The Day It Began

(A Story From Poki's Mom).

This time a year ago, I was in labor with you. I woke up at 8:30 am, walked to the bathroom and watched a flood pour out of me. When I called the doctor, he said I could come to the hospital, if I was sure I hadn't just wet my pants. Oh...I was sure... but, thanks, Doc. At the hospital, the doctor said I had indeed broken my water (duh), but my contractions were weak and far apart, so...he sent me home. In preparation for Babushka's arrival, I cleaned the house. (I know...I don't know what I was thinking either). I think I ate about three lunches to be sure I had enough strength for when you were ready to arrive. I didn't check back in to the hospital until around 6:00 pm. And you came seven hours and eleven minutes later.

I've been thinking all day about this day that it all began. But of course, it's not really how it all began--just about how your arrival began. When I found out I was having you, I began to document my/your progress every week by writing a poem. I did this for six weeks--I began as soon as I found out about you. I immediately called my doctor, and my heart sank when I found out they wouldn't see me until you'd been in my belly for ten weeks. I was already four weeks along, but those six weeks were the longest six weeks of my life.

Waiting

I.

I stare at the test on the sink
in front of me, squeeze
my hands between my knees to keep
from wringing them any more.
Try to convince myself it’s a mistake-
I know this won’t happen for me.

I watch the faint blue line grow
darker, form a solid plus, hear
the ding of the kitchen timer.

II.

It will be five weeks until
the doctor says you are mine
to keep or to try again.

Each twinge or cramp
from stretching tendons and growing
uterus fills me with worry
and relief.

I expect to lose you, expect blood
each time I stand from the toilet,
every trickle to be the mucus plug,
my body to fail you.

And know my fear
could be killing you.

III.

I cannot swallow.
Cannot force food down
to nourish you.
You are so small, only
a lentil that should grow
to a raspberry this week.

Your heart should pump blood
and the beginnings of hands move.
But will they if I cannot
give you what you need to grow?

IV.

Only two more weeks
until I will hear your heartbeat
alongside my own.

I want that sound to be glue,
connect me to you
and to your father.

To be proof that this body
I’ve lost has been given
to someone else—
that you really are inside me.

Then, maybe I can allow
myself to love you
despite my fear.

V.

Three years ago, no one knew
what was hurting me, what caused
intolerable pain, joints so swollen
they froze in stillness, lymph nodes
like grapes shoved under my skin
behind ears, under arms, in my groin.
Six doctors, fifty-eight vials of blood,
two biopsies, eight prescriptions,
ten pounds, three straight weeks
of sleep-- no one knew. Sick leave
from work, fainting on Subways,
no tests could determine.

Today I lie here, rub my swollen
belly, fight tears as the doctor
searches for the heartbeat you hide,
twist to vomit in the dish the nurse
holds next to me, try to listen and believe
as the doctor says: Extreme but normal.
Morning sickness. Dehydrated. Nothing
wrong with you. Will forget in time.

I think of three years ago, fear of death,
questions of Cancer, lymphoma, what they couldn’t
tell me. I want to ask those doctors why
this new life, what they can name,
feels so much worse.

VI.

Today I saw you dance
inside me, your heart,
a butterfly in a jar.
For a moment, I felt well
again, thought the proof
of you cured my selfishness.

They say you are healthy, perfect,
will stay with me, that I am doing
everything right.

So now I wait again.
This time to feel you move,
to find out if you’re a girl or boy,
give you a name,
see your face.


I love you, Poki. It was worth every minute of morning/noon/night sickness. I would do it a million times over.

-Mom