The doctor takes one step back and pulls out something the size of the universe.ĪAAAH, I breathe into my hand. I don’t know how I know this or even if it’s true, but I know the doctor’s hands are around the baby’s ankles and I can feel her shimmying life out of my incision. Its unwillingness to turn is why I’m being cut open. Its stubborn head stuck underneath my right rib.

The doctor versus the strength that’s harboring inside of me. When the pressing stops, the pulling begins. She rises on her toes as she flattens me out. I am so grateful to feel anything that I almost say, “Hurt me.” The doctor’s hands knead my stomach like dough. “We have the baby’s feet,” says the doctor.

When she reaches my abdominal muscles, she separates them with her hands like my mother, who is waiting outside, used to unbraid my hair. She cuts through my tissues, slowly carving her way to my uterus. “I’m going to make the incision now,” the doctor says. The beating stops, and strangely, I miss it. Two folded sheets are placed under my arm. The doctor’s face behind her mask is unfazed by my clamoring. “Can we put a blanket under her elbow?” my doula suggests. I look at my husband, who is wearing scrubs but not a mask, and he looks incredibly young, too young to see his wife quivering on a table. “The shaking is normal,” the doctor says. “Is there anything you can do about her shaking?” my husband asks. I listen to it as I hah, hah, hah into my hand. I hear a knocking sound that is louder than the beeping and buzzing. A freezing sensation envelops me as if they were putting me on ice. I’m breathing as if I’m fogging up a mirror.

I cover my mouth and miraculously, I feel the tiniest hah on my palm. “Can we untie one of her hands?” my doula begs. I wonder if my body is sobbing, if my heart is beating. I turn my head away from them and clench my face. “Her vitals are fine,” my doctor replies. My eyes flutter into the fluorescent lights. I can’t wait to blindly touch the wall, but there is no coming up. “You won’t be able to feel your lungs,” my doctor says, “but you’re still breathing.” The needle in my spine has erased my body. I’m lying on the operating table crucifix-style with leather straps binding my arms. By Jennifer Lewis 0 THE BEATING: A Birth Story by Jennifer Lewis from RAD FAMILIES

Still beating jennifer