Delivery

Delivery
1/7/2021

One year ago,
We said good bye to you.
Just two days before,
You and I watched your favorite show together.
We agreed that the young couple should adopt the blind dog.
They did.
It was a happy ending for humans and canines.
It was the last time we’d speak.

Hours later, you couldn’t breathe.
Air pockets were trapped in your lungs.
The only two options:
    Release them. You might die.
    Don’t release them. You will.
We released them.
Your body didn’t care.
All the battles and arguments
your heart, mind and body had had
all came down to that moment.
The body won.
And then the body lost.
Once the heart and mind had begun losing their will, their determination,
the body saw the opening;
a gash, 6 centimeters wide
that allowed all its destructive forces in.

Nine months earlier,
you were home.
You spent the day in bed,
barely eating.
You were not well.
I tried to help as best I knew how.
You had forgotten your meds.
Again.
You had not eaten.
Again.
You were light-headed.
Again.
I gave you your pills.
Fed you.
Helped you to bed.
You didn’t/couldn’t eat more than a bite.
You tried.
In the evening, we tried again.
Nauseous.
Clammy.
Insatiably uncomfortable.
Blood sugars too high to read.
Doctor called.
Ambulance called.
Hospital.
Then the real catastrophe.

Seven minutes.

Your heart stopped
for seven minutes.
Doctors and nurses manually pumped your blood
for seven minutes.
You stopped breathing on your own
for seven minutes.

When it finally started again,
it was weak.
You were weak.
You were intubated.
Sedated.

For nine months,
We held your hand
even when you didn’t know we were there.
We told you stories.
We sang to you.
Spoke to you.
Spoke for you.
Guided you.
We carried you in the first trimester
when you couldn’t open your eyes.
We cradled you through the second
when you couldn’t use your legs.
We nurtured you through the third
when you finally started having a voice.
A gestation, indeed.
Instead of a newborn baby,
You were delivered home.