Birth and Poetry in April
I saw a baby delivered! I'd never watched a birth, and also never been in the OR (this was a C-section). Experiencing both simultaneously was particularly intense. These days Mom is generally awake (although thoroughly numbed!) while the surgery is going on (sometimes there's a general, but not usually). It's pretty wild to be standing and conversing calmly with someone while their belly is wide open on the table with two pairs of hands deep inside her.
Strangely, my potential reaction the blood and gore wasn't what worried me the most about being in the OR. In fact, I wasn't bothered in the slightest, just fascinated ('whoa, THAT'S what a uterus looks like!'). No, I was worried about accidentally breaking the sterile field (I didn't).
And just in case it doesn't go without saying, watching a baby emerge like that was one of the most miraculous things I've ever seen. Most creations in life emerge bit by bit: my plan, a piece of knitting, a poem, home made bread. Obviously a child is being knit together slowly in the womb, but we see the results all at once and it is so antithetical to out daily, humdrum existence that it can only feel miraculous. To me, at least. Perhaps this reaction will wear off in time.
I've responded much more strongly to this first birth of my nursing career than I responded to the first death, which took place several weeks ago and left me feeling oddly . . . nothing. Just a little sad that there was nothing we could have done.
Also, it is once again National Poetry Month. As I have done for the past two years (goodness!) I shall post at least one poem every Tuesday. And perhaps some in between, as well.
The Only Day in Existence, by Billy Collins
The morning sun is so pale
I could be looking at a ghost
in the shape of a window,
a tall, rectangular spirit
peering down at me now in my bed,
about to demand to avenge
the murder of my father.
But this light is only the first lines
in the five-act play of this day-
the only day in existence-
or the opening chord of its long song,
or think of what is permeating
these thin bedroom curtains
at the beginning of a lecture
I must listen to until dark,
a curious student in a V-neck sweater,
angled into the wooden chair of his life,
ready with notebook and a chewed-up pencil,
quiet as a goldfish in winter,
serious as a compass at sea,
eager to absorb whatever lesson
this damp, overcast Tuesday
has to teach me,
here in this spacious classroom of the world
with its long walls of glass,
its heavy, low-hung ceiling.
Be well, do good work, keep in touch.
Strangely, my potential reaction the blood and gore wasn't what worried me the most about being in the OR. In fact, I wasn't bothered in the slightest, just fascinated ('whoa, THAT'S what a uterus looks like!'). No, I was worried about accidentally breaking the sterile field (I didn't).
And just in case it doesn't go without saying, watching a baby emerge like that was one of the most miraculous things I've ever seen. Most creations in life emerge bit by bit: my plan, a piece of knitting, a poem, home made bread. Obviously a child is being knit together slowly in the womb, but we see the results all at once and it is so antithetical to out daily, humdrum existence that it can only feel miraculous. To me, at least. Perhaps this reaction will wear off in time.
I've responded much more strongly to this first birth of my nursing career than I responded to the first death, which took place several weeks ago and left me feeling oddly . . . nothing. Just a little sad that there was nothing we could have done.
Also, it is once again National Poetry Month. As I have done for the past two years (goodness!) I shall post at least one poem every Tuesday. And perhaps some in between, as well.
The Only Day in Existence, by Billy Collins
The morning sun is so pale
I could be looking at a ghost
in the shape of a window,
a tall, rectangular spirit
peering down at me now in my bed,
about to demand to avenge
the murder of my father.
But this light is only the first lines
in the five-act play of this day-
the only day in existence-
or the opening chord of its long song,
or think of what is permeating
these thin bedroom curtains
at the beginning of a lecture
I must listen to until dark,
a curious student in a V-neck sweater,
angled into the wooden chair of his life,
ready with notebook and a chewed-up pencil,
quiet as a goldfish in winter,
serious as a compass at sea,
eager to absorb whatever lesson
this damp, overcast Tuesday
has to teach me,
here in this spacious classroom of the world
with its long walls of glass,
its heavy, low-hung ceiling.
Be well, do good work, keep in touch.