Jesus Christ.

I had a Caesarian section when I had my son, my only child. He went breech while I was in labor; I didn't want a C-section, but the hospital mandated it. I thought it would be better to do that than threaten the boy's life so I agreed.

All went fairly well, I was out of the hospital like a rocket within three days - I still remember hobbling wildly around on day two, clinging to my IV stand and trundleblasting through the hallways because I was desperate to get walking and get out of there. The cost, you know.

My precious son, bless his little heart, when he started breastfeeding he had this habit of kicking his legs wildly. I would often breastfeed him lying down, we both got used to that, and this leg-kicking habit tore my C-section wound over and over again. I tried to put blankets between us, to protect the cuts but his little toenails would just push all the covers away and tear me right up.

After about two weeks I developed the most God-awful fever, and the surgery wound was just all fucked up, swollen and red and misshapen - initially the surgeon had been so proud of the incision and stitch job he had it photographed.

I went back to the doctor; I had a horrific infection, the doctor had to lean on my torso with both hands, pressing copious amounts of the most evil substances out of the wound. My poor guts were trashed, I was on antibiotics for I don't know how long, and the scar is still pretty visible sixteen years later, though my body doesn't generally hold scars for long.

C-sections are no joke. I can't imagine the horror of my guttiwuts actually falling into my hands, as close as I thought I came for a while there. Hospitals seem to prefer them to ordinary birth, though I can't imagine a good reason for why that would be.