The Plan

You lie in a hospital bed. People in and out of your room, introductions, tests, bloodwork, scans, IVs, all a blur.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

You repeat your speech: name, date of birth, and why you’re here to all the hospital staff who enter all day and night.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

You can’t remember anyone’s name, you’re just waiting and waiting for answers from your revolving door of visitors.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

The minutes feel like hours, hours like years, each day a century, a week of torture.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

You grow numb to it all. You just want to leave, you need to leave, your baby needs you, you need them.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

You can see the maternity ward from your window. You were just on the happy floor a few weeks before; you can see the flowers and happy couples.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Now you’re here looking at your sad reflection in the window, arms all black and blue from being poked and prodded on the oncology floor, separated from your baby.

You had prepared for months, had different plans, but all that was scattered in a million pieces.

This wasn’t part of the plan.