My son is coming. The cord is tight around his neck, but I labor for hours, my body a channel my son drowns in. The cord becomes a noose and a nurse places an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. My doctor comes in and out, time blends into the mauve walls and rose curtains. I breathe and try not to push. I am told the cavities in my back are too small for an epidural. I am told to lie on my side. I am told that everything is fine, everything is just fine.
Laurie Rachkus Uttich’s prose and poetry have been published in Fourth Genre, Creative Nonfiction, River Teeth, Rattle, Missouri Review, Superstition Review, Sweet: A Literary Confection, Huffington Post, and others. She teaches creative writing at the University of Central Florida.