Andrew Postman: Look Away – Or Don’t - The Moth

Summary

Podcast Summary: The Moth – "Look Away – Or Don’t" by Andrew Postman

Introduction

In the episode titled "Look Away – Or Don’t," featured on The Moth podcast and released on June 8, 2009, storyteller Andrew Postman shares a deeply personal and transformative journey about his lifelong battle with fainting and his path toward overcoming it. Host Dan Kennedy sets the stage by introducing the narrative, emphasizing the theme of "stories from the Razor's Edge," which encapsulates moments of intense personal challenge and resilience.

Early Encounters with Fainting

Andrew Postman begins his story by recounting his first experience fainting at the age of 18 during his cousin’s bris. He describes the oppressive summer heat and the crowded room, leading to his sudden loss of consciousness while holding a movie camera. Postman reflects, “[00:03:03] I was 18 the first time I fainted… and I wondered who she was talking about,” highlighting his initial confusion and fear surrounding fainting episodes.

Less than a year later, while in college, Postman faints again, this time during a highly violent film he compares to a Salvador Dali movie. He poignantly notes, “[00:03:30] I believe I am the only person ever to faint at an Ingmar Bergman movie,” illustrating the profound impact that intense visual and emotional stimuli had on him. These early experiences set the foundation for Postman's struggle with fainting, which he would face repeatedly in various high-stress situations.

The Turning Point: Birth of the First Child

The pivotal moment in Postman’s narrative occurs during the birth of his first child. Despite his history of fainting—having nearly fainted twice before—Postman is determined to be an active participant in the delivery process. He meticulously prepares by watching intense film scenes to steel himself for the impending stress. Postman recounts the harrowing experience: “[00:05:15] And I saw the baby lifted up above the sheet… and I felt... I had now seen blood in its most elemental way.” This moment of witnessing life’s emergence from blood and pain becomes a catalyst for his transformation.

As his wife undergoes an emergency C-section, Postman describes feeling an unprecedented sense of strength and certainty: “[00:06:00] ...I felt as strong and solid and certain on my legs as I'd ever felt before.” This surge of empowerment helps him conquer his fainting reflex, allowing him to fully engage with the miraculous yet raw process of childbirth. Reflecting on this experience, Postman notes, “[00:06:45] I had vanquished the fainting bug because I had now seen blood in its most elemental way.”

Facing the Past: Birth of the Second Child

Two years later, Postman faces his fear once more during the birth of his second child. Determined not to repeat his previous fainting episodes, he approaches the amniocentesis with a heightened sense of control. However, the situation escalates rapidly when he begins to hyper-focus on the procedure, leading to another fainting spell: “[00:12:15] I passed out, and the entire dead weight of my body was now heading toward her pregnant belly… She… pushed me away, and I crumpled unconscious on the floor.”

Postman shares the aftermath of this traumatic event, describing his overwhelming sense of disgust and self-reproach: “[00:14:00] I was repulsed by what I had just almost done… this cannot happen anymore.” This incident forces him to deeply introspect about the nature of his fainting episodes, viewing them as a means to avoid confronting intense emotions and experiences: “[00:14:30] Fainting is really about skipping time… a way not to confront them.”

Resolution and Growth

Determined to overcome his ingrained responses, Postman commits to facing his fears head-on. The birth of his second son marks a significant breakthrough. Despite his initial urges to withdraw, he consciously chooses to engage fully in the moment: “[00:15:00] I remember forcing myself to hold onto it… It was almost like something that had been skinned alive. And yet it was life.”

By maintaining his composure and presence during the delivery, Postman not only supports his wife but also solidifies his triumph over his long-standing fear of fainting. He concludes his story with a sense of fulfillment and gratitude, recognizing the profound personal growth he has achieved through these intense life experiences.

Conclusion

Andrew Postman’s "Look Away – Or Don’t" is a compelling testament to human resilience and the power of facing one’s deepest fears. Through vivid storytelling and heartfelt reflections, Postman invites listeners to witness his journey from vulnerability to strength, illustrating how confronting and enduring life's most challenging moments can lead to profound personal transformation. This narrative not only highlights the physical and emotional struggles associated with fainting but also underscores the importance of presence and courage in the face of life’s unpredictability.

Notable Quotes

“[00:03:03] I was 18 the first time I fainted… and I wondered who she was talking about.”
“[00:05:15] And I saw the baby lifted up above the sheet… and I felt... I had now seen blood in its most elemental way.”
“[00:06:45] I had vanquished the fainting bug because I had now seen blood in its most elemental way.”
“[00:14:30] Fainting is really about skipping time… a way not to confront them.”

