Dear Nurse with the Pink Scrubs,

Hi.  Remember me?  I remember you.  In fact, my heart dropped when your head poked out of the inner office yesterday to call me back to the exam room.  I grimly obeyed your commands:  stood on the scale and watched the numbers climb, sat on the paper-covered table and held my arm out for the blood pressure cuff.  Lifted my shirt, pulled down my down my high-waisted maternity jeans, and laid back on the table for the doppler.

You left the room to get the doppler, never once looking me in the eye.

You left my chart open.  I clearly saw it in the chart this time, the word TWINS scrawled atop my weight/stats chart with a red line hurriedly slashed through it.  I know you saw it, too.

I know you didn’t even need to see that horrific note to know.  You remember that day, four weeks ago when I entered the exam room smiling and at ease.  You asked me about my son and joked with me about your own pregnancy with a warm and casual way about you.  When you put the doppler to my belly and found Abby quickly, we both smiled.  

When you struggled to find Will’s heartbeat, you became quiet in concentration.  You left the room to get another nurse.  You brought Sam a lollipop and read him a book while two other nurses hunted for the reassuring sound of second heartbeat.

Did you already know?

When I came back for my next appointment, I caught your eye as you passed the by the lab, where I sat, waiting to see if Will’s body was poisoning my blood.  Your eyes skipped across mine like I was but a stain of dirt on the floor.

Yesterday, you came back into the exam room, doppler in hand, and I guided you to Abby.  You counted the beats quietly.  “150 beats per minute,” you said, and wiped the jelly off my stomach.  I was crying, but you didn’t offer me a tissue.  You just quickly packed up the doppler and headed straight for the door…

as if  you might catch my deadbaby pox.

And  you will never know that I was crying, not because of the doppler exam itself (which is like reliving the same horrific crash scene at each doctor’s visit), but because your inability to acknowledge me and my loss is like losing Will over and over again

each time I see you.

*  *  *  *

Dear Nancy the Nurse practitioner,

Thank you for looking me in the eye and sitting with my tears. 

Thank you for handing me Kleenex.

Thank you for offering me pamphlets of therapists who I can talk to. 

Thanks for doing an ultrasound, even though we probably didn’t need to, so I could see Abby’s beautiful little body, face, and fluttering heart.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for asking what Will’s name is.

Thank you for holding my pain,

but for the briefest time.