Josephine

Before the ultrasound
we cleared the junk room
and made it a nursery, Jed and I.
White beadboard wainscoting,
soft seafoam green walls
festooned with framed Mary Cassat baby painting prints.
Two double hung windows with blackout shades
draped over with green, dotted Swiss pullbacks.

The white spindle crib was fitted with a green skirt
matching the flannel sheets, a yellow teddy sentry
next to a white country style changing station,
and a seagreen velvet swivel rocker/glider
with a crochet coverlet I made
dawdling away time, trying to make it go faster
thinking about all I would do
spending time with my expected blessing.

At 20 weeks ultrasound defined welcome joy
to my upcoming  daughter
who was yet “baby Holcomb,”
because lasting traditions feared  bad luck
naming a baby before birth:
but in deepest secretly, she was “Josephine,”
after a sister in my beloved “Little Women,”
a reckless wild Tomboy, and smart as Hell.

At 28 weeks my pediatrician crushed me,
finding a congenital heart defect in my Love,
calling it hypoplastic left heart syndrome,
but all I heard was “serious defect,”
and taking a scribbled note
containing the phone number of Dr Bill Scott,
a neonatologist that would be needed
immediately upon birth.

I tranced my way through 2 baby showers:
one from family, one from gal pals.
Without the comfort of wine,
I cried over every baby blanket
bunting, mobile, stuffed fuzzy, or diaper bag. 
The cake tasted of acrid cardboard
and indulgent smiles and hugsjust made me more despondent.

Dear Jed held me whimpering at night,
uncharacteristically indulgent,
soothing me with his strong but gentle hands,
confidently telling me
“It’s going to be all right,”
making sure I was hydrating,
getting healthy food,
and dragging me out in the sunshine.

Then came the day -
Contractions feeding fear,
surrounded by mint green masked apparitions imploring,
“Push, Push, Push,-breathe, breathe, breathe.”
Jed was there. But ashen.
I was not at all a “prayer”
but that day I was fervent in my plea,
“Please, Please, Please.” 

Josephine became.  She was real.  She was mine.
With profound Joy I cried copiously in relief.
It didn’t last long.
Dr. Scott said “urgency.”
“Jo” stayed in Natal intensive care.
Jed was constant companion, taking me home,
but I never felt more alone
and desperately disconsolate.

Two surgeries.
I can’t remember how fast things went by
until today... tears exhausted,
I kneel amongst flowers with no smell,
and people with no faces.
‘That’ nursery only nurturing spiders now.
My dearest daughter Josephine,
held by a cold cradle of mahogany and brass.

-Jerry Wendt 2019