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.