Final Thoughts

Andrew Postman’s story is a moving exploration of fear, resilience, and the transformative power of embracing life’s most intense moments. By sharing his experiences with vulnerability and honesty, Postman not only entertains but also inspires listeners to confront their own fears and challenges with courage and determination.

Transcript

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Dan Kennedy (2:33)

Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Dan Kennedy. The Moth features true stories told live without notes. All stories on the podcast are taken from our ongoing storytelling series in New York and and Los Angeles and from our tour Shows across the country. Visit themoth.org the story you're about to hear by Andrew Postman was recorded live at the Moth main stage last fall. The theme of the night was stories from the Razor's edge.

Andrew Postman (3:03)

I was 18 the first time I fainted. My cousin's bris. He was eight days old and he was to be circumcised. It was summer, very hot and overcrowded room, and someone pushed a movie camera into my hands and told me to film it. For some reason I listened and I put my finger on the zoom button. And as the moil was about to do his business, I remember hearing my mother call out to my father and say, neil, catch him. And I wondered who she was talking about. The next thing, someone was loosening my belt. Someone else was loosening my tie. And as I realized what had happened and the commotion I must have made by fainting, I looked up and I was panicked that what I had done might have made the moil miss. But he looked down at me and he assured me that almost every time he did this, he lost at least one man. So I was in good company. A little less than a year later, I was in college. I fainted for the second time. This time it was in a movie, and I wish I could tell you it was a hyper violent film like the Salvador Dali movie where someone apparently takes a razor blade and slices open an eyeball. But I believe I am the only person ever to faint at an Ingmar Bergman movie. It was cries and whispers and. And the woman who not surprisingly was in a tragically unhappy marriage is in her nightgown sitting in front of her vanity. And I won't go into detail except to say that lots of little bits of glass and blood were involved. I felt my head getting snowy and I whispered to my friend that I had to get out. And because it was a school classroom, it was those chairs with the desk tables and it was very hard to sidestep. The next thing I remember, I was looking up at blackness and I heard the crackling of a walkie talkie that the campus policemen carry around. And I remember hearing, man down, film society. The next time I fainted was also in a movie. Only this time it was not from something I saw, but something I heard. Again, I wish I could tell you it it was a Sam Peckinpah film, but in fact the movie was all that jazz. The story of choreographer Bob Fosse. In the movie, Roy Scheider, who plays Bob Fosse, is about to have open Heart surgery. And at this point, I knew myself well enough to cover my eyes, but I didn't cover my ears. And the sound of the rib stretcher with its twisting, cranking, almost metallic sound of pulling the ribs apart was too much for me to bear. I expanded my fainting repertoire the next time when I was fitted for contact lenses. My eye doctor said he'd never had a patient. He couldn't get the lens in. And he kept coming at me and I kept pulling away. And he said, you know, women are usually better at this than men because from the time they're little girls, they're putting on makeup, so they're used to touching around their eyes, but I'll get it. And he kept trying, and I pulled away like a fish on a hook. And he said, you are one of the tough ones, but I'll get it. And I remember the last time he came at me, I could see the lens, and I thought, we're going to do it this time. I remember looking up at him from the floor of his office, and he looked over and he said, you really are one of the worst patients I've had. And. And I proceeded to throw up all over his office. I got to my feet, he helped me down the corridor. We got to the reception area, and I threw up all over the reception area. And in disgust, he waved me away, told me to go home for a week and practice in front of the mirror, touching my own eye. I thanked him, I apologized, and I threw up all over. The entrance to the. There are about a half dozen other episodes. I won't go into detail, but my friends and family laughed at the idea of my being a surgeon or even a soldier. And a friend of mine said, I'm just going to tell you the plot to Reservoir Dogs because you're never going to see it. And when my wife got pregnant, everyone just sort of assumed that there would be no way that I could be in the delivery room. In fact, I'd probably be barred from the delivery room. But I wanted to prove that they were wrong, and I wanted to be there. So I went into training and I rented Godfather 2. And with the remote control in my left hand and my finger on the step, frame, super slow mo button. I watched this scene where Robert De Niro plunges his dagger into the belly of the Sicilian crime lord who had killed his mother years before. And frame by frame, I watched him gut the man as the knife rode up his chest. I rented Reservoir Dogs and watched the notorious scene over and over where Michael Matson slices off the ear of the policeman. And when my wife's water broke, I felt that I was about as ready or unready as any other expectant father. We