Turned Away

On the Thursday that Zachary died, I was released from the hospital. The nurses let me wait to vacate the room until I could hand his body off to the funeral home director myself. It was the middle of the day before he could come, and as I handed him our baby, I wondered how he would get his body back to the funeral home. There would be no casket, and he was far too small for a body bag. I still wonder how he was trasnported.

After the trauma of the birth and all the attempts at salvation, I could hardly bear to walk, but I refused to be wheeled out. James was in front of me pushing a cart that overflowed with flowers and lovely tokens of wishing well. I followed behind with a box of memories. As we passed the nurses station, the constant chatter quieted down, and not one eye glanced in our direction.

Around the corner was a bank of elevators tucked inside a little nook. As the cart rounded the corner, some new grandmother squealed, "Ooo, it looks like someone else had a baby!" Her hands were clutched under her chin, and her smile was wide, gaping. In an instant, understanding took over, her face contorted, and she quickly turned her whole body away from me -- as if whatever killed my baby would infect her own.

The sun was incredibly bright that day. Brighter than I'd ever seen it before.

I came home, and swept the kitchen.