I am a stay-at-home mother with three beautiful children. I am also a Transhumanist.
It may seem like an unlikely pairing, but as you read you’ll see it’s quite
natural. My journey toward Transhumanism
started before I even realized it began.
I’m also an artist, a creator or sorts. I compose beauty from the
seemingly mundane or ordinary objects and experiences of our lives, and present
them in ways that are aesthetically attractive. I use many mediums. As a mother
and artist, I have gained some experience in telling stories to simplify what
seems to be intimidating or complex subjects, even Transhumanism.
I’d like to tell you the story of a mother who became a Transhumanist.
. . .
Our story begins on the campus of Brigham Young University.
I was 18 when my 22 year-old future husband proposed. We were engaged
for several months and married in the Portland Temple. I have not regretted
marrying young, nor the man I married. If I were to ever become a mother and
embark on the journey of parenthood, this man was going to be the father.
. . .
Five years later we were ready to have children. We began our journey
toward parenthood using conventional means of procreation, sex.
After several months, we became increasingly discouraged by each
negative pregnancy test, so we sought the help of an obstetrician. She informed
me I had a mutated bicornate
uterus that was tilted toward my spine. I also had an irregular
ovulation cycle making it extremely difficult to predict the optimal time
for intercourse, and that was assuming I was actually ovulating, which she
could not confirm was occurring.
We had three options. We could try clomifene, in vitro
fertilization, or sex every 48-72 hours to ensure healthy sperm at the time
of ovulation. The negatives to the costly reproductive technologies included
the risk of multiple eggs implanting in my uterus, which considering my unique
abnormalities posed life-threatening risks to me and our potential offspring.
After thorough research of our options, my husband and I chose sex every 48-72
hours. It was the safest and least costly method for our situation.
Two months passed. Nothing.
Another month passed. Sex became a chore.
Another month passed. Finally, success!
I still remember the look on my husband’s face when I showed him the
positive pregnancy. His expression of joy was evident through his tears. We
held each other for what seemed to be a lifetime. Our intimacy was rooted in
our ability to create life together, and neither of us wanted to have sex again
for a very long time.
We were ready to be parents, but little did we know this was only the
beginning of our struggles. Pregnancy and delivery would prove to be even more
taxing, complicated, and dangerous.
The next nine months were filled with painful complications and erratic
vomiting. We took multiple trips to the hospital to receive IV fluids because I
suffered from dehydration. My digestive tract was unable to adapt to the
hormones of pregnancy and it was difficult to digest food properly. I also
suffered from a rare condition called polyhydromnios,
characterized by excess amniotic fluids in the uterus. It occurs in roughly 1%
of pregnancies. My abdomen was the size of a woman carrying twins or triplets
which put additional pressure on my digestive system that already had trouble
functioning.
I remember one particular trip to the hospital. I was weak and fragile.
I was hooked to medical machines that supported and monitored my body. I hated
feeling the limitations of my human body. The machines allowed the doctors to
administer medications and supplements to compensate for my body’s
inefficiencies. I didn’t care for the machines, but they brought me life and
relief, so I tolerated them.
Despite the difficulties of pregnancy, I still needed to deliver. My
son was in a rare transverse
position due to my abnormal uterus, which created sharp pains that felt as
if the sides of my body might split open. It’s painful, but the real risk is
during delivery. A baby can’t exit a vagina horizontally without serious risk.
An external
cephalic version was attempted to move my son in a safe position, but it
failed and a c-section
was scheduled.
I’m not a proponent of fear, but on the night before my scheduled c-section
I was afraid.
I was restless in bed that night, unable to sleep. I couldn’t help but
feel like nature had failed me. Perhaps God just didn’t care. Perhaps my
interpretations of God were simply wrong. One thing was evident, humanity
cared. The combined efforts of people and technology brought me to this
point—from the electricity that powered the machines that sustained my body’s
functions, to the car that rushed me to the hospital, to the combined knowledge
of skilled physicians working with me, to the creators of the internet that
connected me with critical medical information. It was evident humanity cared.
Pondering these thoughts, I was grateful.
The following morning two obstetricians, three nurses, one
anesthesiologist, and one pediatric specialist were ready to safely deliver our
son via c-section. I was hooked to multiple machines and prepped with a spinal
block. The piercing of the large needle entering my spine was surprisingly
sharp, but the pain quickly subsided with dispersed numbness. It was strange
not being able to feel my own body. Lying awake on an operating table while I
was cut open was an extremely odd sensation.
I could feel pressure and movement, but no pain. The c-section was
shorter than I expected. The efforts of everyone involved resulted in a
routinely successful c-section. I was relieved.
