awake before the alarm, the body knows when my eyes should open–dreams have halted–sleep is no longer appealing.
should I give it what it wants or should I play the game of dodging its call and close my eyes to drift again?
resistance is futile.
Originally published via Simily
I get a text from Iesha’s mother at like midnight telling me to get down to Mercy City Hospital, and all I could think of were Iesha and the baby. Are they aight? Are they okay? I was tearing up so badly; I had to take a roll of tissue with me to the car. I put the key in the ignition and turned right. The car purred — started up with no trouble, and the sheer sound of it, for some reason, made me believe — all would be well.
I guess I don’t have to tell you; the car is mine. I love it! My homie Amar’s Uncle Khalil was true to his word. When I’m not hustling to take Iesha to her rec classes or to the ice cream shop to work, I am running errands for us and driving myself to and from work. These last few weeks have been so busy, I barely had time to breathe. Iesha’s been rippin’ and runnin’ too, doing far too much. I’ve told her on more than one occasion, “Babe, you’re getting too close to your due date to be doing all this. Let someone else lighten the load for you.”
But Iesha is stubborn, and she thought she could work here, study there, and hustle here without any of this catching up with her. My phone dings and there’s another text message coming in from Iesha’s mother, and I pull over to the edge of the road, away from traffic to read what it says.
“She’s five centimeters dilated — contractions every ten minutes, lasting about 45 seconds. This baby is probably coming tonight, Deidrick. Where are you!?”
Tonight?! What am I reading?! TONIGHT!!! Not tonight. We still have so much to do. She hadn’t even had the baby shower — that’s next weekend. The apartment won’t be ready until Thursday — it’s Monday. She’s only seven months now. Will the baby be okay? Why is she coming so early?! What are we going to do?
Man, listen . . . I hustled so fast those last four blocks to the hospital, it’s a miracle I didn’t get pulled over by the cops. I kept seeing Iesha’s smile flash before my eyes — like the happiest memories of her were loading up in my brain, and I felt like I was in the matrix or some shit, ya know?
I pull up to the parking deck, grab the entry ticket, find the closest parking spot on the first floor, and hustle to the side entrance of the parking deck to get to the main entrance of the hospital. At Mercy City, you sign in with the receptionist, give the party’s name you’re there to see, and then after scanning your driver’s license, you’re given the room number and if available, a hospital volunteer to usher you to their room.
I told the receptionist I didn’t need an usher — I knew exactly where I was going. I spent so much time in this hospital as a kid, I could map it with my eyes closed. Guess I didn’t tell you this, huh? I have sickle cell anemia. Iesha, as far as we know, is not a carrier and doesn’t have the trait. So, we should be in the clear with our little one. I think she’s just ready to enter this world — ready to give her Mommy and Daddy some work to do.
The last time I had been hospitalized was about four years ago. I don’t miss this place — not one bit.
When I step into the room, I notice Iesha strapped to some sort of device, wailing and screaming. I guess the damn contractions were getting the best of her. My girl has been telling us since day one . . . “I don’t want any drugs.” And I’ll be damned if she wasn’t keeping her word. She handled each contraction like a trooper.
I had to slide some hospital gear over my clothes, and some shoe covers, too. The cover on my head looked funky and out of place. I settled in next to the hospital bed and held Iesha’s hand. Her mom was talking to her, telling her to breathe through each contraction just like she had learned. She was squeezing the hell outta my hand, man. I can laugh about it now because it’s all said and done, but I was scared as shit that night. Scared as shit.
Two hours later, we had a screaming baby, who was letting the world know she was alive. She was 4lbs, 11oz, amazingly so. Iesha’s mom said, “Lord child, had you carried this baby to term, she would have been at least seven pounds.” Iesha was a week shy of being eight months pregnant. We’d made it close enough to a “safe place” for the baby to survive on her own outside of the womb, but you know . . . all precautions had to be taken. Her breathing was a little labored, but she was calm otherwise.
No real causes for alarm, they said.
She spent nine days in the NICU, her weight fluctuating, but she was eating and sleeping normally. On her last day in the hospital, me and Iesha walked up to the NICU and sat and took turns holding her — loving her — letting her know who Daddy and Mommy were.
We both decided she would be Aida Miracle Miles because here she was — our little miracle.
I’d known this day would come, so I was ready, but I wasn’t ready too. If you dig what I’m sayin’. But man . . . I take one look at Aida and another at Iesha and I can’t stop smiling. My two girls — my world in one room. I love them so much my heart explodes at the thought of losing either of them. I am a father. A father . . . I am someone’s father. I don’t think I’ve ever known this kind of happiness before.
*This concludes the Deidrick series. Thank you so much for reading.
Originally published in soliloque via Medium.
