Gloria Roberds

exploded into an early birth

due to a shower suddenly turned cold.

Three pounds four ounces.

If he made it over forty-eight hours he’d live.

Vivid are the agonizing hours of praying,

willing strength into that minuscule life.

Tubes were plugged into his mouth

navel, nostrils and behind his ankles.

Little patches stuck to his head and chest.

All our senses screeched—he’s a hair from death.
Your parental instincts were strong.

You’d put your hands into the incubator cubby holes
talk to him, lift him and stroke him with your finger.
I was petrified of holding him in case I broke him.
He was so soft and warm.

Like a piece of sponge covered with velvet,

his little body was half the width of your wrist.

I never held him until he was two and a half months.

Robin Laura, our English Rose,

named for you and my Mother.

The first time I went into labour

they induced me to reverse the contractions.
The second time they wanted to do the same.

I demanded to deliver now

or I’d catch the next bus to Penticton,

Three days after her birth,

the doctors said it was critical to operate.

If her skull wasn’t opened

it would grow deformed and her brain wouldn’t grow.
It’s a miracle she never drowned.

All those tears we shed.

Stricken with horror and terror we debated.
Finally I signed the paper for the go-ahead.

She was such a happy smiling baby.

Her eyes would sparkle alive with her emotions.
She is still a dreamer.

136