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a ticle
TheMonthly QuarterlyEssay SUBSCR B LOG
Australian politics, society & culture
ay The ation Revie e A t & Lette Blog To ay The Sho tli t Daily Vi eo
T MO T LY SSAYS
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BY AL C PU G
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hat are
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“W
doing?” my hospital roommate
asks. I’m standing by the door
of our shared bathroom, towel
you
JU
M D UM L GT in hand, waiting for the nurse to
R AD return with a shower cap. In
TOP CS
Society
antenatal classes I was told a
Family an warm shower is comforting
elation hip
when going into labour, but I
YOU AR don’t want to give birth with wet
R AD G
/
hair dripping down my back.
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Regi te fo walked over to the bathroom as
a ticle f ee a
month
my contractions began. “Didn’t
your mum teach you? You can’t
FROM T FRO T PAG
wash your hair for 30 days a er
S AR you have a baby, so you must do
Self effacing
Email
it now. This is your last time!” I ‘Mike Parr: Foreign Looking’
Facebook smile and thank her for her brings the anti-institutional
Tweet advice, then slink back to my artist to the National Gallery of
side of the room. She has a Thai Australia
Google+
accent, and I know exactly what
LinkedIn
she is talking about, but pretend A goo ay in The ag e
not to. I also know that she will
http://mnth.ly/AD86bj9
Australia’s tactics in the Timor
sequester herself in her heated Sea oil dispute have been
house for at least 30 days a er shameful
giving birth, refrain from
washing her hair, maybe not T mp Wo l gain ome g o n
even shower, and live on a diet And the warp-speed media
of special soups and tonics. cycle gets even crazier
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only insurance being that I stay home all the time,
only venturing to and from work. “Don’t go to
Little Saigon Market in Footscray,” Mum warned
me. “You’ll slip over fruit scraps on the ground,
fall and miscarry.”
“
Not all of our fathers beat their sons
Not all of our mothers froze us out as
teenagers because they themselves
survived by abandoning their own
mothers at 15 in the camps. No, most
of us had parents who loved too much,
who smothered us with their care,
their solicitude, their ever-present, all-
enveloping anxiety.
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and overprotective of their parents. All
grandchildren are joys to their grandparents, but
this rst grandchild means something more to my
father, who has seen the death of so many
children he knew and loved. Although he never
directly mentions this feeling of loss, my father
has always spoken with yearning of having “four
generations under one roof”, the ultimate Chinese
idea of a blessed family.
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got them. We are all strangers to one another but
the anonymity is comforting. We don’t share
personal stories, because this is not therapy.
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Kabat-Zinn’s original mindfulness program is
eight weeks long, requiring one to two hours’
practice per day. This program is shorter, Kristine
says, because “I couldn’t ask pregnant women who
are already so busy to commit to this level of
practice. Yet the great thing about pregnancy is
that there’s a deadline, and having this deadline
focuses women’s attention. And if they are paying
attention and focused, their practice will be
concentrated.”
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Kristine draws a diagram on the whiteboard of a
series of peaked hills. She explains that these
represent labour contractions, with crests being
the height of pain and the dips the reprieves.
“Most people are scared of pain, so in between the
pain they worry about the next wave and tense
up,” she says, “but if you learn how to be in the
present moment, you will not fear the pain.” A er
a 60-second reprieve, Kristine instructs us to pick
up the ice again, but this time to breathe into the
stinging sensations. We are encouraged to count
our breath, make a low humming voice, even
smile. The more aware I am of the pain – noticing
that it comes in waves – the less energy I waste in
ghting it.
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My waters break on a Saturday evening a er
dinner at my parents’ house. My husband, Nick,
and I return home, I pack a bag and we walk to the
Royal Women’s Hospital, feeling excited
anticipation. Something is happening, and when it
does happen, it is not the worst pain I’ve ever had
in my life. Who knew that 45 minutes holding
melting ice in my hands could prepare me so well
for the next ve hours? In labour, you realise how
nite your energy is. I don’t want to waste it by
crying, so I start humming instead, louder with
each increasing wave. I know I must sound
ridiculous to the Thai woman in the next bed, the
one who insisted that I wash my hair, but I no
longer care. I now understand why monks chant,
and cows moo. Someone arrives – I wonder if it is
the nurse with the shower cap. “The nurse told me
that I’d nd a very happy singing patient in Bed
21,” the midwife says when she sees me, “and she
was right.”
