM that will bring my second son into the world. I am breathless with anticipation of the future.

As you read this, I am not thinking about writing, editing, blogging, doing the laundry or the dishes—or what you think of me. I am exhausted, but I will not sleep much because I am in a hospital and that isn’t conducive to rest. I am focused on my new baby, on my toddler at home, on my body’s amazing abilities, on the people I call family. I am anticipating going home, getting to know my new baby and healing my body.

As I write this, I am hugely pregnant, I have a book deadline looming on the same day the baby will be born, I am exhausted, I am uncomfortable.

As you read this, I am no longer pregnant, the book is finished and submitted, I am still exhausted and uncomfortable, but for different reasons.

As I write this, I am the mother of one.

As you read this, I am the mother of two.

Writing is a process by which an author can convey a message. Time has a way of altering that message, changing its meaning and scope, making it more or less relevant to the reader. Writing is about building anticipation for the next scene, drawing the reader in, giving the reader a glimpse of something just outside his reach—a promise of the future, a secret no one knows, an answer to a riddle, a glimpse through a cracked door.

Reading is about extracting meaning and deciphering truth. It is a pact with the writer to have a little faith, to trust in the words and to hang on until the bitter, bloody end when all will be revealed.

Reading is about unraveling the mystery. It is anticipation in the form of pages being turned, paragraphs being skimmed quickly for instant gratification and then reread slowly and savored for their resolution.

Writer and reader need each other. In fact, they can't survive without each other. Lacking one, the other is pointless. Without both, there can be no anticipation.

As I write this, I am on the precipice of a life change, sleepless with the anticipation of what is to come.

As you read this, I have flung myself into the abyss, trusting that all will be well. I’ll see you on the other side. Promise.

Flesh and Words

Before having my first baby in 2009, I thought my only contribution to the world would be my writing. Black words on a white page (or screen) have always seemed more permanent than anything created from blood and bone and flesh. And yet... I now see my legacy as two-fold: the emotions I bleed into words on the page and the human beings I bring into this world. My blood, my life, in written and living form.

I am two weeks away from giving birth to my second child. He will come into this world the same way his brother did-- through an incision made by a surgeon's scalpel. The scar will heal in time, the numbness caused by cutting through muscle will linger forever. But there will be a second child of mine in the world, carrying my DNA.

Because of my age, I opted for genetic testing in both my pregnancies. This time around, I participated in a maternal fetal medicine study, which involved giving a vial of my blood. In the great scheme of things for pregnant women over a certain age, another vial of blood is as insignificant as a few strands of hair. I agreed, because I have benefited from modern medicine and wanted to be a part of a study that will help future generations of women. Plus, it was only some blood. I've lost a lot of blood over the years from awful menstrual cycles brought on by invasive fibroids, from miscarriages, from birth. This was a needle stick. Nothing at all.

It seems that as much as 10% of a pregnant woman's blood contains fetal DNA. Which means that, if that DNA could be isolated from the mother's DNA, doctors would need only do a blood draw to determine all sorts of genetic information that now involves invasive, painful and potentially risky procedures. Imagine the possibilities: with a single needle stick, being able to tell if your unborn child is carrying a genetic disorder. It boggles the mind.

It is also mind boggling to know that not only is my body possessed by the creature that wriggles and squirms and makes my belly bulge in odd and uncomfortable ways-- but this creature is also in my very blood. I am not myself. I am two people. For now. And in two weeks when a surgeon's scalpel separates us, he will still be part of me. For always. Much like my writing, sent out into the world, is still a part of me. Always.

The word legacy has historically been used to describe what men leave behind. Sons, land, reputation, laws-- the word legacy is filled with masculinity. It is about making a mark on the world, something women were long denied even though it was their blood that flowed to bring those men into the world. My two boys will set their own paths and make their own marks on the world and will carry in their veins the blood that contains my DNA. My legacy, or part of it, in blood and flesh.