While I lied awake on the operating table expressing my profuse
gratitude to everyone who was performing surgery on me, my husband left the
operating room with our son. While the doctors repaired my body, I heard the
obstetrician whispered to the other, “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
She answered back, “Never.”
She then spoke to me, “Do you mind if we invite some staff to come look
at you?”
I replied, “Is there a problem?”
Though the big blue sheet blocked my view of my exposed organs, I still
wanted to see the expression on my doctor’s face. I could hear a smile in her
tone and was relieved when she said, “Not at all. We have just never seen a
uterus like yours. We’re actually surprised you were even able to conceive, let
alone have a baby. Would you mind if we look around and photographed you?”
I was apprehensive at the idea of people take photos of my nude body
and internal organs, but managed to reply, “Absolutely, anything for science.”
They brought in a few more people, discussed the precarious nature of
reproductive organs, and thanked me for my willingness to let them look in and
around my body. I liked my obstetrician. She was kind. She walked over to the
other side of the sheet where I could see her, removed her mask and said, “You
did beautifully. Congratulations.”
I was beaming and asked her, “Can I do it again? I mean with my uterus,
can I have another child?”
She laughed along with a couple other nurses who were listening, patted
my shoulder and said, “Not now, but I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t
have another child in your future. Right now you need to rest.”
Despite all the help I needed in order to successfully create life, I
still felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. I admired what the love,
intelligence, and technology of a multitude of people could help me create—a
child.
They wheeled me into the recovery room to be reunited with my husband
and son. The love our family shared was unlike any love I had previously experienced.
I loved my son with such intensity that I didn’t know I was capable of such
selflessness. The love I had for our son spilled over into even more love for
my husband, my co-creator. The machines that led to our survival taught me a
greater reverence for humanity and technology. Collectively, they increased my
ability to not only live and create, but also my ability to love.
. . .
A year went by saturated with our love. Of course it wasn’t perfect,
but it was still a beautiful life. Sex was no longer a chore.
. . .
A few months later, were ready for another child. We took the same approach
to conceiving. It was easier knowing what to expect and conceiving only took
three months. We were thrilled to know my doctors were right. I could, indeed,
have another child.
The following nine months were similar to the first pregnancy—vomiting,
complications, and fatigue. It was painful, but somehow it was more bearable
knowing how to cope with a high-risk pregnancy. With the support of my husband,
doctors, and more machines, we made it through.
The night before the scheduled c-section, I again found myself lying in
bed awake. I was hopeful and excited, but still afraid. It was difficult
getting used to the idea of physicians cutting into my body to safely extract
another human being. It seemed like there could have been a much more
sophisticated way to create life that didn’t involve so much risk. So many
variables could easily go awry and in my experience, they usually did.
The next morning, everything was proceeding
according to plan. My husband sat on the stool next to the operating table. We
exchanged smiles. My husband never got used to watching the doctors cut into my
flesh either so we simply stared into each other’s eyes, perhaps more for his
sake than mine.
The c-section seemed longer than I remembered.
I was worried. The tone of the room shifted. Muffled voices spoke with urgency.
Our son rotated from a transverse position to a breech position with his head
stuck inside my uterus. The umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck. With
each pull the cord was strangling him. The anesthesiologist noticed my heart
rate rapidly increase on the machine next to me. He tried to calm me down, but
it was useless. How could I calm down? Our child was suffocating!
I felt a sudden amount of pressure on my abdomen
as the nurses pushed with their bodies. I felt a huge rush of relief as the
weight of our baby left my spinal column. One of the doctors said, “He’s here!
He’s out.”
I tried to compose myself waiting for our baby
to cry, but there was no sound. No crying. No breathe. Nothing. The silence was
terrifying.
In the chaos my husband stood up to see him,
but the nurse abruptly interjected, “Dad, sit down.” There was too much force
in her tone. Something was very wrong.
I managed to choke out, “Why can’t I hear him
crying?” Everyone ignore me as I lied there exposed on the operating table. I
looked over at my husband and there was panic in his eyes that I rarely see. He
stepped back from the blue sheet and bowed his head to the floor. He seemed to
be praying—it was always so natural for him.
The doctors rushed to help our little blue
infant.
Everything was happening so quickly. I heard
one nurse saying, “Pump him! Again! One more time.” I heard the clicking of
more machines working to resurrect my son. I didn’t know what was going on and frankly,
I didn’t care, all I wanted was to hear my son cry. I felt completely helpless.
Finally, I heard him.
It wasn’t a strong scream from a thriving
baby, but it was enough to let us know he was alive. At that moment his muffled
cry was the most wonderful sound in the world. I couldn’t help but cry with
him. I looked over at my husband to see his eyes filled with tears too. It was
less than five minutes until the doctors resuscitated our baby, but even five
minutes to too long to believe your child is dead.