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O
ur baby is born at 35 weeks, but when he
is put on my chest, I don’t understand that
he is premature and small. Because I am
also small, he seems a perfect size for me. He’s a
strange creature, looking up at me with one grey
eye and two yellow eyebrows, one curiously
raised. The other eye is stuck shut. Marvelling over
his matted black hair and miniature nipples, I
cannot believe that this little person folded inside
me has come out in one piece. I am euphoric. I
look at Nick, battle-weary, still holding my hand.
Like an Olympic runner I’ve been fully
concentrating on getting through the task, but
patient Nick had to wait out the protracted
minutes and hours as a spectator.
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O
ur baby stays in the NISC for another
week. He is in a humidicrib, and two days
a er his birth he has a feeding tube put in
his nose because his blood glucose level is low. I
wake up at six in the morning and visit him until
11 at night. I am there so he can have a feed every
three hours, and I also hold him against my chest
so we can bond. It feels a lot like falling in love, but
without the agitation or self-doubt. For that one
week I am lucky enough to do nothing but be with
my baby. I’m also lucky enough to be able to
return home and sleep through the night, while he
is in the expert hands of the nurses. I walk home,
grateful for our public health system and happy to
be a taxpayer. Tax away, I think, if this is the kind of
treatment every mother and child gets.
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later in life.” I don’t tell her about the
physiotherapist who encouraged pelvic oor
exercises immediately. Whenever my mother sees
me at the hospital, I am in a big red chair with my
baby on my chest, either feeding him or warming
him like a human heat pod. This sedentary
existence pleases her immensely.
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Weet-Bix for breakfast, and she yells at me for
that, loud enough to startle the baby so that he
unlatches from me. “You never listen to me,” she
scolds. “You’ll make your baby sick and then you’ll
be sorry! And why is the heater turned up so high?
You’ll su ocate him!” Her tirade goes on and on.
Annoyed, I growl at her to stop hassling me. My
mother is a series of contradictions: she wants me
to stay warm but now we’re too life-threateningly
warm; she was happy to see me feed the baby in
the hospital but now she wants him exclusively
weaned on the bottle; and she wants me to eat
grains but not breakfast cereal!
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Indeed, this diagnosis accords with the World
Health Organization’s observations that the
puerperium – the six weeks following birth – is a
critical period, as most maternal and infant deaths
occur during this time.
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mother, I have been unexpectedly freed from
worry: the more my parents fret over our baby,
the more I am able to choose to be a calm parent,
to understand that this is not an innate
temperament, but a feeling of safety derived from
secure and comfortable circumstances. It is a gi .
W
hen we take our baby to visit his great-
grandparents, my 83-year-old
grandmother tells me to drink wine
with every meal. “It warms the qi,” she says. “If
you can a ord it, buy the wine with the most
alcohol content.” When she gave birth to her eight
children, she had to make do with homemade rice
wine. “It was cheaper.” She also notices our baby
has a milky-white tongue, and suggests that I give
him a cloth to bite on as a remedy. “Ma, they don’t
do peasanty things like that any more!” sco s my
mum to her own mother.
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ABOUT T AUT OR
AL C PU G
Alice Pung is a
writer, lawyer
and teacher. She
is the author of
Her Father’s
Daughter and
Unpolished Gem,
and the editor of
Growing up Asian
in Australia.
COMM TS
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Recommend 27
Such a shame.
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rushvroom > Tigej • a year ago
What a blindly narcissistic put-down. "Why isn't this article about ME ME ME? I must post a comment
about ME ME ME!" If you want to see your thoughts and experiences represented, write your own essay
As you say, "your experience is not the experience of others."
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T S SSU
MOR T MO T LY SSAYS
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Doe iting matte ? C lt ec i i A game theo y
Richard Flanagan delivers the The arts funding cuts are just a Lovatts Crosswords gave its
inaugural Boisbouvier Lecture symptom of a broader malaise pro ts to employees. What
in Australia went wrong?
R C ARD FLA AGA
AL SO CROGGO R C ARD COOK
BLOGS
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The Lachlan i e Le on f om Deakin A goo ay in The
Scenes from the ooding of Alfred Deakin and the art of ag e
the Lachlan River in central minority government Australia’s tactics in the Timor
west New South Wales Sea oil dispute have been
JUD T BR TT
D A S W LL
shameful
MU GO MACCALLUM
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