100% Cotton

Author: Qiu Shanshan
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-10-01
Features: The renowned military female writer Qiu Shanshan has newly released the essay collection "100% Pure Cotton." Through her personal life stories, the author showcases the preciousness of family bonds. The essays in this collection are all conversational in tone, focusing on everyday small incidents. Most of them are my old essays, or rather, works from my younger days, as I had just started working, just become a mother, and just began writing not long ago. My parents, my sister, my husband, my friends, my colleagues, my classmates—they (including myself) once appeared in my writing as young and joyful figures. They worried about work, toiled over life, yet remained vibrant amidst their struggles.
Excerpt: Before becoming a mother, I used to laugh at women with round bellies. But when I myself grew one, I suddenly felt quite heroic. A friend smirked, "You're looking like a kangaroo," and I wasn't even annoyed—quite fitting! On the street, I greeted other pregnant women with sympathetic glances or even compared whose belly was bigger. Perhaps this is the pride of motherhood? Many female friends who had already become mothers rushed to share their experiences with me. Those experiences were incredibly varied, some even terrifying. If categorized, they included: guessing the baby's gender, describing the pain of childbirth, introducing ways to alleviate it, and advice on postpartum recovery, dietary supplements, and more. Maybe my "kangaroo" appearance reminded them of their own days, so they first told me about the agony of labor. I listened, horrified. Afterward, they concluded with remarks like, "Forget family planning now—I wouldn’t even give birth even if it were open season! It’s like being torn apart!" Some simply said, "No adjective can describe it—just give birth and see." I said, "Then I’ll have a cesarean." "Oh, don’t go through that!" the cesarean friends exclaimed in shock. While cesarean delivery might be quick initially, the aftermath is even worse. The wound will hurt for days, and there’s a risk of infection. Even if everything goes smoothly, the wound will itch endlessly during rainy days. So I resolved to give birth naturally, no matter how painful—it had to pass. I’ve never heard of anyone dying from it.
Then friends shared with me how to "labor well." One said, during contractions, chew 200mg of calcium tablets, drink a bowl of fresh milk, and the pain would be less intense. (Though it was just "less intense," I kept this in mind.) This tip was supposedly from a foreign magazine. But a doctor later warned that too much calcium could make labor harder. Another tip was to avoid crying out in pain, to hold back, grit your teeth, and keep thinking, "I’m about to become a mother, I’m about to have a child." This was a psychological technique, and I took it to heart. According to the friends who shared these tips, giving birth to a boy is earlier, while giving birth to a girl is later. For some reason, I was determined to have a boy. Since giving birth to a boy was earlier, I started preparing in advance. Stewed pork belly with unseasoned green dates—though there was no salt, I ate it all, soup and meat included. I also prepared calcium tablets and packed them in my bag. Of course, I also prepared everything needed for the hospital stay, including small clothes, pants, and blankets for the baby—everything but the wind.
As expected, exactly eighteen days before the due date, I went into labor. The morning started with cramps that weren’t severe but were rhythmic. I knew this was labor. By the time my husband got home from work, I hurried to tell him, exaggerating the pain. My usually calm husband, flipping through a new go board book, said without looking up, "Today’s the 13th, and it’s Friday—bad luck. Should we wait until tomorrow?" Wait? This isn’t being hungry or thirsty—when he wants to leave, he can’t force me. I got angry, and only then did he agree to go to the hospital after eating. After dinner, the whole family, including the newly hired nanny, solemnly wheeled me to the "side chariot" (a wheelchair attached to a bicycle). My husband still seemed indifferent. I carried a stack of toilet paper and a pile of expired copies of the Health Journal—forced by the hospital’s gatekeeper when I first entered—into the ward.
As soon as I entered, I glanced at my two fellow "labor buddies." Their bellies were already flat, and their pain had passed, which made me envious. Their husbands, one tall and one short, were busy. The women themselves, meanwhile, were lounging comfortably in beds, chatting, surrounded by their well-wrapped little treasures. We naturally started talking—or rather, answering each other’s questions. They asked about my appetite, weight gain, and whether I’d had an ultrasound. I asked about their sons and daughters—whether they were born naturally or via cesarean, and how harsh the doctors were. They looked at me as if I were a seasoned veteran. The one with a son said, "You’ll definitely have a boy, just like me." The one with a daughter said, "You’ll definitely have a girl, just like me." I just smiled.
Now, my only concern was when I could finally get rid of this belly. They vividly described their recent experiences. I listened for a bit, then felt pain. When I covered my belly, closed my eyes, and clenched my teeth, they naturally paused to wait for me. Once the contractions passed, they resumed talking, as if in perfect sync. My husband arrived with a bunch of things. He forgot the toiletries but brought a small recorder and a few tapes, saying that listening to music with headphones could reduce pain, as the magazines said. I was skeptical but willing to try. I took out the calcium tablets, chewed them, and drank a large glass of orange juice with cod liver oil (to replace fresh milk), which made me feel more at ease. My husband, meanwhile, was ready for a tough battle—his pockets were filled with five packs of cigarettes, two go books, and a military overcoat.
