Birthday Parties Every Night.
At my job, we have birthday parties every night.
From seven to seven, I get to bring
LIFE.
Pink-bellied. Chubby-cheeked. Screaming. Crying. Wailing.
Brand-spankinâ-new
LIFE
into this godforsaken, glorious, grotesque world.
Itâs the best. The brightest. The dream job.
Birthday parties⊠every damn day.
You started this job as a baby yourself.
Nurse at twenty-one.
Teaching parents how to latch,
how to swaddle,
how to survive that cursed second night.
And no one asked:
âDo you have little ones of your own?â
You were just a baby yourself.
A decade laterâŠ
your hands are magic.
Your flow is flawless.
Deliveries? Natural.
Soothing panicked parents? Easy.
And patients just assume
youâre lucky enough
to be one of them.
But they donât know.
No one tells you
how excruciating it is
to watch everyone around you
living the dream you carry like a stone in your chest.
No one tells you
how soul-crushing it is
to watch new mothers,
proud fathers,
love on their perfect little baby
while yoursâŠ
never made it home.
No one warns you
how insane youâll go,
surrounded by friends,
by family,
by your obstetric avalanche of patients
all joining the exclusive club of parenthood
while you grieve alone.
No one tells you
about the hatred that simmers,
that sneers, that scorches
for all the perfect little families
you care for every day.
Wearing a mask of joy,
while inside you are stone.
Because yours
never got the chance
to breathe LIFE
earthside.
No one tells you
how to answer
when patients ask,
âHow many kids do you have?â
Do you tell the truth?
Just one-
in heaven.
No one tells you
How youâll
you burn alive with jealousy
for strangers, for patients,
for the entire fucjing world
living your dream,
your one desire:
to be a mother.
No one tells you
What to do
when your dream job
flips into a nightmare.
A daily dagger,
reminding you of the baby,
the love,
the life
you let go ofâŠ
alone.
