"Just breathe," the nurse said over and over again.
Burned with utter exhaustion and apprehension.
My legs felt like pure jelly and my uterus felt like it was close to self-destruction.
I squeezed my husband's hand and I pushed.
White is all there was.
The whiteness of the ceiling.
The white flashes appearing in my eyes.
The white noise of a high-pitched screeching cry.
I salvaged in the white because without it, I would have to look at her.
Even when the doctor swore her beauty and tried to place her on my chest, I submerged in that white.
Even when my husband pleaded at me with his glass eyes, I rebelled in the white.
And when the white turned into two drops of misbehaved tears, I quickly shut my eyes and prayed that sleep covered me just like the pitying stares of the doctor and nurses.
I wake to an empty room.
All alone.
I slowly rise from the bed and ignore the loud protest of my pelvis.
I slowly wobble to the entrance of my hospital room and freeze.
The signature scent of sanitizer and death swims through the air like an Olympic award-winning swimmer but I ignore it.
That cry.
That sorrow-filled, hopeless cry.
Everything in my head tells me to stay in this room but somehow, someway my body wobbles forward.
As the weeping grows closer, my chest feels heavier.
I stand in front of the entrance, with my hand raised to knock.
"Just breathe," I tell myself.
Three soft knocks fill my ears.
Silence.
I eventually hear my reluctant permission to enter and I slowly open the door.
Pain.
Pain is all I see.
Pain on her face.
Pain in her eyes.
Pain in her arms as she holds her stillborn.
I slowly wobble to her bed and she scoots over.
She doesn't know me, I surely do not know her but as we gaze into each other's eyes, we see a relatable pain that no mother should have to experience.
I rub her back as she weeps.
I hold her hand when eventually her doctor comes to take her child.
I hold her in my arms because I know she has no one else to do it.
I rock her side to side as her cries simmer and she slowly drifts to sleep.
I'm alone again.
I turn to the left and see a thank you card.
I smile.
Even though I just relived the most hopeless time of my life, I can't help but be filled with just that.
Hope.
I rise and wobble to the door.
Mom on a mission.
When I reach my room and open the door, it's surprisingly still empty.
I wobble to my bed and sit.
I press the emergency button that calls the nurse.
A minute later, she's barging in the room with questions.
I smile.
She smiles.
She assures me she will bring her right away.
Not too long go by but it's enough time for my supporting friend anxiety to drop by.
The door opens and my husband walks in holding her.
His smile is the sun.
He places her in my arms.
"Just breathe," I tell myself.
I look down and see me.
But smaller and with chubbier cheeks, of course.
Namiko is your name.
Because like a wave, you immersed my life and moved it to a completely different place.
One with eternal solace and hope.
