Would you eat your baby’s placenta?
“You’ve never seen a mother cat with postpartum depression, right?” a woman in my prenatal yoga class asked me. She had a challenging look in her eyes. Before I could respond she rushed to her punchline. “It’s because cats eat their placentas.”
The woman introduced herself as a doula-in-training who prepares placenta on the side. She thought I might be interested.
I learned that placentophagy, the act of eating the afterbirth, is common among other mammals. Animals probably eat it for the extra iron and other nutrients, to detract predators, or possibly to alleviate pain (not to thwart the kitty blues). My fellow yogi is among the small but passionate population of birthing specialists who believe that women should eat their placentas, too — especially to ward off postpartum depression. The placenta is rich in hormones: progesterone, estrogen, cortisol, and others. These hormones originate in the placenta, which means a woman’s levels take a plunge immediately after she gives birth. One theory of why women get depressed after birth is their hormone levels are low. Eating the placenta, it seems, could raise hormone levels enough to ward off depression.
I once bought a placental cream in New Zealand, and the hormones in it made my face break out in violent pustules. That doesn’t make me want to eat the stuff.
“It’s spongy like liver,” the woman said, going for the hard sell. She could use it in lieu of meat in any dish: a simple sauté, lasagna, meatloaf, anything. “Placenta” means “cake” in Latin because it’s round and flat; she could make it into a burger. If none of this appeals, she could have it freeze-dried, emulsified, and made into capsules.
“Oh, but I’m vegetarian,” I said, moving my eyes reverently in the direction of a Krishna wall hanging. But the doula-in-training was armed with a response. “Placenta,” she said, “isn’t meat that is killed.” She patted me reassuringly. “It’s OK!”
“I’m OK,” I automatically responded, as if already stuffed and passing on seconds. I didn’t want to burst her bubble, but sautéing, stir-frying, or even baking placenta would likely change the molecular structure of the hormones in it. I suspect she’d have difficulty attracting clients if they had to eat their bloody organ raw, sushi-style.
As it turned out, my obstetrician had a difficult time removing my placenta. Once out, I let my eyes linger on the silver platter it was heaped on. Weighing in at about a pound and a half, this grayish bloody sack fed and protected my daughter and manipulated me for the nearly ten months of pregnancy. It removed her waste. “It’s got to be tough,” I thought.
But regret came over me as I watched it leave the room. Should I have kept it, tried it? I reminded myself there is no proof that consumption of the placenta wards off serious depression or even the baby blues. Humans in traditional cultures only very rarely eat the afterbirth. Hippies ate it but chimps won’t. Many ethnic groups, honoring the placenta’s indispensability, bury it ceremoniously.
I admit a medical incinerator is not a respectful end. But neither is a vegetarian’s hostile gut. I hate to be close-minded, but my jaws are locked shut.
[Click here for an account of a woman who ate the placenta in the pic above.]