The paper stuck to my sweating, bare thigh

As I shifted uncomfortably, waiting

For the obstetrician.

Six weeks is the magic number

For a checkup after a procedure,

It seems.

Six weeks after trauma,

Six weeks after surgery,

Six weeks after my life shattered;

Six weeks is all it takes

For the doctor to decide

I am fine.

She finally opened the door.

How are you?

She iterated as she marched to the wall

Opposite me,

Turned on her heel,

And placed my folder on the counter.

I am still in pain

My voice shook. My heart raced.

The paper beneath me crackled, loudly announcing

How tightly I gripped the examination table.

Her head bent and her pen moved,

But nothing else;

As though an artificial form had rammed the real woman

In a closet in hopes to parade as one.

She fired off the usual questions

Are you still taking medicine?

What have you tried?

What issues are you having?

My voice wavered as I rallied my answers.

I am still taking the pain medicine, but it isn’t working.

I don’t know what to try, I was hoping you could tell me.

My issue is …

I am still in pain.

She kept writing.

Head bent, eyes on my file, heels touching the wall.

Her movement as stiff and efficient as a machine.

I do not remember much

About her exact questions,

Or how I fumbled my way through.

Eventually, her pen rested on my file

And she took steps towards me.

I laid back, heels in the stirrups,

Vulnerable and broken,

As she inserted her sharp tools

And examined and prodded.

It looks great, she reported

As she marched back to the corner of the room,

Farthest from me;

Heels against the wall.

You are ready to try again.

My heart raced, my head swam, and my body

Sagged with the pain

Her sharp tools and prodding fingers produced.

I am still in pain,

I mumbled.

Keep taking the pain medication.

You are free to try again as soon as the pain goes away.

I slammed my eyes against tears.

I couldn’t cry in front of her.

I knew better than that.

But what is causing the pain?

Perhaps Jepeto had also created a sister who

Never wanted to be real?

She wanted to remain rigid and wooden, and her nose

Would reveal her indifference.

Everything looks fine, she repeated.

Her heels against the wall,

Her spine straight,

Her mouth stiff,

Her eyes … 

empty.

The paper stuck to my sweating legs and backside.

The thin, white blanket on my lap provided no comfort.

Six weeks is a magical number after a procedure, but

Why didn’t it work for me?

My throat was closing. The air was too heavy.

One more question,

I had to ask.

What if this pain is why I lost the baby?

Was all I could manage. But the rest hung in the air…

I don’t want to lose another one.

Lay back again, she ordered,

Coming towards me again

With rigid efficiency.

She worked her hands around my stomach and hips,

Pushing and manipulating

Excruciating pain from my broken body.

I did my best to explain

What her actions did to my broken body.

Sweat slid into my eyes as I forced myself to sit up.

My eyes stung with salt, with pain, with tears

That could no longer be held.

Your uterus looks fine. You seem to be a little sore.

Keep taking the pain meds and rest.

You are free to try again.

Beneath her paces back to the corner of the room,

-Her heels pressed again the wall,

The farthest corner away from me-

The floor cracked.

The weight of the air,

The weight of my sweat,

The weight of my pain,

The weight of her words

Became too much for the room.

And as I desperately dragged my broken body

To the edge of the gap between us;

As my voice failed to sound the questions;

As I clumsily attempted a step towards hope;

The floor collapsed.

As the shards cut me,

As my body tumbled into darkness,

I thrust a hand towards her.

As a statue stands motionless

Against the tide of tragedy;

So her marble eyes would not behold,

Nor her stone ears discern,

My desperate screams.

I talk about this on my YouTube channel if you would like to watch.