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,

 anxiety,

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,

Decisions,

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, 

Comfortable, 

Delivery room. 

Surrounded by family 

And friends. 

Instead of a bright, 

Sterile,

Operating room, 

Cold, 

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,

Again.

You wake up with 

Nothing, 

Except a broken heart,

An empty belly,

And empty arms.