Standing at the edge of the counter, the nurse has already started on her

Henry Del Rosario

Standing at the edge of the counter, the nurse has already started on her

paperwork. I collect my stack and begin filling out the blanks on the form: name,

time of birth, APGARs. It’s so quiet in the room that I hear the scratch of our

pens on paper; The texture of pulp; Papers shuffling; The nurse starts to sniffle.

Fingers thread and weave, twirling lines and cables, poking and prodding 

    with needles; We rush and mob with violent demand as our hands dance

    with mom’s body— The maddening choreograph of crash.

        She was alone in triage. Is anyone going to be with you during delivery? No.

        Don’t worry, we will be there with you, the nurse interjects. I finish

        consenting mom for a vaginal delivery and we escort her to a bigger room.

No one is as helpless as a mother trembling with pen and paper

    being wheeled to an operating room— stripped naked and cold— skin

    on metal. Not knowing why exactly but knowing everything is at stake.

        Precious as a bruise, hard as iron; we feel her belly squeeze and compress.

        Her eyes are loud. Her face so round; a pot about to boil over.

        I conjure hope to her that this too will end.

 The night flashes and she is under; There flies the knife into flesh. A crescent forms

    and then blushes against pale sky. I was unprepared to receive the baby

    plopped in front of me— limp and soulless.

        When I check how dilated she is, I feel strands of hair. Mom, your baby has

        a head of hair like you! She laughs. And then I see her grimace. The nurse places

        a wet towel on mom’s forehead and we stand there watching.

My fingers shake as my senior tells me to speak up. My thumbs

    wrap around the baby’s torso— smaller than a doll— ribs like chicken bones.

    One and two and three and breathe. One and two and three and breathe.

        The nurse already has mom on her side. Let’s give her oxygen too I say.

        Breathe through the contractions, it helps baby when you breathe.

        The monitors flicker. The ticks space out and whimper.

We intubated the baby and he was transferred to another hospital. The rest

of the team waits with mom in recovery. No more yelling. No more beeping. Nothing

but the nurse and I huddled at the edge of the table— standing and gathering

strained shapes— filling out blanks; Two witnesses sniffling in the dark of the room.

Henry Del Rosario was born in Chicago, Illinois to Filipino immigrants. He currently works in Massachusetts as an Assistant Professor and academic Family Physician at UMass Memorial doing inpatient medicine, clinic, and obstetrics.​ He chose family medicine due to the joy coming from seeing patients from birth to death, in the clinic and in the hospital, and often times an opportunity to care for multiple members of the same family. He sees that art deconstructs and constructs what is beautiful. Medicine deconstructs and constructs what is sick. He enjoys exploring how art and literature integrate into medicine.