the best and the worst thing

Christa strolled through the Denver Art Museum on our due date yesterday. She is letting gravity work as the baby begins to inch lower toward the effacing and dilating cervix. She no longer simply walks but is finally waddling around the house. And she is adorable. Its been a beautiful progression to watch her body grow to accommodate the little one. In her preparation for the labor and delivery, she has picked out comfortable clothes, a camera, midget baby clothes, snacks and music. She selected some classical, folk and worship music. Accompanied by prayers, talk, tears and laughter, the room will have music to soothe mama as she lets her body work its magic. The setting should be just like mama wants it. I will do my best to make sure she is comfortable, encouraged, hydrated, soothed, prayed over and determined-- to work together to push Pipsqueak out. This will be the hardest thing we've ever been through.
The best thing. And we won't ever forget it.

The setting reminds me of a time in college.
200 feet west of Colorado State University’s campus sits a small medical office. On a cold Tuesday morning, I am buzzed into the facility. Safe from the outside wintry chill is a cozy operating room. I am the quiet male observer alongside a doctor, a nurse, the pregnant mother.
And the music. It is soothing music. Sounds of nature, peaceful melodies and calming tones.
The music is still with me now.
The music is used to distract the mother, to relax the mother. She lays before us, quiet and looking to the ceiling. Despite the music, it is absolutely evident the mother is not distracted from what she is doing and not relaxed; it is clear to me she is not soothed and not at peace. She is about to be changed and she won't be the same person when she's done.
She is in desperate agony.
To her, this could be worse than dying. She is being encouraged, however. The doctor tries to convince the mother that she is doing fine, it will be over soon, her life will go on, she will forget about it all. I am not so sure.
I touch her shoulder. I look into her tearful, scared eyes. I pity her. I did not expect this compassion within me.
It looks like the mother hesitates, almost trying to get off her back. And away from the hands of this calm doctor. To escape this surgery. But the doctor is on a schedule. It is mid-morning and there are many more pregnant ladies to attend to. If the expecting mother was further along, the vacuum would have been engaged. The vacuum is big as a walk-in closet and due to the frightening sounds, the vacuum unit was installed in a separate room across the hall. It had to be. The music is soothing in our small room and should not be drowned out.
Since she has not quite progressed to the second trimester, instead of the powerful vacuum, a 12-inch syringe is inserted into the mother’s vagina. The doctor whispers encouraging-nothings and the mother hold's tight to the hand of the nurse. I am standing next to her and touch her left shoulder. She is quietly sobbing. The music is not soothing. And I die inside.

As the doctor begins to initiate suction and pull on the living, growing 12-week fetus from the uterine wall, he informs the patient of the importance that he remove all parts of the fetus. This should prevent infection, additional bleeding and other complications.
Minutes later, I follow the nurse into the sink room as she identifies the mangled and detached parts. The sink room smells of alcohol, bleach and formaldehyde. The parts are disposed of and the instruments are cleaned. I observe the nurse's hand touch the dismembered human parts for inspection. Seconds earlier, the mother was gripping for life that same hand.

In the operating room, the music is still playing. The barren, bleeding and broken mother slowly makes her way to her feet. Down the hall she makes her payment, schedules a follow-up appointment for next week and is given additional instructions, medication and a slight smile from the receptionist. An awkward, sad smile that almost says, “try to forget today and don’t tell your friends of the day's torture to your soul.”
The music is still playing as I am debriefed in the office.
It plays as I walk home that afternoon in my scrubs.
I have death inside me. And there is death inside that mother.
Those sights and sounds, the mother's sorrow, his syringe, her sad smile, this story make it difficult to not think of this dark thing inside me.
The worst thing. And we won’t ever forget it.