Adrie Rose Adrie Rose lives beside an orchard in western MA and is the editor of Nine Syllables Press at Smith College. Her chapbook Rupture was published in 2024 by Gold Line Press, and her chapbook I Will Write a Love Poem was published by Porkbelly Press. She is a Poetry MFA student at Warren Wilson College. Her work has previously appeared in Nimrod, The Baltimore Review, Underblong, & has won the Radar Coniston Prize, among others. Back to “Medical Motherhood”
Author: Mom Egg Review
Christine Stewart-Nuñez Advice to a Former Self Always do something: throw a load of laundry in before the hamper overflows; cut up vegetables for lunch; pay the rent; return an email; compose a don’t forget to do this list; change the sheets; scrub the toilet. Who knows when the next crisis will crash your house of cards? When your child hugs you, even if you are frying pork chops for dinner, hug him back; when your child hugs you, even if you are on the phone with the neurologist’s nurse, hug him back; hug your child, even when he…
Suzanne Edison Mother’s Day at Lake Washington I’ve requested a family bike ride on the closed and rippled lake-road where herons suspend over faltering-fish waters. Once vigorous contortionists, the Madrone trees are drooping as they stave off car exhaust and death. My ten-year-old daughter, who, at six couldn’t climb stairs, run, tie her shoes, or ride a tricycle over a sidewalk bump, pedals ahead at cheetah-speed with my husband before she circles back, taunting, why are you so slow— She cruises over fallen sprays of chartreuse flowers that remind me of the neon chemo I shot into her thighs…
Shasta Kearns Moore What I know and what I don’t You’re looking at me like I don’t know. And you’re right, hospital staffer: I don’t. I don’t know what all your acronyms mean. I don’t know the difference between ketamine in a nasal spray and ketamine in an IV. I don’t know what dosage his weight requires. I don’t know how bad this injury is. I don’t know whether the adrenaline coursing through my veins and my child’s blood-curdling screams during the 20-minute (or was it 20 hours?) drive here of “I’M GOING TO DIE!!” are even remotely warranted.…
Dayna Patterson Meeting with the Prosthetics Unit They are careful to use the words residual limb and sound limb never stump or good leg always prosthetic and never fake we heft the fake leg made of metal and molded plasticine a socket for the stump it’s heavier than we imagined but then they remind us a leg is heavy They talk of phantom pain and sensation how they use a mirror placed between the thighs to trick the brain the sound limb flexing and stretching while the amputee looks at its reflection They talk about soreness of sit bones…
Kara Melissa Cerebral Palsy Took All the Words from My Son “If you listen you can hear me. My mouth is open, and I am singing.” -“Fathers and Sons” from Mortal Remains by Patrick Lane I imagine my son. Trying so hard to get a sound out. His mouth is open. His soft, red lips shaped in a big O. Many strangers mistake it as a yawn. “Oh, he’s tired.” No, he’s not, I think to myself. But I smile and walk on. Sometimes it’s just easier. I always choose carefully who is worth ‘the conversation,’ the one that…
Julia B. Levine Septic Shock Because he’s been working hard to stay alive, my grandson’s late to take his first steps, say his first words (dada, hi), his hands inventing a sideways wave for both bird and fish, and he’s so happy at home, but then midnight, his parents race him to the ER, the intensive care team shooting bolus after bolus into his arteries shutting down, his mother beside him, whispering it will be okay in tone and touch, while the surgeon threads a tube down his throat, pumps in breath, antibiotics, sedatives, opiates, and he sways again…
Arlene Naganawa At the Children’s Hospital The zones are named Ocean, Mountain, River. Post-surgery: Forest. Elevator: Deer. She cries for water, a sip of ice. Needles, tubes. Please, morphine. Please, a cracker. The gift shop sells balloons. Unicorn, cloud. Get well soon. She can’t read—she’s two. I lift the bear cub-printed gown– catheter filling. Sutures I can’t see. A preschooler in a wheelchair spins in the elevator. I ride down a floor in Frog. Soft belly. Skin like powder. Morphine bolus, please. Arlene Naganawa’s full-length collection, I Weave a Nest of Foil, was published in 2024 by Kelson…
Carly Butler Resting Heart Rate After 16 hours of chaos – The daily hustle of begging You (and your sister) to eat, To wash, To dress, To be gentle – The house is finally quiet. You’ve been asleep for an hour, And I’m wishing I was too. But first, the propranalol: The beta blocker that’s been Telling your restless heart To pump the brakes a little Ever since you were born. Every 8 hours for the past 8 years, Your tongue accepts syringe without pause. Your dad gives the morning dose, Your aunt the afternoon, And without waking you…
Kathryn Satterfield Rare You find the old man hunched over your baby in the semi-darkness of the neonatal intensive care unit. A chorus of beeps and blips serenade them, this man and boy. The hospital hums, quieter now that it is evening. “He’s so alert,” the old man says, peering into your baby’s face. His voice is filled with awe. He is not unkind, this old man. It is not his fault he doesn’t know why your baby is struggling to breathe. The old man picks up a tiny foot, runs his finger along the extra pads of skin…