Its a long walk to the O.R., gown pinched tight with one hand. Bare ass on a cold table, poked half a dozen times to numb pain you don’t yet feel. Laid flat and staring at bright lights above as staff talk about the weekend. The blue curtain is raised up 2 inches from your face and your breaths begin to rush.
Your husband sits, and stands, and sits, and stands watching to see if your organs are removed and waiting for another son.
Then they hold him up, just a glimpse ant this fourth son, and take him away so quickly. They wash and weigh while you are still, arms out and shaking, the staff still talking, and every pore in your body, every bit of marrow in your bones screams for him to be laid upon your chest.
It's the best day and the worst day, as the pain meds flow to keep you numb and the memories fog in their wake.
One more time. One more son. He's living. That's enough.
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