The first time.

Twenty minutes the baby lived and then he died. His skull empty, except for a large amount of fluid, and the tiny brain stem that had developed, nothing else worked, no frontal lobes, or temporal lobes or parietal or occipital, only the brain stem, breathe in and breathe out, the brain stem said, lubdub, lubdub and on and on for as long as the baby could live, kept alive, given fluids, kept warm, touched and nurtured, but then, what?

I went to her room, it was dark and her eyes were swollen and her husband was asleep. “I took a picture,” I said.

“Why?” she asked.
“You might want it someday,” I said.
I put the envelope with the picture that I had taken on her night stand, the envelope sealed.
“Did he suffer?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “he went peacefully and quickly.”

How could I tell her he was thirsty and cold, that he wanted milk, that he wanted to feel, how could I tell her he died in a crib in the corner of the nursery, alone, away from view, give the one new nursing graduate who sat by his side and touched his tiny fingers.

That night, was the first callous, one of many that I developed to help me get thorough those rough times when babies died, or mothers died, or both died and those emotions of happiness soon became immense sadness. That callous, though, was one that I never forgot. Like the first sweet kiss, I will forever remember how I felt when that baby drew its last breath