The referral requests a small miracle:
ICU, clots, comorbidities.
Needs contraceptive planning.
A first, the attending says—
a discharging clinician peering
beyond the present crisis
to the future one often left unnamed.
She splits the list,
passes your case on.
I’m grateful you’re coming
yet can’t ignore
the small relief of distance.
Your chart is a language
I do not speak.
I only recognize the punctuation:
hard stops,
exclamation points,
ways in which pregnancy may not end
in the miracle of life.
Hours pass; rooms stay full.
I go in.
I pull up a chair.
You are not upset, just tired.
I ask the questions I have.
You answer other questions.
We miss each other
until I fall silent and loosen my grip
on my template—
and wait.
You cry, clutching your partner’s hand.
The room stills.
And then, like a door closing, you say:
I’m hoping to conceive.