It Must Be Nice

It must be nice 
To birth your first child
And hold them in your arms. 

To kiss their hands and feet 
And see them wiggle 
All ten of their little toes. 

It must be nice to have your motherhood 
Not defined by grief and loss. 
Or to be a mother
To an invisible child. 

To only feel excitement and anticipation 
With each baby you carry. 
 Instead of fear,
And traumatic memories. 

It must be nice to have only positive experiences, 
No nurses crying, 
Or apologizing, 
while they complete your last ultrasound. 

To never experience 
A doctor leaving you alone in a room. 
Hearing hushed voices in the hall 
And your heart slowly dropping 
As they stall. 

It must be nice to only be faced 
With the decision of choosing a name. 
No difficult decisions 
Where you are forced to decide 
How your child lives, 
or dies. 

Experiencing hours of labor 
Instead of days or weeks 
Of tests,
And unanswerable questions. 

It must be nice to receive gifts 
and congratulations, 
Instead of condolences 
And flowers. 

To have no one question 
Whether what you did for your baby 
Was right or wrong. 

It must be nice to deliver 
In a warm, 
Delivery room. 
Surrounded by family 
And friends. 

Instead of a bright, 
Operating room, 
And alone. 

It must be nice to know 
That once the procedure is done 
You’ll have your baby in your arms. 
All of it was worth it 
You’ll get to take him home. 

Instead of wrapping your arms around your belly 
For as long as you can 
Before the anesthesia 
Knocks you out. 

Because once you’re gone, 
So is your baby. 
You’ll never get to hold him, 
Or see him,

You wake up with 
Except a broken heart,
An empty belly,
And empty arms.

No comments