Published in the Intimal Journal of Narrative Medicine
Fall 2021
A white rose was taped to the door, and I pushed the metal handle to enter. The glow of
moonlight beamed through the blinds and onto a woman laboring, clutching the hand of the
man beside her. In between contractions, she trembled, her cheeks streaming a flow of pain.
His eyes were dry, hollow as if his pain was contained somewhere deeper.
Unlike the other rooms we’d entered that night, no displays stood by the bed. No monitor
hung around her waist. No fluctuating lines traced onto red graphs. The ultrasound had
confirmed the woman’s worst fear: the child’s heart stopped beating at just 23 weeks. His
existence, but a brief bloom, here and gone.
I saw my reflection in the window, the short white coat over baggy blue scrubs, aimed at
hiding my ever-expanding abdomen. I felt my daughter flutter kick, as she tumbled in my
womb. My hand went instinctively to her, then I pulled it away.