Higher Ground, Anke Stelling [historical books to read .TXT] 📗

open to negotiation. It’s all about power. It’s never too early to realise that the circumstances in which you live are not arbitrary and certainly not inevitable. They are based on decisions and beliefs, and the next thing you should ask is: whose?

My mother, for example, was told by the midwife in the modern hospital where I was born that breast milk was harmful and nursing would ruin her breasts. She should use formula instead. And then the nurse pulled out a sample she’d been given by a rep from a food company that had global operations, even back then, and gave it to my mother. The rep’s briefcase contained not just samples, but the results of a scientific study too, which was why he didn’t need to pay a commission to the midwife for getting new mothers addicted to his product. The midwife was convinced she was doing the right thing. My mother ate nothing but semolina for weeks on end to be able to afford the exorbitant formula while her breast milk dried up.

‘Okay,’ you say, ‘it’s a pity that Granny couldn’t afford to buy herself a steak back then.’ But just a moment, madam, I’m not finished yet. Yes, it was a pity for Granny; but for the children in Kenya and Kuala Lumpur, it was fatal, because their mothers diluted the formula to half the required amount for their babies’ feeds, and their children starved. And, of course, you could also say: ‘They only have themselves to blame’ and ‘Why didn’t they listen to what the midwife told them and while they were at it, why didn’t they stick to what it said on the leaflet?’ And that’s exactly what the food company lawyer said too, adding that their study proving the harmfulness of breast milk wasn’t manipulated, but well founded. Because contaminants had been found in breast milk — such as fertilisers and insecticides for the corn that was needed to feed all those cows whose milk was the basis of formula. Do you see what I’m saying, Bea?

Bea sighs. Gives me that look that still has a touch of the newborn about it: I wonder when it’ll disappear once and for all, and whether I’ll scare it off with my stories.

Maybe I will. But I’ve made my decision. I’m going to teach Bea the facts of life, no holds barred. I’m going to tell her everything I know.

So — January 2003; Leipzig.

A freezing winter morning back in the old days. An expensive, self-imposed home birth. The coal stove was so hot I almost wanted to yank open the window. A little girl, my first child, was born.

There was Sven who cut the umbilical cord, his face rigid with concentration. His expression changed to delight when the midwife handed him his new baby so she could sew up the tear in my perineum. Oh, I nearly forgot. Do you know what a torn perineum is, Bea?

Bea covers her ears and sings. She doesn’t like me going into this much detail, but a torn perineum provides the perfect opportunity to talk about the female sex organs. I am determined to do this more often in the presence of my children, even if I can’t find the words. And how am I supposed to find them? No one gave me any.

The midwife strapped on a headlamp. The kind that campers and rock climbers wear. So that she didn’t have to put on the overhead light and dazzle the baby, but could still see what she was doing.

I don’t know if I can get across how much this woman between my legs with the lamp strapped to her forehead meant to me, and the fact that her expertise didn’t need any bells and whistles.

The midwife borrowed her idea from outdoorsy people. She came up with an ingenious solution to satisfy her need for bright light and the baby’s need for dimness. She used her head not once, but twice or three times over, kept her hands free, and looked so lovely with those elastic headbands crisscrossing her hair. The midwife made me realise that the airs doctors put on when attending to patients — which I’d thought were intrinsic to being a doctor — were just that. Instead of putting on airs, she put on her headlamp. With her bottom lip sucked in, she wondered whether three stitches would do: and then decided they would.

I really don’t want to torture you, darling. In a moment I’ll get back to the part about how sweet you looked in Sven’s arms, and how happy we both were to have you.

Just one more word about my torn perineum. After two days, I looked at it using a hand mirror. I was terrified of what I was going to see because my muff — sorry, not a nice word either — no longer felt as if it were mine. It felt swollen and deformed and very alien. Much more alien than it looked. It took a while for the bruising to go down and the tear to heal completely, but then my muff was mine more than ever, probably because we had been through so much together.

Sven gave you back to me, and you started to feed. From my breast, which I don’t want to emphasise too much because, in the meantime, the propaganda has done a U-turn. Breastfeeding is a must these days, an opportunity to test whether you’ve understood what it is you have to do. What if you feel there’s no alternative to breastfeeding? That’s right: immediately stop and think. Who says so, and why? Who stands to gain from it and who to lose? What path might have led you there?

It might have been me, for example, with my speech on formula: a paving stone on the path to breastfeeding. My voice, telling you it’s not only convenient and cheap but intimate and beautiful too. Ask Sven, and he’ll tell you a different story. Like, no sooner was