Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
tori-dPoems
As I looked into her glazed blue eyes I suddenly became very tired. Every inch of my body felt weighted; heavy. I had been doing this for 13 years, hoping, waiting, trying, believing. Most of the time, I succeeded. I saved them. But when I didn't, when I failed, I can't take it. When I go out with my husband for dinner with friends, or at parties, I get asked what I do. A furrowed eyebrow, a gentle easing voice follows, "Isn't that hard?" It's all part of the job, I say. Taking care of these babies, making sure they are healthy. You get used to it, I say. I wish that were true. I wish I could say it were that simple. When my work is dragged, forced in unannounced like a estranged aunt in in into my personal life, my husband grabs my hand, gives me a knowing look. He thinks he knows how I suffer, how it pains, how it rips at my soul -- he has no clue. Most days, my job is not overwhelming. Is even rewarding. Saving lives, keeping parents' new-born, struggling miracles safe, trying to make them perfect like parents always imagined they would be. On days like this, when I am forced to look into my responsibility's eyes and realize I couldn't save and perfect them, realize that blank stare will be with me forever, I hate my job.
0
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
Neonatal
As I looked into her glazed blue eyes I suddenly became very tired. Every inch of my body felt weighted; heavy. I had been doing this for 13 years, hoping, waiting, trying, believing. Most of the time, I succeeded. I saved them. But when I didn't, when I failed, I can't take it. When I go out with my husband for dinner with friends, or at parties, I get asked what I do. A furrowed eyebrow, a gentle easing voice follows, "Isn't that hard?" It's all part of the job, I say. Taking care of these babies, making sure they are healthy. You get used to it, I say. I wish that were true. I wish I could say it were that simple. When my work is dragged, forced in unannounced like a estranged aunt in in into my personal life, my husband grabs my hand, gives me a knowing look. He thinks he knows how I suffer, how it pains, how it rips at my soul -- he has no clue. Most days, my job is not overwhelming. Is even rewarding. Saving lives, keeping parents' new-born, struggling miracles safe, trying to make them perfect like parents always imagined they would be. On days like this, when I am forced to look into my responsibility's eyes and realize I couldn't save and perfect them, realize that blank stare will be with me forever, I hate my job.
tori-d
Written by
tori-d
American
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem