Carmela: A Short Story

¹ “Face presentation. Deep mentum transverse,” said the doctor. The baby's chin was facing the birth canal. There was no way to keep pushing for a natural birth. Carmela was grateful she had planned for this. At least, in her mind she had.

No one dared mention the word “cesarean” at Perla's baby shower. Carmela was sitting at the round table with the other women of the ladies' committee. Perla was a celebrated woman in their small city, one of six daughters, a destined entrant into the sacred cult of maternity to which some already belonged and all others aspired. With Perla's “rite of passage” on the horizon, the women pontificated about orgasmic births and patterned breathing exercises. They spoke as if a cesarean weren't an option at all. Besides Perla, Carmela was the only other pregnant woman there. She looked at Perla across the table and tried to tap her with her stare—it worked. It usually did. It was one of those things she couldn't explain, but Carmela was certain that if she stared at someone long and hard enough, she would eventually coax at least a short glance in return.

Perla met her gaze—she was thinking about it too. The other women at the table had forgotten or had no idea what it was like to fear for one's life in those dark private moments of the night—the few seconds when no one was listening and no one could catch you in the thought-act—What if this creature kills me on its way out?

Carmela found it all so absurd, the world's perverted obsession with natural birth. Of all things, why was this the singular process that required a woman to proceed without synthetic intervention? She thought of ripping wax, digging girdles, hot combs. But this drug, which allowed for the preservation of a birthing woman's organs and sanity, which could create some space between the joy and pain, the soul and the body—why not?

Perla yielded first, broke the eye contact. It was a clear message. Whatever her thoughts were about the birthing question, she was not commit