Wendy Mnookin

Yesterday I was going through my site to make sure the links still worked, and when I came to the poem NICU I realized the poem had changed since it was published. Of course this is true of many poems--the longer we sit with them, the more possibilities we see. Sometimes these changes are for the better, sometimes not. I am still learning when a poem needs change and when it has had enough attention. In the case of NICU, since I have a record of the changes, I thought it might be interesting to some of you to compare the two versions. The changes are mostly for clarity. And the addition of the last lines.

 

What do you think?

 

 

NICU, as published in Vox Populi in 2017

 

Why is this night different

 

Why is this night different

from all other nights? Wine

and matza and now our children

tossing in their childhood beds, dreams

tumbling between then and now,

their children trundled into bunks,

loveys clutched tight. Three a.m.,

our daughter at our bed

and I'm instantly awake.

Stumbling on her words

she tells me Laura is in labor

too early. I'll drive you, I say,

already pulling on jeans.

You can't, she says, you're too upset.

 

 —

On the way

 

We can't stay at the first

hospital, the baby will need

neo-natal intensive care.

They must go by ambulance,

snaking along the river into Boston,

I must follow in the car.

The river, intermittently lit

as I round curves, seems murky,

intent. And also giddy

with anticipation, almost

unable to hold back

a white-capped splash of laughter.

 

—

In the room

 

I make myself small

and quiet, let them take over

space and time. The doctors,

one by one, bring information,

so much information.

Laura refuses the fetal monitor

that would tie her to the bed

and the doctor loses patience,

tells her all the worst that could happen.

They stand there, holding each other.

Her contractions slow.

And then I offer up

stories, remember when we did

this, remember that, and the boundary

waters, and the campsite with the three men

who were welcoming in a threatening

kind of way? Crone that I am,

witch, fairy, sorcerer, mother,

and her contractions start again.

 

—

When the time comes

 

There will be commotion

The baby will be whisked away

It can't be helped

Be prepared

And then

into the momentary

hush

the doctor says

Laura

He says Laura

Reach out your arms

Here is your daughter

 

—

Already

 

She's so big

my daughter and I say to each other

as we hurry by the side of the cart

to the elevator. We are spilling over

with relief, already proud

that she has defied expectation.

She must be five pounds, we say.

The nurse looks at us.

About three, I'd guess.

 

—

Please

 

I hold her, skin

to skin, her naked body

against my naked chest.

I breathe deeply, steadying

my heartbeat, her clock,

her comfort.

Child, open your eyes.

Soon, please, open your eyes.

—

Week five

 

My daughter says

the dog isn't getting enough exercise.

Lucy says

the snacks in the break room are yummy.

Lucy says

having a sister is fun, when will she talk?

My neighbor says

here's a casserole.

The doctor says

any day now.

 

***

 

NICU, current version

 

Why is this night different

 

Why is this night different

from all other nights? Wine

and matza and now our children

tossing in their childhood beds, dreams

tumbling between then and now,

their children trundled into bunks,

loveys clutched tight. Three a.m.,

our daughter at our bed

 

and I'm instantly awake.

Stumbling on her words

she tells me Laura is in labor

too early. I'll drive you, I say,

already pulling on jeans.

You can't, she says, between sobs.

You're too upset.

I stare at her, clear-eyed,

put my hands on her shoulders.

 

~

On the way

 

We can't stay at the first

hospital, the baby will need

neo-natal intensive care.

They must go by ambulance.

I follow in the car—snaking

along the river. Lit

in the intermittent code of my headlights

the water appears intent

with purpose I can't read.

And also giddy with anticipation

almost unable to hold back

a white-capped splash of laughter.

 

~

In the room

 

I make myself small

and quiet, let them take over

space and time. The doctors,

one by one, bring information,

so much information.

Laura refuses the fetal monitor

which would tether her to the bed

and the doctor loses patience,

tells her all the worst that could happen.

 

They stand there, holding each other.

Her contractions slow.

And then I offer up

stories, remember when we did

this, remember that, and the boundary

waters, and the campsite with the three men

who were welcoming in a threatening

kind of way? Crone that I am,

witch, fairy, sorcerer, mother,

and her contractions start again.

 

~

When the time comes

 

When the time comes

there will be commotion        

The baby will be whisked away

It can't be helped

Be prepared

 

And then

into the momentary    

hush

the doctor says

Laura

He says Laura

Reach out your arms

Here is your daughter

 

~

Already

 

She's so big

my daughter and I say to each other

as we hurry by the side of the cart

to the elevator. We are spilling over

with relief, already proud

that she has defied expectation.

She must be five pounds, we say.

The nurse looks at us.

About three, I'd guess.

 

~

Please

 

I hold her, skin

to skin  her naked body

against my naked chest

I breathe deeply, steadying

my heartbeat   her clock

her comfort

Child, open your eyes

Soon, please, open your eyes.

 

~

Week five

 

My daughter says

     the dog isn't getting enough exercise

 

Luca says

     the snacks in the break room are yummy

 

Luca says

     having a sister is fun, when will she talk

 

My neighbor says

     here's a casserole

 

The doctor says

     any day now she can go home

 

I say

     the dog    really    the dog

 

For forty-seven years my husband Jim and I lived in the same house in Newton, Massachusetts. We raised our three children in that house, and, as the years went on, we were able to welcome them back with their partners, and then their children, and the many dogs that cycled through with them. We had a sofa bed in the basement, where we tucked in a small nursery, another sofa bed in the study, bunk beds in one of the four bedrooms—and voila—room for the 12 of us.

 

We have many wonderful memories of the house, memories of our own young children merging with memories of our grandchildren. Our children tearing down the sidewalk in front of house on their big wheels, making screeching turns into the driveway. The grandchildren messing around in the garden, in the "digging pit" I made them to save my flowers. Our children doing their homework at the kitchen table. Thanksgiving and Passover at the large wooden table that belonged to my great aunt, family birthdays and then baby namings and teaching the grandchildren to cook.

 

Even with the joy we got from our home, as we were reaching our eighties we realized we didn't need—or want—to be living in a 4 bedroom house in the suburbs. We could still manage the stairs, but we could easily imagine a time when stairs would be too much. We said, too, that we didn't want to leave the responsibility of clearing out the house to our children. This was true, and made us feel somewhat noble, but a larger consideration was living in the house alone. If—when—one of us died, the other didn't want to live in the house alone.

 

Our search for an apartment went on sporadically for several years. Nothing seemed right. Every place we saw felt like we were saying "we're old, we're going to die, it's time to move." We didn't feel a sense of adventure, the exhiliration that comes from entering a new stage of life. Admittedly, that's a hard ask, since we  were old and going to die and it was time to move. But we found it. An apartment that felt like a beginning.

 

The apartment is in Cambridge, near Harvard Square, and looks out on the Charles River. The building is an old brick building with lots of character—fireplaces, original molding, spacious rooms—and has what Jim calls a "shabby chic" feel, with no lobby or doorman or other fancy amenities. We walk everywhere, enjoying restaurants and museums and classes. Poetry readings.

 

We have found that we love apartment living. Our neighbors across the hall have become dear friends. We can leave our doors open so their adorable dog, Nella, can scoot in for a visit and go home when she likes. A little like dorm living, if dorms allowed dogs and you had your own bathroom and kitchen.

 

Several months after we moved, Jim was hit by a car and in the hospital for a week. Our across-the-hall neighbors put food in our refrigerator, other neighbors drove me to settle Jim in rehab and then to bring him home. These are people we had known for months, not years, and they stepped up. And good for us: we had moved to one floor so Jim could come home and navigate the space.

 

We made the right decision. We love being in Cambridge and taking advantage of all it has to offer. We love our apartment and our building and our new friends. And, although I miss the happy chaos of having our whole family visit, I don't miss it that much. All the activity and noise (and meals and laundry) were getting more difficult. Having them visit in smaller groups works out well. And when they all come, we have discovered hotels.

 

But nothing is ever one thing or another. When I drive by our old home, it's hard to believe I can't just walk in and drop my things on the counter and grab an apple out of the refrigerator. I get angry when I see the new owners have planted a tree. A tree! If I had wanted a tree there, I would have planted it myself!

 

I want to give us a whole bunch of credit for leaving our home of so many years and making a move that feels like a beginning. But I keep dreaming the same dream—I am back in the house. In bed with a cup of coffee. Reading. Occasionally looking out at the garden, where the peonies are just opening.

 

Who are these strangers who walk in, horrified to find me there? What are they doing here? What are they doing there? Where is here? Where is there?

 

They better get out, and fast.