I was inspired to share this piece, FACING IT, WE SING, after reading
’s post, “Every birth story is a creation story,” on Mothering DEPTH.I wrote it—in pieces, in the slices and slivers of silence and solitude in the weeks following the birth of my son, my second child. I left it as gift to the nurses on the third floor of Langley Memorial Hospital, and I haven’t looked back.
Until now.
Late to the Telling?
IV: The Return
A couple days later, France returns to 347. She sees the IV insert still taped to your right forearm, the first one she put in, five days ago. She rolls not only her eyes but also her head, and cries, “Ach! They haven’t taken that silly thing out yet?”
Her name tag swings on a purple lanyard. There is a photo, a portrait, in color which looks just like its bearer. Cropped blue hair, black lens frames. The name tag reads “FRANCE.” Good, you think. I wasn’t completely losing it.
You smile as wide as you can pull your cheeks apart, some distance, a toothed grin. While your baby son suckles your right breast, your skin goes clammy. What do you say to someone who saved you?
“I know your hands,” you begin. “I knew it because of how your fingers felt going across my veins, and I thought, I trust her!” At the foot of your bed, in front of the colorless wall, France pats your socked feet. You tell her, “Thank you, for everything.”
After she has left, you turn to the right, to the man licking honey chipotle sauce from his fingers, disposing his box of wings into the trashcan overflowing with five days of garbage. You laugh at the man who smiles back. He comes to your side, rubs your bare shoulder, his finger sliding over your damp skin (after having added a baby wipe to the pile of garbage. Hands: clean).
What do you say to someone you love but who seemingly did not love you enough to stand up?
The man lifts his hand to your face, and strokes your cheek with his thumb.
You tell him you love him.
“I love you too,” he tells you back.
Behind him, the corner: forsaken.
What you now know, after death—facing it, and the other side: the name of the nurse who saved you; how to breathe; let your body be heavy, happy, held; and imperfect as it seemed, the love of your husband. He did stand up, and he will stand by your side. He will touch your face, and sing.
What can you say to the readers who enter the worded room with you?
Thank you.
Thank you, for being here.
Thank you, for bearing witness.
Thank you.
I hope you’ll stick around for more. I’m not sure what words I’ll share in the coming months, but I’d love to see you here. Consider joining me, in this quiet place, my heart, where I hope you’ll learn to listen to your own soft drum.
Yep, tears again.
I’m so thankful for all of those who cared for you, especially that man ♥️