I will wait and watch and wonder as my boys grow, pondering what about them is like me, what is like their father, what is like previous generations I know nothing of. Will they write? I don't know. Is writing a genetic trait-- or something that runs deeper than blood, soul deep? If they are of my body and my blood carries their DNA, are they also imprinted on my soul-- and me on theirs? It's a question for a far more spiritual mind than mine. But one wonders at the connection-- the cosmic umbilical cord that ties the generations together.

I am proud of my writing, of the metaphorical blood I have shed to find the words I want to share with the world. I am also proud of this body of mine and what it has accomplished despite odds that put my chances of bearing one child (much less two) in the 1-5% range. I am proud of my 20 month old toddler, who already demonstrates creativity, intelligence and kindness. I am proud of the baby I am carrying for thriving despite the odds, despite my age, despite a less than perfect uterus. I am proud of the legacies I will leave behind-- my life's blood in flesh and words. May they complement each other and make the world a better place.

Written in Blood

Image of a goddess sculpture by my friend Joan Relke and her long-term partner Carl Merten near Sydney, Australia.


My womb has always seemed like the deepest part of my mind: the unconscious, for lack of a better word. It knows things. Somehow it knows when to open the cervix, its little door like something in Alice in Wonderland, to let a baby or something else out. Then it closes up tight, leaving only enough space to spit out messages in blood.

I stayed awake through most of high school biology class. Later on, I gave a pop-up book to my young daughter that showed her (in three dimensions) her own reproductive plumbing. I still think the "experts" in human biology don't know half of it.

The womb is called the uterus in Latin. It is spooky. It is like a Muse that speaks in code.

When I was eleven, I dreamed about a body covered in blood, with a knife in its back. I thought this scary image had something to do with the Second World War, which was still discussed endlessly in the early 1960s. (All the parents of my generation had been in the military, or remembered blackouts and rations.) My mother tried to convince me that dreams don’t mean anything, since they’re not “real.” Nonetheless, I liked to write down things that seemed important, even if no grownup of my acquaintance would see them that way. So I wrote down the words on the note attached to the knife in my dream: Thursday 19.

Two years later, on Thursday, November 19, I saw blood again when I didn’t expect it, in junior high school. I was having my first period.

Time passed, and I discovered sex with guys. At age 21, I had a Torrid Affair (it had to be torrid because it sure wasn’t sensible) with Mr. Wrong, a friend of a male friend who invited us both to stay in his apartment after midnight for a late-night coffee. Our mutual friend left, but I stayed. Mr. Wrong, the descendant of a famous Scandinavian musician, liked to fantasize about being a Viking raider. He never actually served me coffee, but his hospitality was memorable. I didn’t get any sleep, and stumbled out the door in the morning in an altered state of consciousness to catch the bus to the university, where I was taking classes. I made note of the date when our date began: midnight of December 6 (or early-morning of December 7).

I lost touch with Mr. Wrong when I went to England with my family for a year. There I met another man, we become engaged and I imported him into Canada. We got married. In due course, we agreed to have a baby.

I went into labour at midnight on December 6, and gave birth on December 7, anniversary of the Japanese attack on the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, in 1941, which propelled the United States into war (and my dad into the navy). Okay, my womb probably didn’t plan to drop a baby to commemorate the dropping of bombs. Au contraire. My body seemed to remember the very different event that occurred exactly five years before.

My husband turned out to be another Mr. Wrong, and I became a single mother. I had a friendship-with-benefits with a university student who was due to return to his own country. I used a copper-7 for birth control. After a few weeks, my womb spat it out: ptui.

I moved into a co-op for low-income single parents, mostly women. I went to the one gay bar in town and started my first affair with another woman. My life was full of women.

My periods became unpredictable. On one occasion, I had one two weeks early while staying with my long-distance girlfriend. As it happened, she was having hers at the regular time (for her). I began "spotting" between periods. When I kept track of these episodes, I realized that they followed a 28-day cycle. My system seemed to be like a radio that could pick up any other station within range.

