“Uterine atony,” I hear the doctor say as the neonatologist is showing me my brand-new baby. I glance at my blood pressure before looking at my son.
All tagged baby
“Uterine atony,” I hear the doctor say as the neonatologist is showing me my brand-new baby. I glance at my blood pressure before looking at my son.
Footsteps up the driveway, hours too early. Clinking of keys on the hook, coins in the can, wallet on the counter.
She called him Peeg. He was a stuffed pig born at IKEA, on a trip when I needed candles and she needed distraction.
Relief licks my bones. Our infant son will not die.
Three texts. Nine words. "The baby died. I’ve miscarried. There was no heartbeat."
A baby’s crying woke me up at midnight.
While we thumbed outdated magazine pages in the doctor’s waiting area, we wondered if our baby would be all right, if there were additional vitamins or a prescription we might need.
I knew that I was destined to fail my daughter in some profound way, so when she turned away from my nipple, stiffening in my arms, her soft lips tightly pursed, I was not surprised.