Wednesday, September 05, 2007


~ I cried.
I cried for my baby, my husband, my pain. I cried because crying was the only thing I could do.
Robert held me locked in his arms, rocking me gently, I only realized later, in time to his own sobs. I clung to him like he was my last hope.
I vaguely remember passing the afterbirth, a nurse gently removing my feet from the stirrups and covering me up. Either no one spoke to me, or I just don't remember it. My world consisted of my anguish, the unendurable ache consuming my heart. Robert's world brushed against mine and I knew his pain as well. I thought that it must be a blessing to die.
This should not be happening to me. This could not have happened to me. That putrid mass of flesh that my body had just so violently expelled could not have been my baby.
I stopped crying. The emptiness choked me. That was not my baby. More tears came where I thought I had none left. That was my baby.
My baby.
The pain dragged me down. I did not resist.
Robert cradled my limp body as a nurse slipped a sedative into my vein. I wondered briefly if they had anything that would dull his agony.
He lay me gently back on the bed and went, for the first and last time, to look at his son. I could still feel his body shaking against my breast.
Hell couldn't hurt this badly. ~

~ From the mind of Renee

Please comment. I need to know what you think of this.


Anonymous said...

Bunny, you write as if you have had given birth, there is no greater pain than what is received by a harm to your child, and you see all that. you are making me cry.
I love you honey.

Anonymous said...

Birth is just that, a closing into a little tiny world of unbearable pain, pain and worry are everything, pain consumes your whole person, and when in lessens between contractions, worry for your baby, worry and love completely engulf you, there is no other matter, no other thing only pain, worry and love

Anonymous said...

This is unbearably sad and viseral. So.. in that it is very good, you captured the oneness of mother and child, and the common sense of guilt that overrides most. They feel as if they could have done something differant. And you got that silly, stupid, thing that persons in shock get, detailed, unreal focus on little things, like how the nurses fingernails looked pitted ect. as the mind reaches for something, anything. And you got the disbelief stage of grief, denying the truth, yet mourning just the same. But I must know, is this our Robert? Also Elisabeth George has some well written scenes on this topic, in the form of a minor character Deb, you might want to look at.