Labor of Love

Twenty-three years ago, as the moon waxed gibbous, I went onto labor for the first time. I spent the day in bed, feeling the ocean of contractions roll across my belly, breathing in sweaty, hot air from the tropical summer. 

That afternoon, I went to the hospital and discovered I was dilated 4cms, but the ultrasound indicated the twins were only 31 and 32 weeks. I was admitted to the hospital and my progress was halted to give the twins more time to gain weight and have greater lung development. The next two days I lay in a hospital bed, starving and alone. They were afraid to feed me in case I needed surgery. My then fiancé was absent, either working or sitting in the hospital lounge watching television.

The first birthday without Kudra is approaching, and I feel restless, pacing, like I am again laboring, but with the darkness of grief moving within. Like birth, it comes in pangs and waves, swallowing whole moments, swallowing pieces of my heart.
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I never doubted I would live my first birth even though I was nearly lost in the operating room, but surviving Kudra’s death feels less certain depending on the minute, which is a special irony. 

Good god I miss my girl. 

She was/is worth all of it.

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