When my ex-husband remarried, his new wife was already pregnant. Several days before my daughter's fourth birthday, I had menstrual cramps from hell. I couldn't sleep, so I stayed awake to wait for my period to arrive. When it began, the cramps suddenly stopped like screams in the night that just end, without leaving an echo. I took note of the time: 1:00 a.m., December 4.

The next day, my ex-husband told me the news: his wife had given birth to a girl at 1:00 a.m. that morning.

Eventually, I started having a period every other month, then less often as I reached the end of my reproductive years. I still had mini-periods ("spotting") which could turn into the real thing when I was surrounded by other women. Once when I attended a festival of gay/lesbian/bisexual/trans choirs at the University of British Columbia, I realized that I had to find a dispenser of "feminine supplies" as soon as possible. There was too much inspiration.

There have been no messages from my womb for a few years now, but anything could still be in there. I don’t know everything that’s in my mind either.

One of my pet peeves in written sex scenes is the use of “womb” (usually by a male writer) to mean vagina/cunt/pussy/snatch/muff, etc. Blood from the womb can pass through the vagina on its way to the outside world, just as concepts from the subconscious can emerge into the conscious mind to be expressed openly. This does not mean that different parts are the same.

Blood comes from the deeper organ, which is a hollow muscle that can’t be deliberately flexed. Womb-blood reminds us that not everything is under deliberate human control. It’s our internal version of the ocean where all life is said to have begun. It's messy and leaves stains to make sure it can't be ignored.
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Touching

by Jean Roberta

Memory - Three yards of garnet velveteen stretch across my bedroom floor like a red carpet. I crawl around it, pinning on pattern pieces and stroking the soft skin of my future dress, the one I plan to wear to the school dance.

Every kind of fabric has its own personality, its own texture. Cotton alone has a multitude of modes, from crisp to soft, from thick to guazy. Working with fabric is a pleasure in itself, but then it becomes a covering for my own skin. When I admire myself in a new outfit, is it my body or my clothing that bedazzles? I can't be sure. But I don't think my teenage skin or my hair, no matter how clean or soft, can compete with material that invites the fingers of passers-by to touch it.

This is why I love to make clothes, to be my own fairy godmother. Every part of the process is seductive, from choosing a pattern and the fabric to cutting out the pieces, to sewing them together, to trying on the finished results. A bolt of cloth is like a rock seen by a sculptor: the statue is already in the raw material for those who can see it, and the cloth knows how it wants to be draped, hung, stretched, gathered or folded.

*****

Treating another person like an exotic object is rude, if not downright prejudiced. I know that. I should try to relate to the man I'm with, not his hair or his skin. I don't know how to ignore them, though. His skin is blacker than any I saw in the U.S., but it has the comforting, familiar feel of old denim. His hair is a marvel: soft and hard at the same time, an almost waterproof material I can crunch in a fist and watch it spring back to its original shape when I let go. His whole body is composed of generous curves: his nose, his mouth, his thick chest, his bouncy buttocks, the flesh banana at his crotch.

He can't possibly know how his body feels to me. I don't know how mine feels to him except by the way he touches it - where he lingers, where he explores.

*****

In some way, holding my newborn baby daughter is my first female-to-female erotic experience. Not sexual, not about tension and release, but completely satisfying. The warmth of her fragile body is exactly what my arms were made for. There are so many more ways to be intimate than most men seem to know.

*****

My wife's hair is never boring. It grows like a weed, it grazes her shoulders and tickles my face when we spoon in bed. It carries her smell, and it feels lush and smooth. I like to think I would recognize it even in a dark room full of other people.

Sewing seems to be a dying art, even among women. Some even brag that they can’t sew – as if a knowledge of that arcane skill marked one as a submissive throwback to a less enlightened time.

My wife is hardly submissive, and she can sew as well as she can repair small engines. She has studied both. She learned about fabric and thread from her mother, a professional dressmaker. The language of seams, fastenings, fit and washability is one we have in common.

She is a paradox: soft, flexible and durable enough not to show her age. Our bodies have changed over the years, but we still like to touch -- either because we still feel the same or because we always feel different. Or because only the one who touches can tell how the other one feels.

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