Poems from the Interim: There's a Way that Doctors Tell You Bad News
There’s a way that doctors tell you bad news
Slowly, enunciating each word
To make sure there can be no
Misunderstanding
There’s a moment of silence before
A long, interminable moment
As they look at you and clear their throats
Or move the ultrasound wand
Silence, where they can’t quite meet your eyes
While your stomach eats itself
While the hurt starts to build in your veins
You’re being sliced open, slowly and silently
The knife cutting through each layer of skin
One by one
(Later you’ll curl up on your pillow and
Say in your head, over and over and over
“I just want to die. I just want to die.”)
The words they say end up chiseled
In your memories
Along with their expressions
The first couldn’t bring herself to say
“You’re going to lose your babies”
She just kept telling me
What they couldn’t do
What was going to go wrong
She made me say it for her
“So I’m going to lose them?”
She was so sad for me
So sad before I could even register
How sad I should be
She hugged me and I thought,
“She’s being so serious.”
The second built a wall
To hide behind before she spoke
The lightheartedness from moments
Before was gone.
Her eyes distant
Her voice guarded
I knew what was coming
Somehow I’d known all along that
This was the way it would go
(Or maybe I’d brought it into being
With my fear?)
“This is your bladder,
And this is the baby.”
(A moment of silence)
“...And this is where we would
Normally see a little flutter
And the blue and red that would
Tell us there’s blood flow.”
(That knife rips)
“...I’m not seeing that.
I’m sorry.”
Everyone is sorry. But
Everyone is also so happy
It isn’t them.
Slowly, enunciating each word
To make sure there can be no
Misunderstanding
There’s a moment of silence before
A long, interminable moment
As they look at you and clear their throats
Or move the ultrasound wand
Silence, where they can’t quite meet your eyes
While your stomach eats itself
While the hurt starts to build in your veins
You’re being sliced open, slowly and silently
The knife cutting through each layer of skin
One by one
(Later you’ll curl up on your pillow and
Say in your head, over and over and over
“I just want to die. I just want to die.”)
The words they say end up chiseled
In your memories
Along with their expressions
The first couldn’t bring herself to say
“You’re going to lose your babies”
She just kept telling me
What they couldn’t do
What was going to go wrong
She made me say it for her
“So I’m going to lose them?”
She was so sad for me
So sad before I could even register
How sad I should be
She hugged me and I thought,
“She’s being so serious.”
The second built a wall
To hide behind before she spoke
The lightheartedness from moments
Before was gone.
Her eyes distant
Her voice guarded
I knew what was coming
Somehow I’d known all along that
This was the way it would go
(Or maybe I’d brought it into being
With my fear?)
“This is your bladder,
And this is the baby.”
(A moment of silence)
“...And this is where we would
Normally see a little flutter
And the blue and red that would
Tell us there’s blood flow.”
(That knife rips)
“...I’m not seeing that.
I’m sorry.”
Everyone is sorry. But
Everyone is also so happy
It isn’t them.