Dear Dr. Neonatologist,

The resident told the nurse that he felt nothing but membranes.

I closed my eyes, and the pressure was finally released with a gush of water.

His feet slipped out, and I was taken to the birth place, a place I would never lay eyes on.

“This is not the way it’s supposed to happen!” a woman exclaimed.

A few dozen screams and one long push, that’s all it takes to give birth to a tiny, silent baby.

“Time of birth?” “3:51 a.m.”

I was taken back to the antepartum room, and I finally reopened my eyes.

It was dark and quiet.  My voice was hoarse and my belly empty.

You came, congratulated me, and asked whether my son had a name.

“Peter,” my husband said.

You told me Peter was alright,

And I was finally able to cry.

Thank you.

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