My contractions became shorter. My husband checked the timer: every five to six minutes, the pain lasted for forty seconds. Both fellow "veterans" said it was still too early. It was already 10 p.m. The babies were taken away, the husbands were sent home, and the lights in the ward were turned off. Yet my contractions grew stronger. Fearing to disturb others, I bit the blanket and didn’t make a sound. My husband offered me the recorder to listen to music, but I didn’t even want to touch it. I immediately realized that listening to music requires a calm mind. He then offered me his hand. I remembered one friend saying her husband’s hand turned purple from squeezing it during labor, so I turned the tables and had him squeeze my hand as hard as possible.
At midnight, the pain became unbearable. I had planned to keep going until I was close to giving birth, but once in the delivery room, things would be serious, and my husband wouldn’t be there. However, after the on-duty doctor checked, she said my cervix had dilated to two centimeters and told me to come up. I grabbed my medical records and a roll of toilet paper and walked toward the door where cries were echoing. My husband gave me his last encouragement from behind: "It’s up to you now—be strong."
This delivery room had four beds. I was assigned to the third one, which coincidentally matched my room number downstairs, making me feel oddly reassured. A paper on the wall showed ten red circles, each one centimeter larger than the last, like a gaping maw. When I wasn’t in pain, I thought, "Why not paint these circles sea blue or pale yellow instead of red? It’s too stimulating." When in pain, I curled into a ball and counted the contractions, hoping to see how many it would take to pass. This helped somewhat—I never screamed. The other three beds were filled with people shouting and crying.
At 1:30 a.m., the pain made me groan. But after the doctor checked, she said my cervix had only dilated by one centimeter. I felt as if I’d been struck hard. Yet I didn’t dare give up. I knew that if my morale collapsed, everything would be over. I asked a nurse to relay a message to my husband outside to bring food and water. Later, my husband told me, his fellow husbands praised him for this gesture. After drinking some water (red ginseng steeped, said to give energy) and eating a few biscuits, I gathered my strength and prepared to fight. The bed next to me was already crying uncontrollably, her voice hoarse. The beds on either side were also screaming wildly. I felt strong, and the more I told myself that, the more I endured.
By morning, the shift change came. The new doctor checked and said my cervix hadn’t dilated at all. I couldn’t take it anymore. After a night of pain, my clothes were drenched in sweat, yet there was no progress. This kind of setback was even harder to bear than the pain. The doctor was also puzzled, saying my contractions were strong and she expected me to open quickly. She also found that the woman on the second bed hadn’t dilated either. The doctor told us both to go back to our rooms "to rest." I felt humiliated—how could I go back with my belly still swollen? The woman on the second bed was also reluctant to leave. The doctor scolded her, "Your contractions aren’t as strong as the third bed’s—why are you screaming so much?" Perhaps my silence and strong contractions swayed the doctor’s opinion. After sending the second bed away, she left me behind.
My husband stayed up all night, rushing to the door every time a gurney left, only to be disappointed and awkwardly retreat. When the nurse posted the board in the morning and saw my name listed as "cervix not dilated," he almost fainted. After a day and night of pain, I was exhausted. Even gritting my teeth, my expression was already strained. The doctor ordered a shot to let me rest. I drifted in and out of consciousness, in pain and sleep. At 1 p.m., a young nurse checked and reported to the doctor that my cervix had dilated to two centimeters. The doctor immediately ordered: "The third bed has been waiting too long—give her an enema, then artificial rupture of membranes. Solve this in the afternoon!" The doctor’s decisiveness gave me a surge of hope. Well, whether it’s life or death, we’ll see in the afternoon. It was simply too torturous!
First, the enema. The taste is indescribable and too embarrassing to describe—in short, painful and humiliating. Then, artificial rupture of membranes. The pain was unbearable, but it didn’t work. The result was another mistake—the cervix hadn’t dilated. This time, I couldn’t eat or drink, and I was completely defeated. My only thought was, "Doctor, just cut me open." But the doctor didn’t think like that. She persuaded me to go back to the room, saying it was still more than two weeks before the due date and I could get some shots to prevent miscarriage. I nearly fainted but had no choice but to obey. When I really returned to the room with my belly swollen again, my two "labor buddies" were shocked.
