Blow it up like a placenta
I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to ingest my placenta.
Before you succumb to your gagging reflex, let me explain.
No one would ever liken my first pregnancy to a hot-air balloon ride. I threw up almost every day – multiple times. I had to quit smoking. I didn’t love my daughter’s father, but stayed in denial because I doubted my ability to raise a child on my own.
I felt weak. And I hated that. But still, it was a refreshing dip in the pool compared to the horror that awaited me as a new mom.
Last night in our newborn childbirth class, surrounded by a classically awesome group of parents-to-be, we swaddled our infant dolls, and my mind swirled with questions evoking feelings I’d been stuffing for the past 10 years. Can I handle breastfeeding eight hours a day? Can I manage skin to skin – holding him non-stop like experts recommend – for the first three days?
Our instructor kindly reassured me. You’ll be fine, she insisted, you’ll do what you can. And that will be enough. I nodded my response, but in my head I began to relive an old nightmare.
I could feel the emotions wash over my body. My cheeks beat bright red, I fervently focused every ounce of my energy to stop myself from bawling.
I keep thinking, yes, it was hell, but you were in a completely different place back then. This time will be different.
20 years old. Suddenly strapped with a helpless little being who naively depended on me for her livelihood. A boyfriend who thought he knew everything about raising babies, but whose life, in reality, had done nothing to teach him how to love. Let alone how to parent.
My body felt used up. One year earlier, I was spicy hot, rocking short shorts, fake lashes, spaghetti straps.
Nothing fit anymore. My belly, my butt, my face sagged. I shriveled pathetically.
And we were poor. He was a fry cook. Every baby item we owned (minus the stuffed elephant I bought for her when I was seven months pregnant (pictured below)) came from the charity bin. Medicaid. Food stamps. WIC. Still, we barely scraped by.
At first, I tried the make-it-work approach; I diligently lugged his greased-stained clothes to the laundromat. I bought Good Housekeeping magazine and poured over it to find delicious recipes (which I knew we couldn’t afford to make). I rocked our baby when she cried, my tears flowing alongside hers.
How. Was. This. My. Life?
Two weeks postpartum, my doctor prescribed happy pills to deflate the balloon of sadness that had begun to envelop me. She neglected to tell me though, in the state where we lived, after six weeks, mommy is no longer covered under Medicaid.
The pills ran out. There was no money to begin with. The steakhouse where he worked didn’t offer health insurance.
I remember taking my last pill, praying I could handle the inevitable pop.
My prayer didn’t help. The balloon burst and the noise deafened me. I lay in bed, shrinking.
I thanked God we lacked the funds to pay our phone bill. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Generally, I’m not afraid to go to the dark places of my past. When I began to heal those wounds, honesty became such a pivotal part of my recovery. Confession warded off relapse.
But I never go back that time. I’ve all but blocked it out. I’ve never felt so alone. I had a couple of friends, but I pushed them away, so ashamed of who I had become. My boyfriend had friends, too. But they didn’t like me. They slapped my self-worth around better than I did.
I just kept falling deeper.
In that space, I couldn’t imagine the true love I’d one day find. I dared not dream of releasing my sick coping mechanisms. I believed they were the only things keeping me alive.
In class yesterday, I felt myself falling back into the depths. For a moment, I didn’t know if I’d be able to find my breath.
And then someone asked about placenta encapsulation. I gasped, breaking through the murky water’s surface. I began to answer questions, animatedly, and with confidence. Suddenly, I understood why I’d been so compelled to try them – to research all their benefits.
OH, this is why I’m so comfortable eating the organ that grows in my uterus. Like a magic bubble. My personal flotation device.
These are my new happy pills. They will sustain me as I rock and cry with our sweet Brooklyn baby. And Medicaid can’t take them away.
August 23rd, 2011 at 2:56 pm
That was beautiful!
August 24th, 2011 at 1:48 pm
Thanks!
August 23rd, 2011 at 7:01 pm
I agree with Andrea – beautifully honest. H xo
August 24th, 2011 at 1:49 pm
Thanks Hana! xoxo
August 23rd, 2011 at 11:00 pm
I love you and I love this. You are amazing. This time is going to be so different. You are different. xoxo
August 24th, 2011 at 1:50 pm
I love you and think you’re amazing, too. Hope you get to witness it (the birth, I mean). xoxo
August 24th, 2011 at 2:44 am
Hi Brandy, Wow, you have a gift with writing! This is so real and honest. Sorry to read that you went through such a difficult time. Good luck with your second child and the placenta encapsulation. I’m sure that everything will be great this time!! Wini (via Flying class) xo
August 24th, 2011 at 1:51 pm
Thanks Wini and thanks for commenting! It’s a gift I’m very thankful for and one I’ve paid particular attention to cultivating these days.
August 26th, 2011 at 12:17 am
Oh, Brandy – you are using your gift of writing to heal YOU and others in such wonderful ways. I didn’t think I could have another either. For very different reasons, but it all boils down to fear. And you are such a warrior now and so ready to do it again. You get to change the way the story goes! Big love to you.
August 29th, 2011 at 11:20 am
Thanks Liv – yes, that’s a beautiful thought. Changing the way the story goes.
August 26th, 2011 at 5:09 pm
i LOVED reading this and hearing your voice; and the strangest part is that yesterday at lunch my boyfriend’s friend was over and talking about eating placentas. my best friend is a midwife, so we talked about all of the benefits. he said, “eating placentas is sweeping the nation!” wishing you a beautiful and graceful birth! xo
August 29th, 2011 at 11:22 am
Haha, thank you! Eating placentas is sweeping the nation, I think. In little itty bitty pockets.
August 26th, 2011 at 11:43 pm
I’ll be honest. I started thinking, “there’s nothing she can say that will make me think this is a good idea” And I had no idea where your story was going. But once again you captured me. Good on you. And it made total and complete sense at the end. Of course you will do that. And it will help. Much love!
August 29th, 2011 at 11:24 am
Haha, Elizabeth, your comment made me laugh out loud! My friend who introduced me to homebirth thinks consuming placenta in any form is SUPER gross. And I did too for a long time, so I definitely feel you. But I’m touched that you felt I captured you. Thanks for commenting!
August 29th, 2011 at 5:56 pm
swooning over your gorgeously wordsmithed writing
and even more over your beautiful brave heart.
loving and lifting you, dearheart:)
-Jennifer
September 5th, 2011 at 6:08 pm
Aw shucks. You’re too much.
August 30th, 2011 at 11:46 pm
[...] Taking care of a newborn wasn’t much better. Though I did regain my youthful strength eventually, I suffered severe postpartum depression. [...]
November 19th, 2011 at 4:32 pm
[...] in the experimental phase. We could barter (I edited my friend’s website and in exchange she encapsulated my placenta to make happy pills for me). If this post touched your heart or your forehead, I'd love it if [...]