Greetings from planet progesterone!
I just entered the third trimester of pregnancy and am feeling round and slow and stupid. I use the word “stupid” despite it being a no-no in the motherhood (“stupid,” like “poop,” is so terrifically repeatable) because it captures my current state quite accurately. I’m not saying that all pregnant women are stupid, and I’m certainly not saying that all stupid women are pregnant. But, I happen to be both right now. I put the leftover pizza in the drawer with the plastic wrap instead of the refrigerator. I pour the cooked pasta into a colander on the countertop so boiling starch water flows all over the counter. I walk into the bathroom looking for the blender. I have to ask people to repeat themselves. Sometimes more than twice.
For those of you who have never been pregnant, let me try to describe it. The progesterone-heavy state is similar to a moderate dose of Xanax. For those of you who have never taken a moderate dose of Xanax:
it’s a bit like when you first get stoned and aren’t sure if you’re “feeling it” but your friends are all looking at you funny. For those of you who have never been stoned: it’s sort of like having stomach flu or being severely anemic except without any pain. I’m talking about a slightly vertiginous feeling that often proceeds but is not the same as the hot-faced feeling that signals you are about to pass out. And if you’ve never had stomach flu or been anemic or about to pass out? Well, lucky you, please send me your secret.
Anyway, it’s not a trippy feeling or an emboldening inebriation, just a slowed-downess, a stupidness, a slightly dulled and astonished state of mind. This makes sense. After all, the purpose of progesterone is to stop things from happening. Progesterone is the magic hormone of pregnancy. It is “pro-gestation,” and keeps the uterus from making spontaneous movements. Estrogen (also an important pregnancy hormone) tells us to pay attention, but progesterone tells us to be patient and wait. It is only at the end of pregnancy when progesterone drops off that labor begins and gestation comes to an end. I think of the progesterone-state as a heightened attachment to the status-quo; it’s an anti-revolutionary hormone.
In my first pregnancy the feeling of being altered freaked me out. I kept thinking, “what’s wrong with me? I don’t feel like me! What’s wrong with me?” I just wanted to be myself. But this is my fourth pregnancy, and I know I’m not me or like me, and I’ve come to appreciate that there is a kind of composure to this stupidness, an equilibrium to this slowness. I trust, this time around, that I have a decent chance of regaining my normal acuity (and natural discomposure) when the progesterone drops off. In the meantime, there is something anti-anxiolytic about my delayed visual and auditory tracking. Before I can rev up into a worried state about something, something else is happening. I am not sharply perceptive (or “sharply” anything). Instead I have a feeling of being slightly removed from everything: a copasetic observer.
This is not a pregnancy blog. Nor is it an ode to progesterone. I mention my current location on planet progesterone for two reasons:
1. My tenure as your neighborhood blogger will coincide with my third trimester and (if you’re lucky) end with a suspiciously hollywoodesque big finish of the birth of the penisfetus sometime in early June. So, in the spirit of partial disclosure, I thought you should know the state of this blogger.
2. Altered states of consciousness and selfhood, the role of the poet-observer, action and inaction in poetry and the writing life, and modes of description are all topics that interest me and are, I think, of use in the discussion of writing and poetry.
More on both of these, particularly number two, soon. For now I will say this: I accepted Nick Twemlow’s invitation to blog knowing it might be harder for me to do so from planet progesterone but also hoping that there might be something particularly worthwhile in such an effort.
Recently, in response to my bemoaning and wondering at my pervasive stupidity, my husband asked if I would mind being flown by a pregnant pilot. Ew. What an uncomfortable question! I certainly don’t feel capable of flying a plane right now, but even on by best non-pregnant days, I’d be a terrible pilot. Do I think it appropriate for pregnant women to be restricted from the normal activities their jobs require? As a rule, certainly NOT. On the other hand, to say that I am the same as usual and capable in usual ways is not true.
It isn’t political correctness but an intellectual and aesthetic motivation that leads me to wonder if rather than being “impaired,” I am “differently able” or “otherwise inclined.” If I don’t kill myself by way of some clumsy oversight (thankfully we have an automatic pilot light in the oven or I surely would have asphyxiated by now) there might be opportunity here. Perhaps this is what the yoga teachers quietly encourage in their mellifluous voices, “Notice where you are, don’t judge, just stay where you are, and notice what you feel.” There must be something new I see when I am too slow to move on, a new relationship to language I experience when I have to struggle for words that usually come easily. And I’m certainly not the first writer in history to experiment with writing in an altered state! It’s just that mine is constant over several months and ends with something more glorious and lasting than a massive hangover.
So, I’ll write where I am and try to describe my view of poetry world from planet progesterone.
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