I had felt strange during the week leading up to the last ultrasound. Pregnancy is a roller coaster of sensations, but that week had been off a little. I barely noticed the ultrasound tech rubbing the cold, blue gel on my massive belly. I wanted to hear that sound: that quiet, pulsing sound of my baby racing to be born.
I stood in the airport bathroom stall as tears streamed down my face. Here I was, a 30-something-year-old medical student coming undone by a couple ounces of milk pooled at my feet. This is definitely not something they teach us about in lecture.
I have stood on both sides of the line– / The line between mother and medic; / The line between parent and practitioner.