drove to the hospital. We got into the delivery room. Everything was going well. She asked me if I was okay, and I said I was, and I thought I was, and everything was going fine. And then suddenly everything was not going fine and lots of meconium was coming out of her. And the obstetrician went over and felt her belly, and I could see something was wrong. And. And he said that as the baby was coming down the chute, he had folded back and was breech and he was going to have to do an emergency C section. The phrase emergency C section is not something anyone wants to hear, but someone who has fainted at the movie. All that jazz really doesn't want to hear it. And as my wife was wheeled into the operating room and I was given hospital scrubs, I went in. I sat next to her. She couldn't see anything. There was a sheet between herself and her belly. I couldn't see anything either, but I could see the flash of the sharp instruments the doctor was going to use. She asked me if I was okay, and I said yes. And I was holding her hands, but I did keep an especially wide base in case anything happened. And the thing that I had not expected is how quickly everything would happen. And before I knew it, I saw the baby lifted up above the sheet, kind of like Simba at the beginning of Lion King. And I looked over, and it was this pink, slimy, very bloody thing. And it wasn't moving. And it felt like a year passed and I was looking at it. And as soon as the baby started to squirm, I felt myself stand up from the stool, rise up, and I felt as strong and solid and certain on my legs as I'd ever felt before, I think more than any biped had ever felt before. And besides the thrill of being a new father, I remember telling myself and others later that I had vanquished the fainting bug because I had now seen blood in its most elemental way. I was seeing it doing what it's supposed to do, which is give life, rather than seeing it spurt out of stumps and parts of bodies and be the result of mutilation and violence. And I think telling myself this made me feel somehow morally pure, as if it was something that it was good that I had gone through. And I wish I could tell you that was the end of the story. Two years later, My wife was pregnant again, and. And I told her I was going in with her to the amnio. I would help her get through it, even though she had a stomach of steel. And we all knew my history. And we went in, and I was standing next to her and holding her hand. And I said, just focus on me. I'll help you get through this. I said, I'm going to give you state, and you give me a capital, and before you know it, it will be over. And the doctor plunged the big horse needle into her abdomen to bring out the amniotic fluid. And I said to Alex, my wife, I said, california. And she said, sacramento. And I said, good, good. And out of the corner of my eye, I could see the beginning of the pinkish fluid starting to fill up the syringe. And I said, kentucky. And she said, lexington. And I said, actually, it's Frankfurt, but a lot of people think it's Lexington. And I couldn't help. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the fluid, a sort of grapefruit juice color, starting to fill up. And I said to her, nebraska. And she said, lincoln. I said, that's good. And I looked over, and now I saw that the needle was almost completely filled. And I said, nebraska. And she said, you just said Nebraska. I said, no, I didn't. And I knew that I wanted to say Nebraska again, But suddenly it felt as if there were marbles in my mouth. I passed out, and the entire dead weight of my body was now heading toward her pregnant belly with the giant needle stuck in it, the end of which was maybe an inch from our unborn child's body. To this day, I do not know how she did it, but from her back, my wife reached out her arm, half traffic cop, half superhero, and put it on my chest and stopped my momentum, this dead weight of her husband falling on and possibly killing our child. She held me up and she pushed me away, and I crumpled unconscious on the floor. About an hour later, as I was sitting on the curb on the Upper east side in the sunlight, trying to get my wits about me, dazed and woozy, I was repulsed by what I had just almost done. I was inconsolable. And I just kept shaking my head, thinking, this cannot happen anymore. This cannot. How can I do this? Alex tried to make me feel better, but I thought, this is unacceptable for a grown human being. For a father. It can't happen. And it forced me to think about what fainting really is to me. And what I thought is, fainting is really about skipping time. It's really an end around on the most intense, raw moments in life, real or imagined, a way not to confront them, not to meet them, to get around them. And if it means going unconscious, fine. And I said this can never happen again. And when those moments come, I will face them. And I will face them even longer than they need to be faced as a man and as a father. Six months later, our second son was born. Everything went fine, and the doctor gave me the forceps to hold the umbilicus while he was going to cut it. Normally I would want to look away, I would want not even to feel the tension, but I remember forcing myself to hold onto it, to feel that kind of eelish, ropey, uneven, curling, pink, bloody tension. And even after he cut it and I could have let go, I made myself look at it. It was almost like something that had been skinned alive. And yet it was life. And even after he cut it, I held on just for one moment longer. Thank you.