I only got see our baby for a brief moment
before he was whisked off to the intensive care unit. The nurse told me they
needed to stabilize his breathing while I stayed behind to be repaired and
monitored in the recovery room.
I agreed and watched my husband leave with our
son.
After a long two and a half hours of repair
and recovery, I was finally able to join my family. I was wheeled into a small
cove where I lied on a bed next to my child. My legs still had not regained
their feeling from the spinal block when I reached out to touch our baby’s tiny
hand. He was beautiful. He was hooked-up to machines that were teeming with
life. The multiple wires around his body were accentuated by the bright
electrical heating lamp above him stabilizing his body temperature. The sight
must have been horrifying for other mothers, but not for me. The machines
brought my son life. The machines brought me life. I had grown fond of them.
They were the creations of humans doing what I could not and again, I was
filled with gratitude. I welcomed the technologies and humanity.
Embracing one without the other seemed dishonest.
. . .
Another two years of love flourished within our family. I was
completely immersed in motherhood. My body wasn’t built to bring children into
the world, but I was certainly designed to be a mother. I was really good at
it. I was strong, engaged, and capable.
. . .
A few more months rolled by and I couldn’t stop thinking about having
another child. My body longed for a baby. My arms begged for an infant. My
husband agreed and we made preparations for the next year.
The nine months after conception were excruciating. This pregnancy
proved to be far worse than the previous two combined.
Every complication I had previously endured was heightened, causing a
whole new set of complications. I developed malnutrition from vomiting that was
far more persistent than before. I was losing weight, and retaining too much
fluid due to the polyhydromnios. I developed anemia and suffered from chronic
low blood pressure. I would randomly lose vision and blackout. I needed to have
surgery during my second trimester due to digestive complications that were
more painful that anything I had ever experienced in my life. After suffering
from eight months of hyperemesis
gravidarum, I decided to stop eating. I could no long bear to vomit.
Starving seemed less painful than vomiting. I lived off of supplements and broth.
I lost more weight. I could no longer walk up and down the stairs, at least not
without my husband helping me. My skin turned to a lifeless shade of white as
the anemia persisted. My body was falling apart. I did not doubt my will to
give my daughter life, but my body wouldn’t comply. I hated feeling the limitations of my body. I
hated feeling weak.
My husband was working through the first year of his master’s degree,
but still managed to take care of our family. He was the father, mother,
housekeeper, student, provider, cook, tutor, and caretaker. My stubborn
independence tried to push him away, but as time went on I accepted defeat. He
was far more patient with me than I deserved. I repeatedly insisted I was
capable of more, but I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be healthy. I
craved freedom away from my body—anything that would take the pain away.
After meeting with multiple doctors, they strongly urged me to be
sterilized during my third c-section. My new doctor explained to me in her
office, “This isn’t a game anymore. If you keep playing roulette there is a
very real chance that you or your child won’t make it the next time.”
My husband and I agreed. I would have a tubal ligation immediately
following the c-section. Our daughter would be our last child.
One week before the c-section, my husband and two sons were at school.
Once again, I was in bed unable to sleep. I was frail as I stared at the
morning sunlight filtering in my room through the windows. I was lost in my
thoughts. What if I didn’t survive? What if my baby didn’t make it? What had I
gotten myself into? Had I put too much trust into the machines that had brought
life to my family? I put my trust in my doctors. I put my trust in humanity. I
put my trust in technology, but in that moment it wasn’t enough. For the first
time in a long time, I wanted to trust God. I was apathetic toward the
reconciliation of the cognitive dissonance associated with my religion, and God
became a casualty I didn’t care to recover. Regardless of my perceptions of
God, I wanted to pray. I pushed aside my relentless skepticism and I allowed
myself a thoughtful prayer.
I expressed gratitude for every blessing and every memory I had ever
experience with my family. I expressed gratitude for every person I knew and
every doctor who had helped me. I expressed gratitude for my husband. I
expressed gratitude for our children and motherhood. Lastly, I expressed
gratitude for life. I ended my prayer with one request—that my daughter and I
could live. Even if God didn’t exist or care to acknowledge me, I needed to say
the words out loud, “I want to live.”
In the stillness of my room, I felt a wave of comfort and love envelope
me—love that seemed reminiscent of a maternal figure.
I made no conclusions concerning my prayer, nor did I know what the
future held, but my fear was gone.
The morning of the c-section came as usual. I was still sick, but also
at peace. They prepared my body, and once again I was hooked to machines that
had a new found presence in the room. I didn’t even mind the piercing of the
metallic needle inserted into my spine. It seemed routine by now. I lied down
flat on the operating table and listened to the sounds the machines made while
the doctors cut into my abdomen one more time. My husband lovingly brushed his
hand across my forehead and swept my dark hair from my eyes. We waited together
to hear our daughter cry.
