Poem: February 17, 2019

Family History

You can't stop your brain from thinking the terrible thoughts
that you wouldn't want to say out loud, especially now,
with you split open on a table in the operating room, and mom
sitting here at three in the morning, fidgeting, making lists,
and silent, all of us, silent because any conversation can lead
to you, and so I don't say out loud, for example, how ironic
it is that we were just celebrating your birthday five hours ago,
but that was the thought I had, right there, in my brain.
A useless thought that wouldn't do anyone any good. Maybe
it's our desire to fill empty spaces before they are filled
with something worse, something we've all agreed not to look at.
So I don't break the silence, and instead, I think about
the last time I was here in this hospital, in the emergency room
where you started tonight, and I remember the lights being
exactly that bright, and the invasive noises of a hundred crises-
the high-pitched beeps, the assurances behind other curtains,
the breathing machines and squeaking wheels. I remember
the strange, efficient tempo of people on the clock.
But even before that I remember collapsing on a Sunday,
after a day with the kids at the pool, and now alone
in the apartment, rigid and doubled over, a sense that my
torso was full of broken glass, a stabbing in my back
and vomiting in the bath, honestly not sure if something
hadn't burst, but paralyzed with indecision, unsure
if I should call someone or 911 or if it was already too late
and I would die, just an hour after the kids had left, and
who would find me and what does anyone do, then,
but call their dad and try to sound rational, but Jesus,
is this it? This quick? With no discussion at all? But you,
I remember, you were calm. You asked the questions that I
have learned to ask myself to identify a kidney stone:
Has there been blood in my urine (it looks brown, not red)?
Are the spasms localized and on one side? Am I hydrated?
I can only explain how your voice and authority had opened
a shut door. Your father says he has seen this, he has been there
before, and his voice wipes away the panic so the pain becomes
something that can be wrestled with long enough to make it
to the hospital and the morphine and the strange, distant tempo
of being outside myself and given over to the professionals.
It must always be terrible to wait when someone you love
is behind a door you cannot open, to trust that the gloved
and sterile tide that pulls them away will return them back
to your shore. I wish I had found some soothing words
to say, to tell you I have seen this play out, and you will be okay.