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.