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, and Part V
there’s me and you
us and them
but we are one
we’re managing as
a blended team
although on a
grand scale, it’s a
beautiful thing to watch
two different families merge
their lives; the road isn’t
always an easy one
to travel
I know this . . . I love you,
and it provides the strength
I need to soldier on
through our hardest days
I am no longer a mother
of two but four–by label
and only . . . by union.
only by union
and this is what causes
me to pause and review
how we got here
and settle into the
beauty of our exchange
by saying, “I do,” I gained
not just you but your
daughters too
and when you agreed to
accept me, you were
saying “yes” to mine
we couldn’t have imagined
the tests we’d take, but
the journey is one
hell of a ride
I’m happy you’re my
copilot . . . I couldn’t,
wouldn’t think of flying
this crowded plane
with anyone else
Thank you to my very good friend, Karen for allowing me to gift a poem to you. It has been my pleasure creating this. *big hugs* I love you, girl.
To learn more about Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here. Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life.
I catch myself–I nearly click your phone number, desperate to hear your voice. my world is shifting and I have to remind myself that death does not issue refunds.
I back out of my contacts and slap my thigh . . . “You can’t call her anymore.” it’s a stern statement I allow to slither in my mind more times than I can count, yet, I forget.
it’s the remembering . . . the recollections of good times and big love we shared, and now it’s all a matter of discarded hopes and dreams never to see the light of day.
I should be better by now, but by whose standards or expectations . . . and why is betterment the goal?
I flit from sleeping soundly to tossing and turning frequently and my body clock is on vacation.
tonight, I listen for you in the wind–the trees send your voice to me, and I lose my way to a place that shelters me from every storm. you’re there, and I’m happy again.
__________
©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt, Originally published via Simily
Lalina held up her new button proudly and shoved it in her big sister’s face. “Look what I got, Ndia! Auntie bought it for me today at the festival. You should have come. They had basketballs for sale.” Lalina’s older sister loved basketball — she would try out for her school’s junior varsity team in two weeks. Knowing this, Lalina did everything she could to make her sister feel bad about not coming with them to the festival. After all, isn’t this what a seven-year-old sister did?
“I don’t care about that festival, Lali. I had some rounds to do and layups and sprints. While you and Auntie were at the festival, I got those done. What else did you get besides some old tired button?”
Lalina adored her button. It said exactly what she felt everyone should do in life — “Do What You Love”. It amplified her feelings about swimming and ice skating. While her sister loved playing basketball, she had a gentler touch regarding sports. She wanted the button for their mother, who had been working double shifts for two months; an almost feeble attempt at making ends meet for the three of them.
“The button’s for Ma-mah, Ndia. She works so hard. She’s always tired. The button is for her. I don’t think she loves what she’s doing. I think she just has to — for us.”
The pressing thickness of the air between the two sisters got thicker. Ndia knew her kid sister had a big heart, but this moved her to a place she hadn’t connected with in a few years. After their parents’ divorce, the thirteen-year-old rebelled — fighting her mother’s rules and constantly bringing up their father’s absence. It wasn’t a peaceful time for any of them, but Ndia was a “Daddy’s Girl”, and everyone knew it.
“I’m sorry, Lali. That’s really sweet of you. Ma-mah will love it. She will. You’re a good kid, Lali.”
Melba plopped her beaten body onto the faux leather couch. She let out an exasperated sigh and kicked her right leg onto the couch’s head. She was just about to lasso sleep into her world when her youngest appeared before her weary eyes.
“Ma-mah, look what I got you!” Lalina flashed the button in front of her mom and waved it from side to side as if she was displaying the finest item one could ever lay their eyes upon. “Look what I got, Ma-mah!” Melba raised herself up on her elbows and steadied her shaky frame. She blinked twice before tears filled her eyes.
“What’s this you have here, Lali? Where’d you get this?” The tears filled again as soon as she wiped them — she had been overcome with so much emotion and overwhelmed by her baby girl’s gesture.
“It’s a Do What You Love button, Ma-mah! Auntie bought it for me at the festival so I could give it to you. Do you like it? I think you should do what you love, Ma-mah. You’re never happy. I can tell. And you’re always tired.”
Melba sighed a heavy sigh, wiped the spittle from her lips, and pulled her youngest daughter into the tightest bear hug her exhausted frame could muster up. She held on for what seemed like hours. Then she pushed Lalina in front of her gently and gave her little pajama’d body a thorough review.
“Lalina, what a sweet girl you are. Thank you, baby. Thank you so much. I will wear this every single day, okay? I will.”
She hugged her again, wiped the salty tears from her eyes, and patted Lalina’s head.
“I just want you to do what you love, Ma-mah.” And without missing a beat, Melba whispered into her youngest child’s ear, “I am, baby. I am.”
©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt
Originally published via Simily.
A Cornered Gurl 
You must be logged in to post a comment.