Reliving The Tree of Life

Back before the birth of my son, we engaged a Doula to help us through the birth. Below is one particular memory of the pre-birth engagement...

---

---

Today the Doula came to visit. The good lady had me up early scrubbing the toilet because obviously, women can be a bit odd about visitors and clean toilets, Perhaps she wanted to show that we could have the baby in there if push came to shove.

The allotted time came and the Doula bustled in. My head was slightly tender from last nights beer so I had my strategy all laid out for getting through the next couple of hours. A simple strategy, but none the less one which I am sure would make this visit relatively painless. The strategy was threefold.

Firstly: Smile a lot.

Secondly: Make reassuring noises at the right times.

Thirdly: Nod thoughtfully, perhaps even stroking my chin with forefinger and thumb. Maybe throw in a narrowing of the eyes once or twice.

I served up coffees for us all.

At first it all seemed pretty harmless. She talked about organising childcare for when the main event kicked off.

I nodded thoughtfully.

The talk turned to the birth itself. Calming music and water baths were discussed. My good lady and the Doula agreed with each other on their joint thinking.

I made a reassuring noise and nodded.

The Doula asked if we wanted to keep the placenta.

I choked on my coffee and made a loud spluttering sound. They both looked at me with some concern.

Are you alright Daddy?

Asked the Doula. Never mind how incongruous that seemed. The only people who called me Daddy were my daughter and the good lady and even then she reigned it in when our daughter wasn't present.

I coughed again.

Something went down the wrong way.

I smiled. Then nodded, like one of those ornamental dogs in cars. The placenta?! Why the fuck would we want that purple ham shoulder of terror?

You know the placenta is actually quite beautiful in a very natural way?

I stared at her with a mounting sense of terror and the urge to *boak.
*_{Boak being a quaint Scottish term for vomiting profusely.}

In some cultures they call it the Tree of Life, all the arteries that lead to it are like branches with the organ itself like the beautiful tree canopy. Some people like to take it home. You can use it in smoothies.

Right, that was it. I was all set to get the broom from the cupboard and chase her with it the way I would an errant fox that strayed into my kitchen. Instead, I sputtered,

Yes, although I understand that's not everyone's cup of tea, other people like to bury it in their garden. It having nursed their child through all of its life in the womb. It's very respectful.

Why?! Why the fuck would I want that thing buried in my garden? I have watched far too many zombie films to have that lump of twisted meat lurking there under the soil plotting my fucking doom. What if I woke up one night and it had forced it's way in and crawled up and tried to force it's muddy way into my mouth?

That was it. I was going to tell this Doula straight. There was no fucking way we were taking that thing home with us. No way!

Urgh no. Thats bloody disgusting.

The good lady butted in, thankfully saving me from full on melting like that dude at the end of Raiders of The Lost Ark.

Ok, if you are both sure.

I narrowed my eyes and nodded thoughtfully. Slowly stroking my chin with forefinger and thumb.

Yes, we're sure.