Alone

Since giving birth 3 and a half years ago, I have rarely felt alone. But before that journey began, my final days before giving birth felt scarily alone. Not beautiful or magical or even clinical. Just quite desperately alone, even while being in a hospital. 

After the water broke like a crash, a wave, a comedic slam and slush and pulse. 

Like I’d broken my hip 

or wet myself 

or both.

This pulsing swollen body that refused to open and release the very calm and unworrying baby it was carrying.

Leaking and tired and frustrated.

Starting to get scared.

Burst. Gushed. Waddled up, wet and dripping. Stripped soaked paper.

Then begin to projectile vomit all the pineapple juice that had been supposed to be helping though did nothing other than fill a squished stomach with the necessary ammunition to secure place as MOST DISGUSTING CREATURE IN EXISTENCE.

Surges. 

Beeping.

Readiness.

“So just go to bed now. We’ve put you on the waiting list. You are in the queue.”

The injection please, to wait it out. Till the front of the queue. Good night, babe. I’ll be alright. It sucks they are making you leave. I wish you could stay. Go and get some sleep. One of us should rest…

Tension everywhere. Teeth clenched. Fighting for breath. Then a gulp of air. Slowly release. Prepare for the next one. Stop grinding. Not tears this time. And out.

I’ve been in an earthquake once. I was in a hostel in Tokyo. The city had shut down due to typhoon warnings. It was a 6.2 that happened off the coast. I was in my bunk, wishing for privacy. It felt like someone on the top bunk was jostling around. I wondered if they were masturbating, not knowing I was there. I made noise to no answer and realised other bunks were shaking and I was alone.

Hours.

Hours.  

Hours.

Mud had grown over my body. Thick and tired and sticky. Hours to go. A second night of solitude. 

So. 

So.

Drag the mountain to the bath.

The bath two hallways away. 

Stone legs. Rigid hips. Feet somewhere. 

Arms heavy 

heavy 

heavy 

And brace for the earthquake.

(long exhale)  

Heave all boulders out the door. 

Hands lifting what they can, dragging what they can. 

A moving wall of woman bearing against a wall of cold / unfeeling / no feeling / sterile / clinical / just a job wall. 

And two more steps. 

And two more hallways.

There is an apparatus in the gym. I can’t remember what it is called. But now in my mind it is a dog sled. The Sled (no dogs) and you push it. Maybe it is called the Sled. And you push it across a room. Load it with weight. Brace your feet, dig in with your toes, keep your core strong, your back long, your shoulders turned on and push.

Pushing and pulling till collapse in a cold plastic chair as the bath runs. 

Alone. 

Gripping onto brain for clarity through the fog. Through the world ripping pain. 

Into hot water. 

Is it relief?

Or just different? 

Don’t fall asleep. 

Don’t drown in the pain / drown in the night / Drown in the smell of pineapple puke / drown in the loneliness. 

Don’t drown. 

Up now. Water cold. So up. Lift the broken mountain, boulder by boulder. 

Haul. 

Every sinew holding to slippery cold ceramic bath. 

One great leg over. 

Sides bulging. 

Brace. 

And back again.

All the way back.

How do we learn who to trust? Why do we trust people in hospitals? What do they know? What do they know about the miracle in me? What do they know of what I am capable of? What do they know of pain and pressure and effort and blackouts and pass outs and private room isolation and cognitive awareness and the creature inside me? What do they know of how well I am keeping it together?

Feel … rough. Look rough. Touch rough. 

Hoarse. 

Could someone please come check me? Where am I in the queue? It must be soon?

And holding a hand, you hope for good news 

that will draw a long night to a close.

A night of deep sweat and deep ache not deep sleep

and a sludginess down to your toes.

A glance at a chart you don’t get to see

and the sound of beeps on machine.

Hooking my belly up again and again

no clue as to what that might mean.

A lack of intention or urgent response

like this happens all of the time.

Beginning to think there is complete disregard

for my body – yes me – this is mine!

So listen to me – I’ve been here all night

you made me stay all alone.

I couldn’t even keep my person with me

because you made him go home.

And it hurts. It still hurts. It’s been awful

so please tell me if it might be soon

Because at 10:30 last night my waters broke

and now it is nearly noon.