Cry Baby

 

I could hear the crying-screams really-coming from the next room. It was an infant, possibly a toddler. The type of cries that can only be described as a child in complete distress, pain, and suffering. At times the cries would roll like waves with their intensity, crashing into my ears.

The waiting room was typical of most hospitals. A bed on an old wooden frame, bordered by two adult chairs and a child-sized chair on the opposite wall, a wash basin, and a computer arranged in simplicity. A picture of a duck hung on the wall with a description of its importance to the surrounding eco-culture. The room was painted in a dull cream with green highlights.

I noticed my hands were formed into fists that would clench and unclench in rapid repetition. At times, I’d interfere with wiping them on my legs and pinch my knees. I focused on the patterns in the room. The random patterns on the floor tile became clear mathematical equations. I noticed the dusty grease that had formed around the corner outlet. I noticed the crinkles in the paper on the examination table, the hardened tear in the plastic, gold covering. I noticed such insignificant things that I gathered no one else had ever taken notice of–except for other parents like me. A mother. A father. A parent waiting in hope and terror. I repeated prayers, “Our Father...Hail Mary...” I repeated my prayers while my eyes repeated the patterns of the tile.

I watched my child. So fragile. So strong. So like me and so different. I listened to the silence. I felt dizzy. I felt hot. I felt cold. I could feel nothing. I forced the thoughts from my mind, “Our Father...” Why won’t the child stop crying? Where is the child’s mother? Why won’t the child stop crying? And, then I realize-the child has stopped crying. The screams are my own.