Meredith Kirkwood
THEY HAD TO DO THE D&C TWICE
and the first time was without general anesthesia.
My husband and I took the elevator to the fifth floor and we waited
with the people pregnant enough to fold their hands over their stomachs,
the top of the magazine pile boasting “5 foods to eat for a healthy baby”
until the clinic sent us back down to the lab where we waited again
under the sign telling people not to harass hospital workers.
They drew my blood alongside the cheerful patient
who talked about her dog’s diet and her granddaughter’s recital
and sent us back up to the doctor who had told me
the needles would be like in the dentist’s chair,
but she proved she knew nothing of gums or mint-flavored topical gel,
each long insert producing a gasp and a small scream
followed by a mechanical whine and my husband had to ask
them to wipe the blood off the floor.
By the time we left we were the only ones in the office
so it felt like a funeral with no mourners,
the silence a witness to the nurse wheeling me out
to the automatic door that hissed open so I could lean
on my husband the few feet to the car.
He woke up that night crying even harder than I and still
I felt shame for asking to go under—a fussy, hysterical woman
whose womb wouldn’t give up its goods the first time
and whose punishment is paid out monthly in medical bills—
but this time the nurse holds my hand, and I can see the river from the window
between the smokestacks and cargo ships
as the needle in my arm doles out just enough sleep
to finally end the nausea of the childless pregnancy,
to finally empty me out.