It's weird because she doesn't feel like a mother when she wakes up. Her body is just barely starting to change, rounding up so imperceptibly that she's fairly certain she's the only one who can even tell. Logically she knows that there is a tiny "soon-to-be" human about the size of a shrimp making itself comfortable in her womb, but she can't seem to bring herself to believe it. She can't touch it, can't feel it moving inside of her, can't do much to mother it other than stay healthy and avoid abdominal trauma.
She's not a mother (yet), but when he surprises her with breakfast in bed and a bouquet of pink roses before work she still manages to smile and let herself appreciate the gesture. After all, he's not a mind reader. He thinks she has just as much right to celebrate Mother's Day as women who have tangible children to parent today. She chooses not to correct him.
It's weird because she feels like a mother today more than any other day. Zola's standing next to her on a step stool mixing chocolate chips into the pancake batter and Bailey's balanced on her hip entranced by the way her earring sparkles when the light hits it a certain way, and she can't help but wonder what her son would be doing right now if things were different. Maybe he would be helping with the chocolate chips (eating every other handful he'd grab, but still helping), or coloring a card with flowers and stick figures and a shining sun in the corner of the page. But things aren't different, and even if her son had lived longer than the few moments she held him in her arms he wouldn't have been able to do any of those things. He could have lived, but it would have been a cruel and fruitless life. She was just protecting him in the way that a mother has to protect her child from pain.
She is a mother, despite the fact that she never got to see her son smile or hear him tell her that he loved her. And when Meredith comes downstairs to the breakfast they've made laid out next to the flowers Derek had shipped with his note of apology for not being there she can't help but feel a twinge of envy. Then she wishes Mer a Happy Mother's Day and the twinge grows to an ache when she says thank you without thinking to add "you too". But she smiles anyways and chooses not to correct her.
If she thought work would be any better she is sorely mistaken.
The nurses sit at their station whenever there's a lull in patients and show off handmade
cards and gifts, laughing and swapping stories about how their children managed to surprise them that morning. She hangs back, busying herself with charting and rearranging the trauma rooms, until one of the nurses calls her name with a delighted squeal and she joins them at the nurses' station to find another beautiful bouquet of flowers waiting for her. This time they're from her mother, who in all fairness didn't realize she was still planning on hiding her pregnancy at work for at least another month. But now the secret is out and she's caught up in a whirlwind of excited voices asking how far along she is and if she's excited (not as excited as they are apparently) and bizarre things like what theme she's going to use for the nursery and if she's planning on breastfeeding, and someone even dares to put a hand on her still flat stomach. She's glad that Owen chooses that moment to shoo them all back to work, because she's embarrassed and angry and about ready to punch whoever just touched her stomach, but as they all walk away he squeezes her shoulder and says "Congratulations Kepner, and happy Mother's Day."
She can't help but sigh as she forces a smile and heads towards the sound of an incoming trauma, thanking God for the distraction.
She thought she'd at least be able to get her mind off of things at work.
Sure the nurses are all giggling about the cute things their kids did for them and the hospital florist drops off a couple of sickeningly pink bouquets, but it doesn't bother her. Even if things were different and her son was playing downstairs in the nursery with the rest of their kids she would have hated all of the fuss anyways. It would have been nice of Meredith to acknowledge her as a mother too, but she gets that it's weird and the two of them are still trying to figure each other out so she probably erred on the side of caution rather than irritate old wounds. Addison's snub hurt a little more. She had made a point to text her that morning, knowing that she loved sappy things like Mother's Day, and gotten a very generic "Thanks!" in response. Though maybe that was still better than the lack of response from both Charlotte and Violet (She tried to convince herself that they just hadn't seen her message yet. After all, they were busy women). But she presses on, determined to make it through this day without freaking out on anyone. Then she hears it.
She'd noticed the nurses getting quiet when she walked by their station before, but she assumed they just didn't want to get called out on being unproductive. It's only when she hears one whisper the word "anecephalic" to another that she realizes they all know. Maybe it's hospital gossip, or maybe Derek thought he was doing her a favor by warning them to be sensitive on Mother's Day, but she can barely resist the urge to start screaming right then and there. The only thing that prevents her from doing so is the sound of her pager beckoning her to the ER for a neuro consult. She jogs to the elevators, thanking whatever higher power there may be for the distraction.
April lets out a sigh of relief when Amelia arrives in the ER much faster than she expected. They've never properly met, but she's heard that Amelia is tough and tough is what she needs right now. In all honesty April probably could have made the call without her, but the patient's mother had insisted, and no amount of explaining that a neurologist would say the same thing had swayed her. Now April wonders if she made the right choice as the woman sobs over her son's body and Amelia takes in the scene with a critical eye.
"You paged for a neuro consult?"
Amelia can tell even before April has time to respond what's going on. If the young boy on the bed had even a slight chance of pulling through they would be doing more for him. There would be doctors swamping the room. But as it is it's just her and April (who looks like she's about to chew her bottom lip right off of her face) alone with the sobbing mother.
