The Crest

At first I told stories from the floor, to anyone who would listen. Especially the one about a hand flattened in a tortilla press, or the one about a breast tumor, breaking the skin—it looked like a coil of ripe cauliflower, ready for chopping.

My favorite was the poop baby. The patient was unresponsive, but we always spoke to her: reassuring tones, calm review of our next steps. We’re going to roll you on your left side now. That’s right, breathe easy. You’ll feel better soon.

The poop baby crested, slow but steady. I sent the other nurse for jelly, to help smooth the birth. We did good work that day—no rupture, no bleeding. It came in at a little under five pounds, shaped like a river stone. The red plastic waste bag was just big enough.

Every time I told the poop baby story, it got just a little shorter. I said nothing about the smell, or the texture under my gloves. I no longer emphasized the weight in my cupped hands, the five seconds waiting for my partner to open the bag wide. The crinkle sound, the smear on the inside.

Eventually the story became little more than a threat: have I told you about the poop baby? Sometimes I thought about where the baby ended up. Piled together with sacks of blood and bile, consigned to flame? I imagined the baby warming, glowing like a hearth coal, a young sun.

Lately, I say nothing about the poop baby. I’ve had my own kids by now, and burned through my marriages. I buy artisanal cheese at the farmer’s market on Saturdays, and take photos of the regulars: our egg lady, the samosa food truck, expensive dogs strutting on their leashes.