Whose Body is This?

I took this picture six days after my baby was born. I took it after I had a shower (ah, glorious shower). I’d been so tired from my newborn baby and so sore from my c-section that I hadn’t showered since I was in the hospital.

I looked down.

Whose body is this?

Knees still weak from 24 hours of labour.
A terribly sore midsection from my resulting c-section.
On closer inspection, an incision line still raw, cut, so my perfect baby boy could be pulled out safely.
These bruises, where did they come from?
This squishy tummy with no baby inside.
Bits of tape left all over my body from the IV and epidural that had been strapped to me.
Blood running down my leg from the mass exodus my uterine lining was making – no baby left to cushion.
My breasts, huge, veiny and engorged. Leaking milk.

Whose body is this?

Eventually, I had to pry my eyes away. Oh my eyes, burning from sleep deprivation. And my mind, desperate to go over what happened this last week but not one ounce of energy to think about myself.

All I could muster up the energy to do was take a picture. I needed to remember this moment. Little did I know it would forever be burned in my memory.

Along with the question.

Whose body is this?

9 months later, I stare in the same mirror. The bruises: gone, the incision: faded. But the question remains.

Whose body is this?

Cellulite, oh the cellulite.
Will these stretch marks ever go away?
Breasts, still leaking milk but no longer so swollen and sore.
Were my nipples this big before?! Will they ever go back to normal?
My bulging tummy gone but a flabby one remaining.
Hello abs, are you still in there?
My back so sore from hauling around a giant baby.

I whisper something to myself, the same thing I told myself yesterday the day before, “It’s okay Alex. One day this body will feel like yours again.”

But for now, the question burns through.

Whose body is this?






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