Right on schedule, she arrived perfectly as planned—healthy and strong.
I smiled at my husband with relief. He held out our baby girl for me to see. I
wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold her, but my arms had lost their
feeling. Instinctively, my husband saw the wordless yearning in my eyes and
brought her closer to me so that our cheeks could touch for a brief moment before
taking her to the nursery. I watched them leave as I stayed behind for the
remainder of the surgery.
The doctor said, “Do you mind if we bring in some staff to look at your
uterus?”
I mildly laughed with a humorously vivid case of déjà vu. After experiencing
three c-sections, multiple surgeries, and invasive procedures, physical modesty
was a laughable concept to me. I confidently and softly said one more time,
“Absolutely, anything for science.”
She continued operating on me and said, “Thank you. I’ve never seen
anything like your uterus before.”
I replied, “I get that a lot. I actually don’t need it anymore. I don’t
mind donating it.”
Her voice became serious through her surgical mask, “You need this
still. It’s full of red blood cells. You’ve lost a lot of blood and you’re not
fully recovered from your pregnancy induced anemia. You need this so you can
get better. You’ve given enough today.”
I didn’t have the strength to respond to her. I waited patiently
through the procedure in silence.
I listened to the humming of my beloved machines that were intimately
connected to my nude body. While the doctors sterilized me, I couldn’t fight an
overwhelming sense to sleep. I was so tired and so weak. All I wanted to do was
close my eyes and dissolve into the darkness. As I closed my eyes, I welcomed
the warmth of the blackness. The gentle beeping of the machine monitoring my
heart beat began to slow. It was peaceful and inviting. I indulged. It was so
easy. Time didn’t seem relevant. I couldn’t even feel the pain anymore. In
fact, I couldn’t feel anything at all.
. . .
A man’s voice interrupted my tranquility, “You need to open your eyes.
Can you hear me?”
From the opposite side of the room, a woman’s voice said with
criticality, “Her heart rate is still dropping.”
The man repeated, “Can you hear me!?”
I could hear him, but responding seemed impossible. The nothingness was
heavy.
I felt the pain as I tried to regain consciousness. I didn’t care for
it. My eyes slowly fluttered open to see the blurry face of my
anesthesiologist. Unable to comprehend the severity of his demand, I was only
mildly annoyed by the interruption. I closed my eyes to retreat and I muttered,
“I just want to rest.”
His voice seemed more urgent, “No. You need to stay awake. I heard you
have two boys. Can you tell me about them? What are their names?”
I paused, motionless in the blackness of my mind trying to recall. I
could see their faces, but I couldn’t recall their names. How could I forget
their names? I’m their mother. My mind wasn’t mine, and I felt ashamed. I
finally had the strength to open my eyes which seemed abnormally heavy in their
sockets. I slowly said, “Preston and William? Yes, I have two sons. I love them
so much. I… I have a daughter too.”
He replied, “Yes. She’s perfect. Can you tell me her name?”
I strained, “Elizabeth.”
The woman in the background said, “Her heart rate is beginning to
stabilize.”
I continued, “Can I…can I rest now? It will only be a moment.”
He persisted, “No, you can’t. You need to stay with us. Tell me about
your children.”
The anesthesiologist persisted on continuing our foggy conversation for
several minutes until the surgery was complete. I’m sure if we had met under
other circumstances I would have found him far less annoying. Regardless, I’m
grateful he kept me out of the numbness that beckoned me.
The tubal ligation was successful and I was sewn back together. My
obstetrician walked over to me, took off her mask, placed her hand on my head
and said, “You did it. You have a baby girl. Congratulations.”
My heart was so full of love and gratitude that a tear rolled down my
cheek. All I could say was, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll visit you first thing tomorrow morning.”
I closed my eyes and fell into a delirious sleep.
. . .
A couple months passed. My body healed. My blood levels increased. My
skin regained its color. My dark, shiny hair grew long again. My muscles
regained their tone. My heart was strong. My family was a testament of the
combined power of compassion and technology. I had three beautiful, healthy
children and a husband who understood motherhood with unparalleled
authenticity.
. . .
They spoke of machines
that could improve the human experience. They discussed ideas concerning reproductive
technologies, genetic
engineering, and nanotechnology.
They had a curiously unique
perspective of God I had not considered. They discussed the possibilities
of increasing our human
intellect and physicality through emerging technologies. I couldn’t help
but be intrigued. Perhaps, I could spare my children the suffering my husband
and I had experienced.
Naturally, I joined. It was easy—like embracing an old friend.
