Mama B (Installment 2)

Here’s the second installment of Mama B, the short story I’m currently working on. The first installment was posted here a couple of days ago. There’s a link below. Enjoy! And, as always, feedback is more than welcome.

     Everything had seemed okay when I arrived at the hospital. Though my bag of water was still intact, my contractions were coming five minutes apart when Gerald wheeled me through the double doors of the maternity ward. The contractions felt like someone was stabbing me in my back and slowly bringing the knife around to the front of my body, but I was so excited about Paris Nichole’s impending arrival that as soon as the pain would pass, I was able to instantly put it out of my mind.
      And there’d been no sense of urgency as I was brought up to the fourth floor labor and delivery ward because it seemed I still had hours to go. Just another average delivery.
      The nurse and Gerald left me alone as soon as I was brought in the room. The nurse said she was giving me privacy so I could change into the hospital gown and Gerald, well, I couldn’t really say why he left because he didn’t say anything to me before he left. He just dropped my overnight bag in the reclining chair by the window, and then walked back out of the room. I noted, without surprise, that he had not kissed me on the cheek. In the early days of our marriage, he never left my side without showing me some sort of affection. These days affection had become just another elephant in the room for us to ignore. And things had only grown more strained between us since that day at the nursing home.
      Wearing one of those hospital gowns that opens in the back, I climbed into the bed and waited for either Gerald or the nurse to return. I was not surprised that it was the nurse who returned first and not Gerald.
      Still, when Nurse Lindsay came in and started working to prep me for delivery, I couldn’t help looking toward the door and wishing it would open. How could he leave me alone now of all times, I wondered.
      I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t fully realize the fetal heart monitor machine had been wrapped around me until my daughter’s strong steady heartbeat filled up the room. The joy this sound brought me lasted only as long as Paris’ heartbeat did.
Lindsay had assured me that my first-time delivery was going pretty much as expected before leaving me alone once again. The fetal heart monitor continued to register my daughter’s heartbeat and an IV was inserted in my arm. After the nurse inserted a dose of Pitocin in my IV, the contractions went from stabbing pains to slashing pains tinged with fire. I no longer cared about trying to control my breathing as the pains came closer and closer together. My moans became gasps that tottered on the verge of screams. Paris’ heart rate had dropped some. Lindsay assured me that was normal. Between bouts of pain that left me doubled over, I wondered if Gerald would return at all. Instead of worrying that Gerald might not make it back, it seems I should have been worrying if my sweet Paris would make it period.
      Hours passed and, before I knew it, the time between my contractions decreased to three minutes apart and still there was no Gerald. I didn’t know where he’d gone, but I’d never felt so alone. Well, it had been awhile since I’d felt this alone. Lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling, my thoughts transported me from the cold, sterile environment of the hospital to the warmth of the bed I used to sleep in when I was a little girl. I could picture myself as that little girl lying in the bed, listening to the night sounds, trying to pretend I couldn’t hear those noises and wishing that my mother would soon walk through the door. Night after night I would lie in the bed straining to hear my mother’s footsteps as she walked in the front door. Weeks passed and I never heard her footsteps. Just like that little girl from so long ago, I looked around that day in the hospital for someone to assure me that everything would be okay, but there was no one.
      My mother’s excuse had been an addiction to chasing the high that drugs offered her, but what was Gerald’s excuse?

 

Here’s the link to the first installment of the story: https://rosguy.wordpress.com/2014/06/08/mama-b/

Have a great Thursday guys!

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

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About Rosalind Guy

I'm broken & my soul is weary/ my weary soul rebels, fights/ anything & anyone who tries to heal me/I beat my head against a wall of memories/ trying hard to break free from the chain of memories/ I can only be free by saying it so/ i weave a necklace from words and finally/ I find freedom/ free free free. As you can see, words are powerful to me. As Maya Angelou said, words are wallpaper of the soul. I have lots of nightmarish memories that threaten to break me, but I learned a long time ago about the power of words. They can be used to heal and destroy anything that threatens to destroy the person. Words coupled with love have the power to save and heal. I am author of three books: Skinny Dipping in the Pool of Womanhood, Tattered Butterfly Wings, and Blues of a Love Junkie. I am a high school English teacher. I am a former reporter. I am a mother. I am a woman. I am a fierce advocate for those who cannot speak for themselves, those who's voices go unheard. Check out my Amazon author page at the following link: http://www.amazon.com/Rosalind-Guy/e/B00BGH5F88/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1432491754&sr=8-1.
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