Fist of the cosmos - or the truth about giving birth

This blog post is for my friend who is due to give birth soon and asked me if it was really that bad. Well, not every birth is a taxi crash, lasts 72 hours or ends in a near-death experience because the uterus doesn't contract. But unfortunately, I have to admit, even conventional births are not for the faint-hearted. What surprised me most about my pregnancy was how a positive urine test can have so many negative consequences. By which I don't even mean the support stockings, the acid regurgitation and the general listlessness, but the myriad of dangers that suddenly seem to threaten pregnant women and that are supposed to be contained with all kinds of tests. I felt like the shopping trolley of a cheerful flat share. Everyone gets to throw something in. Buy now! Pay in nine months! And then came the most shocking question of all: «Where do you want to give birth?» Give birth? Isn't that some kind of urban legend? Won't it take nine months anyway? 40 weeks?

«Were all these people walking around here so guilelessly actually born once?»

On the other hand, I didn't want to end up on a stretcher like the woman giving birth in Monty Python, who has to open her cervix and close her mouth so that the machine with the «ping» comes into its own. No thanks, I said to myself, and registered at a birthing centre. I'll spare you the 40 weeks. Just this much: they felt like a return to a previous existence as a walrus. As the due date approached, certain questions became more urgent. Like poorly crafted subtitles, they were superimposed over everyday activities. For example, you're riding your bike with your belly and suddenly letters start to form sentences on the road: How the hell am I going to do this? Were all these people walking around so unsuspectingly really born once? How much will it hurt? And above all: WASN'T THAT JUST A PAIN?

And then it came, the day of all days, the due date. I was quite the tidy boy scout, putting my ear to my uterus to catch any shy contractions in the wild. In the meantime, the sun was rising. Then it set again. Nothing had happened. The day had passed like a ship on the horizon and had ignored my desperate waving. My head began to mutiny. Refused to listen to these stupid contractions for even a single minute longer. And the body rushed to its side, trumpeting that it was tired of waiting and wouldn't take another step if it didn't finally start. Is he telling me, the traitor? But it's all his fault. A day over the deadline. Scorching sun. Nothing to drink. And the crew on general strike. What comes after day one? Emptiness. A dried-up valley.

««Just don't give birth in the taxi!» I prayed during the whole journey.»

Then came day two. I had long since resigned myself to my fate of perpetual pregnancy. And I welcomed my new self, 20 kilos heavier, with a tendency to water retention and uncontrollable flatulence. Then came day three. It was 9/11/2001, the twin towers in New York were shaved away. In shock, I ignored the first small cramp in my stomach. And the second, third and fourth. All the other cramps in the hours that followed. At some point, I started to pant. My husband grabbed the birth by the balls. He called a taxi. The driver was Indian and watched me so fearfully in the rear-view mirror that I tried to pretend everything was fine. I played dead during the breaks in the labour. And I breathed into the labour pains by cursing the idiots clogging up the traffic. Which didn't do much to appease the driver. «Just don't give birth in the taxi!» I prayed throughout the journey. And was answered.

Labour pains: Like being skinned and then rolled down a slope.

They undressed me at the birth centre, attached me to the contractions recorder and then lifted me into the bath. Now the contractions were strong. It was like being skinned and then rolled down a slope. But the good thing was that there were breaks. They weren't enough to smoke a cigarette, but I didn't smoke any more anyway. Instead, I had my husband dab my forehead. At some point the midwife said: push!

I knew that from films and still had no idea what she meant. But that didn't matter. Because at the same moment, the fist of the cosmos thrust from above through my skull into my uterus and squeezed. I screamed. One more time, said the midwife, it's almost time. Before I could ask myself why my torture maid was looking at me kindly like a cheese sandwich, the fist came again. And again. And again. And then it was over. I was peacefully bobbing around in Nirvana when the voice of my tormentor brought me back. Congratulations, it's a girl, she said and placed a bundle on my chest. The bundle had eyes. And looked at me suspiciously. A child, who would have thought? My child. This was the first day of my new life as a mum. I have never regretted it.

About the author:

Michèle Binswanger is a graduate philosopher, journalist and author. She writes on social issues, is the mother of two children and lives in Basel.