After the ward doctor inquired, they decided to do an ultrasound. The result: the baby’s position was wrong—posterior left. No wonder it was so hard to deliver. It was already 6 p.m. My husband rushed over after dinner and signed the surgery consent form. At 6:30, I was taken to the operating room. Thinking I’d soon be free from pain, I suddenly felt a bit stronger. A young doctor said, "Wow, her incision is long." Another said, "Don’t make it too long either." The first doctor replied, "Even if it’s short, you won’t be able to wear a bikini after." I couldn’t help but laugh.
After the anesthesia took effect, the anesthesiologist asked me to lift my leg. I lifted it high, and he poked it with a needle to check if I felt pain. I said, "A little." After a while, it was still the same. The anesthesiologist added more medication. The doctor made a cut, and I screamed—oh, the pain! The anesthesiologist said, "What’s wrong?" The doctor replied, "Can you handle it?" I nodded. "What if you can’t?" "It’s already cut open." I clearly felt my belly open, a warm, wet thing flowing out, then two hands reached in and lifted a bundle out. Next came a loud cry—she’s a fat baby, the doctor said.
"Aha, this thing, it’s ruined me," I said. "You think so?" the doctor replied. I thought, maybe. Who knows what they’ve all been through? The doctor’s hand reached back into my abdomen, and I exclaimed in shock, "What else do you need to take out?" The doctor laughed, "Placenta." I laughed too. The nurse handed me the baby, and I tilted my head back to see—a pale, plump little thing. (They say it’s pale because of talcum powder.) The nurse reported, "Six pounds." The doctor said, "Really? That’s a fat thing." "Oh, I miscounted," the doctor corrected. "Seven pounds." I breathed a huge sigh of relief, and my mind grew hazy. My husband and I both inexplicably liked the number "seven," and our son suddenly had two of them—born at 7:00 a.m. weighing seven pounds. This made me quite relieved.
Yet, this "seven" didn’t bring me smooth sailing. After the baby was born, I endured a series of tortures—wound infection, mastitis—and if I wrote about them all, it would never end. In short, I endured all the suffering a woman can go through during childbirth. But how can it be summed up as just "giving birth"? I think, all the women who’ve gone through this—just change the wording, and they won’t feel like women are doomed. It’s because I became a mother.
Written when my son was half a year old, Winter 1987.
Excerpt: My grandson is six and a half this year, my granddaughter is sixty-three, but the little grandson is only ten months old! That’s because the grandparents married late, and the parents married late, so it took ten years or more to have the little grandson. The grandparents are educated people. Before the little grandson was born, they read many reports about spoiled and coddled only children, like "China’s Little Emperors," so they started giving each other warnings—"We’ll never spoil our grandson!" "We’ll be strict with him!"
The little grandson was born. His face was red and wrinkled; one eye was half open, the other was full of eye discharge; his hair was sparse, his nose. His parents frowned at each other: "How ugly!" "Not ugly, not ugly," the grandmother said first, picking him up. "Look at his eyelids—they’re so long, he’ll definitely have big eyes. His mouth is so cute, thin. His skin is red, but it’ll turn white in a few days, snow-white." The grandfather took him, looked him over, and his wife: "You’re not objective. I’m very objective. The kid isn’t pretty, but he has a good temperament, very relaxed, with a special kind of charm."
The "charming" little grandson grew day by day. True to the grandmother’s words, his skin was snow-white, and his eyes were big and bright. Every time the little grandson nursed in his mother’s arms, the grandmother would crouch beside him, kissing his little hands, feet, and buttocks, saying nonstop: "Grandma’s little grandson, the best grandson in the world." The grandfather, however, didn’t do that. The grandfather held the little grandson, supporting his head as he couldn’t yet sit up. The grandmother said, "This little grandson has a special charm." The grandfather replied, "I don’t think so." The grandmother thought, maybe. Who knows what they’ve all been through?
The grandmother’s hand reached into my abdomen, and I exclaimed in shock, "What else do you need to take out?" The doctor laughed, "We’re taking out the placenta." I laughed too. The nurse handed the child to me, and I tilted my head back to see—a pale, plump little person. (They say it’s pale because of talcum powder.) The nurse reported, "Six pounds." The doctor said, "Really? That’s a fat thing." "Oh, I miscounted," the doctor corrected. "Seven pounds." I breathed a huge sigh of relief, and my mind grew hazy. My husband and I both inexplicably liked the number "seven," and our son suddenly had two of them—born at 7:00 a.m. weighing seven pounds. This made me quite relieved.
Yet, this "seven" didn’t bring me smooth sailing. After the baby was born, I endured a series of tortures—wound infection, mastitis—and if I wrote about them all, it would never end. In short, I endured all the suffering a woman can go through during childbirth. But how can it be summed up as just "giving birth"? I think, all the women who’ve gone through this—just change the wording, and they won’t feel like women are doomed. It’s because I became a mother.
Written when my son was half a year old, Winter 1987.