She sat in my office—her curly hair pulled back severely in a pony tail, wearing a long sleeved, yellow flowered dress buttoned up to the neck, even though it was a warm summer afternoon.
Her story was a painful one. She told it in a soft, tentative voice, slumped over in her chair—almost seeming apologetic for taking up my time with her words.
Married right out of high school to a handsome, charismatic man who became, over time, a controlling and over protective husband.
“I try to please him, to be the obedient, submissive, stay at home wife he wants, but he says cruel things to me, mocks me, and I feel beat down.
When we make love he wants me to leave my nightgown on, and he turns off the light because he says he doesn’t want to see me naked. We hardly talk any more, and now this…”
“He’s so angry. He doesn’t want me to be pregnant. He said I would get disgustingly fat, and he told me that children would mess up our life,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “He also said that if I go ahead with this, I’m on my own.”
“And you? How are you feeling about having a baby?” I gently asked.
She slowly raised her head and looked around, as if to see if she would be overheard. “I really want this baby. More than anything I want to be a mother!”
“Well then,” I replied, taking hold of her hand. “I will do what I can to support you.”
Two weeks later she returned and told me that her husband had left her. “For the first time in years I am alone and I realize that I can finally breathe again.”
With every prenatal visit she revealed new discoveries she had made about herself. She started writing poems that she would share with me, revealing a deep and complex inner life. Slowly she peeled away the layers of insecurity and shame she had carried for so long.
She began to delight in her body—full and swollen with life. She wore form fitting tee shirts to show it off. “I feel so bold and brazen.”
We talked about the impending birth. “I think I’m as ready as I can be,” she said. My mother will help me.”
When she came into labor she looked confident and radiant.
She brought music to support her. The dramatic refrains of Beethoven’s Ninth filled the room.
She loosened her hair and let it cascade down her back. Her clothes fell off of her body and her eyes closed as she undulated and swirled to the music.
“I never thought I was capable of this. Wow!”
“…Damn, this hurts. How incredible.”
“…This is hard. This is so amazing.”
Sweat glistened on her body as she moved around the room. I was transfixed as I watched her immerse herself in the music, playing it over and over—with each contraction digging deeply into her vast reserves of courage and strength. She reached in and she found her power.
At the peak of the chorale she screamed, “YES, I HAVE BECOME A WOMAN, A MIGHTY WOMAN!”
With the next contraction her body began to bear down and an hour later she pushed out a nine-pound boy whose cry was strong and lusty.
Later as she lay there cuddled up with her son who was nursing greedily at her breast, she said to me with a satisfied look on her face, “Ode to Joy—perfect birth music, don’t you think.”
