You were born on the seventeenth of December.
We married on the seventeenth of July.
Our daughter conceived on a seventeen.
Today you have been dead for seventeen months. Inconceivable to me.
This morning on our little wooden block perpetual calendar in the kitchen, I skip the day- turning to seven rather than six.
My intentions were for a natural childbirth…but after two cab rides from Brooklyn to the hospital in Manhattan, only to find I’d have to labor on a gurney between two curtains in triage because there was no open room for me in L&D, the nurse told me I should consider getting an IV. “It’ll give you the energy you need to keep laboring- perk you up.” Laboring for over fifteen hours already- mostly on my hands and knees- in our apartment, on the concrete sidewalk while we waited for the cab, in the cab, and on the gurney between the little curtains, something to perk me up sounded appealing. I got the IV.
Strange as it may seem, since I’ve made it this far, for the first time in seventeen months, I feel things coming undone. I sit on the kitchen floor in the late afternoon trying to summon the energy to make dinner. I think to myself yesterday while sitting there, what I need right now is an IV. Something to go directly into my veins. Something to help me keep laboring…