War Stories

I take my own life in my hands to write this blog entry, but there are times when you have to stand up and share the truth though it endangers your very life. I risk upsetting the most dangerous and unpredictable of human beings…

The pregnant woman.

There is no more deadly beast.

Pregnancy seems to be a right-of-passage for women, without which, other women who have been through it don’t consider you “woman-enough.” As a man, I watch as a disinterested, uninvolved party; I am the narrator on the Discovery channel watching another species, trying to understand the unusual behavior that they are observing.

It is interesting to watch the herd behavior when a young woman becomes pregnant. She shares, with excitement, the amazing news that she will now be involved in the miracle of life. The matriarchs of the herd begin to gather around this new pregnant woman shaking their heads, moving into place as part of an amazing and unusual instinct.

Each woman takes her turn in a carefully orchestrated ritual, as old as time itself: the telling of war stories. First, one woman tells her story of pain and horror, speaking of hours of labor, blood, sweat, and pain. She is usually the youngest, the most recently pregnant, and the one who has little experience in telling her story.

Then, the next woman goes, telling a slightly worse tale, each woman topping the previous story. Somehow, by instinct, they know where there story fits among the others so that each has a turn increasing the terror of the poor new mother. They put Navy Seals to shame as they recount their tales of tearing of flesh, muscles cramping, screams of pain, and blood gushing.

Finally, the last woman, the one with the most gruesome story takes her turn. Any men who may have stayed for a story or two have long since run away in squeamish shock and revulsion. We just aren’t strong enough to take this kind of pain. The new mother is beginning to look green and is reconsidering whether she wants to be part of this awful experience. This final story will be the worst of all, a tale of woe that would terrify the stoutest of hearts. With relish and a careful use of all of the dramatic storytelling tools, this final Queen of the Matriarch shares her account of struggle in the trenches of the birthing room. Nothing is left hidden, all is fair game. Bodies are torn apart, deep scars are left, death is approached. Listeners are left bereft of hope, shell-shocked with fear and emotional exhaustion.

You have to wonder why anyone would go through this, and yet most of these women have more than one child.

As a man, I have observed this behavior time and time again. I have to wonder why they don’t encourage each other. “It’s hard, and it will hurt, but you’ll make it through, we did.” It’s no wonder that so many women have epidurals despite the potential for harm to both mother and baby.

Maybe someone could suggest to these women that there is a better way.

Of course the narrator on the discovery channel never sits down with a group of lionesses to suggest a better way of finding food.

I’m not brave enough or stupid enough to challenge a group of moms. I know they can smell fear.

I think I’ll just stick to observation from the jeep.