An angel got its wings today, the caption reads beneath a photo of a mother’s

baby the size of a hand posted to the Facebook NICU parents page. Night nurse

 

clicks around vital sign jumbo screens. The whir of my breast pump punctuates each beat as I

doom scroll through pictures and pleas  –

 

endless streams of anonymous internet tragedies. It feels easier than looking at my son’s

fingers curled into spiraled fists. His wire-wrapped body

 

glowing orange under a lamp, veins as thin as dental floss. An oxygen level sensor

hooked to his toe illuminates his entire foot red like a light-up card.

 

I imagined newborn days differently – a plush recliner under Etsy watercolor moon art,

juggling him in one arm, guiding his root to a latch with the free arm. Just the two of us. Me,

 

kneeling to place him on a one-month photo op bunny rug. Later, massaging

lavender lotion across his skin folds after library storytime with rhyming bouncing songs.

 

My hospital-grade breast pump is on wheels like IV bags patients push around the hospital ward.

Night nurse clears her throat too loud when I forget to refrigerate my milk

 

or doze off at three AM and sleep through the every-two-hour pumping alarm. My breasts

pulse heat—red scabs burst blood. Night nurse snaps a piece of grape gum.

 

Questions rush the FB page. They boil to this: Will my baby live? Night nurse syringes my milk

right through a feeding tube snaked through my son’s nose and taped across his lashless face.

 

Suction from the plastic flanges yanks me raw. My milk splashes pink, then drips.

Teething a lactation cookie, I rest my head against the wall

 

until the bottle is full and listen to the low wet cry in the neighbor’s room.

Valentine’s hearts line the fluorescent-lit hall, ripped red streamers dangle from ceiling tiles.

 

Weary moms in yesterday’s clothes ghost shuffle to the water fountain and peer into rooms with

x-ray focus, searching for the answer to our endless scroll. That prayer, that

 

yes. Ice will thaw, then melt & soon spring, then green, and home where there’s no night nurse,

zero medical beep. Only baby’s hungry wail & the pat of my bare feet down the moonlit hall.

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Bea Forkan earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia College Chicago. She is co-host of the podcast, Juxtapose, and offers international writing retreats with Vacation Writing. You can find her on Instagram.

Artwork by Tyler Haberkorn