“damn, i forgot to bring the ipad”
i think about halfway to the hospital.
i could have watched netflix
waiting the hours and hours and hours
to give birth to (another) dead baby.
i remembered my favorite grief book
and my phone charger,
but i forgot the damn ipad.
there are just too many things to grab
while your lips quiver
and your hands tremble
as your brain tells your body
your baby is dead
it happened again
and he’s going to have to come out now.
my bag and i arrive at L&D
with the solemn understanding
of the chain of events we’ve kicked into gear
[the nurses and doctors and patients around me,
clothed in masks, afraid of coronavirus, are laughable!
i am carrying a dead baby!]
they bring me to the same triage room
where they told me tinsley had died
(i will never forget the sad, dull view from that window).
and i find myself refusing to sit down
or let the nurse wrap the monitor around my belly
(i want just a few more seconds of hope).
finally i relent
(there is no stopping what already is)
and prepare to face the worst
but instead that sound, that glorious sound,
(that i am almost afraid to take on its word)
comes galloping into the bed with me
“there it is, there’s his heartbeat,”
she says to me, calmly rubbing my back
but i cannot calm down
that was around 7am yesterday morning
and the adrenaline is still making my teeth chatter
maybe after a cup of hot tea and a few episodes of the crown
i’ll be able to fall asleep
and in the morning i wont wake up
to another baby that has died in the night