éThomas Beatie (né en 1974), est un Américain devenu légalement homme[1] (archive perdue), connu et reconnu dans les médias pour
avoir été enceint[2],[3].
Thomas Beatie était de sexe féminin à la naissance, mais transgenre FtM (Female To Male), il est devenu officiellement un
homme suite à une intervention chirurgicale (réduction mammaire) et des injections de testostérone.
Marié depuis 10 ans avec une femme stérile, il a bénéficié d'une insémination
artificielle afin de concevoir l'enfant du couple. Une grossesse a été rendue possible par le fait que Beatie avait
conservé ses organes sexuels internes et externes féminins. Après avoir arrêté son traitement hormonal, l'insémination artificielle a pu avoir lieu avec succès. Une césarienne était prévue
initialement[4]. L'accouchement par voie naturelle a eu lieu le 29 juin 2008 au matin[5]. L’enfant est une fille prénommée Susan. Le 9 juin 2009, il a
donné naissance à un deuxième enfant, un garçon. Ils attendent leur 3e enfant pour 2010"
http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Beatie
.
'Pregnant Man's' Labor of Love
Read an Excerpt of Thomas Beatie's New Book
“Labor of Love” by Thomas Beatie
c.2008, Seal Press $24.95 / $32.50 Canada 280 pages
"CHAPTER 1. DEFINE NORMAL
I have been a daughter and a son, a sister and a brother, a boyfriend and a girlfriend, a beauty queen and a stepfather, a girl scout and a groom. But today I am just an ordinary human being in a
whole lot of pain.
Today, it is happening—it is finally happening. I am wearing an enormous, 4x white T-shirt, on inside out. The soothing, insistent sound of a heartbeat—around 140 of them each minute—is the only
music in my otherwise quiet birthing room. My contractions are intensifying, and every couple of minutes I feel this surging pain that starts from inside my gut and radiates out. I remember
trying to do a dismount from a chin-up bar when I was ten, and landing square on my back. That was the worst pain I ever felt, but this is way, way worse. Our midwife puts a cold washcloth on my
forehead; my wife Nancy kisses me tenderly on my cheek.
It has been a long, hard, often surreal journey to get this point, and now I have to summon one last big burst of energy for the final leg. "Gravity is your friend," says the midwife, by way of
urging me to walk around to try to speed things along. But the truth, I am finding, is that having a child is not in any way a passive act. You don't just show up and wait for the baby to arrive.
You have to will the baby out of your body, and that means marshalling every last ounce of strength and resolve that you have.
Nancy puts her hand on my belly and feels our daughter thrashing around, and she tells me, "Don't worry, she'll be here soon." But the hours pass. I focus on odd little details to take my mind
off the pain. Our midwife's left index finger is wrapped entirely in surgical tape; she cut it slicing whole grain bread that morning. This strikes me as neither a good nor bad omen, just unlucky
for her. I also notice she has a tiny diamond stud in her left nostril. You can barely make it out in the dimly lit room but when she leans in to fix my blanket or move me from side to side, it
sparkles. She's a wonderful woman, so calm and reassuring, and I like that she's obviously a bit of a hippie, too.
I am 100 percent effaced; I am also nearly fully dilated at 9 centimeters. And still no baby. We got to the hospital in the early morning; it's nearly nighttime now. "Let us know when you feel
the urge to push," says our midwife. "Not just pressure, but a real urge to push." Nancy starts watching out for what she calls my "pushy face," then asks if she can get her own epidural. That's
Nancy; cracking jokes, making everyone feel at ease, and still remaining a tower of strength for me to lean on. That morning at home she sifted through a bowl of jellybeans and brought all the
purple and orange ones—my favorites—to the hospital. She slips a couple of them to me—a simple, throw-away gesture between a husband and a wife—but it strikes me yet again, as it does every day,
that I could never, ever have done this without her right by my side. Nancy gets up to straighten my sheets and touches my face with her hand. She says, "You're nose is really cold, like a
puppy."
A nurse gradually fills my IV with pitocin, which is supposed to increase contractions and speed along my labor. "Your uterus is really tired," the midwife tells me, and I think, "That makes two
of us." We're going on twelve hours now, but the nurse assures us, "That's the average length of labor for a first-time mother." Nancy gently corrects her by asking, "What about for a first-time
father?"
A little earlier, our midwife brought over a red velvet sack filled with little slate tiles, each shaped like a heart and bearing a single word. "Pick one out and that will be your focus word,"
she says. Now I reach in, pull out a pink heart and show it to everyone. "Serenity!" says the midwife. But in fact, it's misspelled on the tile as "Sereinty." How perfect, I think—even my focus
word is mixed-up, nonsensical, a deviation from what is known and expected. That has been the story of my entire pregnancy—no one has known quite what to make of it, or been able to truly
understand what it means. To me, it couldn't be simpler. I am a person who is deeply in love and wants to have a child. But, just like my jumbled focus word, what I know it to mean and what the
world reads it as, are two very different things.
"Remember, Thomas, sereinty," Nancy tells me later. "Try to be sereine."
Things suddenly get serious; a doctor is hustled into the room. It is time for my baby to be born. "Let's get busy and push," the midwife says, and I push harder than I ever thought I could. The
pain is searing, and I think I might pass out. But I keep pushing. I hold tight to Nancy's hand, and every once in a while I steal a look at my white, laminated hospital wristband. Just like my
wife's hand, it's a source of strength for me. There's nothing all that unusual about it, unless you know my whole story. But a single thing on that band—a single, solitary lettervis, for me, a
symbol of the most emotional and triumphant battle of my life. On the band, in simple type, it reads":
/https%3A%2F%2Flafabrique.fr%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2020%2F08%2FFAB_11x16_8_VERGES_2020_EXE.jpg)
/https%3A%2F%2Flafabrique.fr%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2020%2F06%2FFAB_13x20_ZEDKIN_2020_EXE.jpg)
/https%3A%2F%2Flafabrique.fr%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2020%2F07%2FFAB_11x16_8_POLICE_2020_3.jpg)
/image%2F0551607%2F20200929%2Fob_d7ed73_capas-4.png)
/https%3A%2F%2Fwww.monstrograph.com%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2020%2F05%2FIMG_1821.jpg)
/http%3A%2F%2Fwww.disvoir.com%2Fup%2Fea6446c3ae1a35f7ae93140a4c4d5b5b_couvF.jpg)