I Crumple My Paper Gown

I Crumple My Paper Gown

after I witness the heartbeat of a curled bean floating in static ultrasound. I pull clothes from their neat pile, dress, and flip a switch to let a nurse know I’m no longer nude. Funny how I slid bras so carefully from beneath shirts in middle school; my broken body has been paraded before so many strangers with an illusion of modesty proffered by thin paper. I no longer care.

This OB/GYN is pleased, his only concern my patched S-5–L-1 disc, where epidurals are inserted at the birth. You never can tell with needles. He explains why I might want one, but there’s no guarantee. I’m anxious to tell Kevin, who likely reads another book about pregnancy patiently, the same paragraph over and over.

Phoneless on the long drive home, cars lined before me—tensile threads of tissues weave fissures closed in my muscles. Scar tissue, thick like my sister’s braids—thick cords I admired while mine hung limp. I make up my mind by the fifth red light: I won’t get an epidural. You never can tell with needles. Maybe an IV where I can see it flush against my hand, protruding from its veiny web.

My hips were designed for this. They will open: this baby will come as she’s meant to. My body will heal again, yes, as it’s meant to. But there’s no guarantee. The body fragile: the body tenacious: the body miracle.

I drive with my hand pressed against flesh, pubic bone, bladder, uterus, amniotic sac, and the baby―no, Hattie―blossoming, snug in my womb. I ready myself for pledged pain, more thin, boxy paper, and strangely comforting witnesses.