Why I’m For Sure Going to Have the Side Salad

Jeff travels internationally for work.

I am always with him while he packs. It’s our ritual.

His packing, though full of sweet minutes and fluffing of laundry, also always sets into motion a rush of memories for me from the day our boys were born and died.

Add this to the list of reasons I like it when he’s home.

One of the memories I find absurd and darkly funny. I’ll take you back there with me.

I haven’t eaten or slept in something like 36 hours and delivery was long ago, now. I’ve seen a circus of motion and brief panic from my becoming ghostly pale and faint in the restroom. I’ve been carried back to bed, hooked back up to an IV, and given a mountain of warm blankets. A few more hours pass, and, despite no desire at all to eat, I’ve finally agreed to try some soup and crackers. I eat a few bites–not a small thing at all given the circumstances. Bite, bite, bite. I comment something to Jeff like–“At least this soup is good.” Ah, I finally feel hunger.

And then I drop it.

Yes.

All of it.

Big bucket of scalding hot soup, top down, right on my collar bone. A burbling fountain of potatoes and carrots and red, pungent broth sloshes over both shoulders and down my back, completely fills my nursing bra and runs out under my armpits.

Jeff and I are madly digging at pockets of soup all over me, turning bleach-white washcloths into cafeteria mops. My skin is a patchwork of red, hot and cold, colorless skin. Jeff asks if I’m ok. I tell him I’m not burned, I’m ok.

And what do we do?

We laugh. The first laugh. The first of any feeling aside from the innumerable feelings of an enormous tragedy. I remember the tiniest whisper of relief, just for a moment. United connection, love, sadness, disbelief. I’m so sorry for us.

Oh, terrible day. Our babies–gone, and I smelled like minestrone in the worst possible way. Who could even think of this sour, dreadful plot twist?

There are some memories I wish I could fold tenderly into a suitcase and send across the world. Maybe this memory could mellow in Paris until I’m older. Feed it a baguette and a good cup of coffee. Change the smell. Dull its sharpness.