"Justin Kettering, seven years old, fell off of a kitchen counter-" April begins to explain, but the mother cuts her off.
"He wanted to make me breakfast," the woman cries, her body draped across the bed as if to protect her son, "the maple syrup was on the top shelf so he climbed up to get it, but he slipped, and he hit his head. I need you to help him."
"Can I examine your son for a moment Mrs. Kettering?" Amelia asks. The woman nods, sitting up and moving aside so Amelia can stand next to the boy on the bed. She steals a quick glance at April who seems to understand the unspoken question and answers with a shake of her head. Still, Amelia goes through the motions of checking for a pain or pupillary response, feeling unsurprised but still disappointed when she finds none.
"I'm so sorry Mrs. Kettering-"
"No, please-"
"But your son is brain dead. At this point there is nothing I can do for him."
The woman drops back over her son's bed as April and Amelia avert their eyes to give her a moment to process the information.
"There has to be something you can do," she pleads with them. This time April answers,
"JoAnne, Justin suffered a traumatic brain injury. Believe me, if there was anything Dr. Shepherd could do she would be doing it, but the damage from the fall was just too much. We can keep him alive using artificial respiration, but he has no brain activity. He's not going to wake up."
"Are either of you mothers?"
The question stops April and Amelia dead in their tracks, and for a moment they both share a feeling of dread deep in their stomachs as they try to decide how to answer the question.
Are they mothers?
"Yes."
Amelia answers first, swallowing a lump that has formed in her throat. Her mind fills with thoughts of her little boy swaddled in her arms, the beautiful few moments they had together before she let him be taken away from her to be put out of his misery.
"Yes."
April echoes shortly after, blinking away the stinging feeling of tears starting to form in her eyes. She remembers hearing her baby's heartbeat for the first time during her last ultrasound, feeling a wave of excitement and awe at the idea that by the end of the year she would have her own tiny human to love and care for.
"So you have to understand," JoAnne Kettering cries, "That I can't just let my son go. There has to be something more you can do."
"The best thing you can do for him now is to let him go," Amelia says quietly. She wants to continue, but the words get caught in her throat, and she looks over to April for help.
"We know this is an impossible decision to make," April continues, "But keeping Justin alive artificially will just prolong his suffering."
There is a long silence then, and April and Amelia find themselves grateful for the chance to catch a breath and compose themselves. When JoAnne speaks again, they are ready.
"Can I have some time to think about it?"
"Of course, take as much time as you need," April says. She is a little surprised, but definitely relieved.
"We'll give you some privacy," Amelia adds, slipping out of the curtained area with April quick on her heels.
The ER bustles around them, but they both have a strange sense that they are stuck in some sort of bubble, trapped by the devastating news they've been forced to give on Mother's Day of all days.
April asks a nurse to keep watch over Mrs. Kettering and let them know when she's made her decision. Then she turns to Amelia with a look of deep sorrow and, Amelia is so used to it she could pick it out a mile away, pity.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have bothered paging you. I knew there was nothing we could do, but she just insisted and-"
"It's fine, really. Don't worry about it. I'm a neurologist, I deal with this kind of stuff all the time."
"I know, but it's Mother's Day and I can't imagine being a mother and having to deliver that kind of news today. It's just so unfair."
Amelia searches April's eyes for any hint of irony, but finds complete earnestness instead. She doesn't know. And even more perplexing, didn't she say she was a mother too?
"I thought you said you were a mother too."
(She's never been one to beat around the bush.)
"Oh," April blushes, moving a hand subconsciously to her stomach, "Uh, I guess it's more that I will be, in about six months, but I don't really feel like one yet. But everyone has been wishing me a happy Mother's Day all day and trying to touch my stomach and tell me that the first Mother's Day when you don't actually have kids yet is the best, so when she asked I just… I don't know. Said yes."
"That's okay," Amelia says, "technically I was a mother. My baby boy only lived for about ten minutes in my arms, but I still call myself a mother anyways. No one wishes me happy Mother's Day or weirdly invades my personal space, but when she asked I just remembered my son. And I said yes too. So maybe we're both liars."
"It's just a weird concept, and an even weirder holiday," April offers with a shrug, "People keep congratulating me on being a walking incubator, and meanwhile they're ignoring actual mothers like you. I'm not really into all the fuss of it anyways."
In that moment they both seem to realize that their bubble is not caused by the grief they've delivered, but the strange similarity of their opposite situations. In Amelia's eyes April sees no judgement about the walking incubator comment, or the overall feeling of not being a mother yet. And in April's words Amelia hears not pity, but understanding and acknowledgement that she really is a mother, as she believes herself to be.
"She's probably going to be awhile," Amelia says after what seems like an eternity of surveying each other, "Do you want to grab a coffee? Or, uh, whatever hot beverage pregnant people like to drink?"
April laughs and nods, "Personally I'm into decaf, and sure."
For the first time all day they both feel the sense of weirdness dissipate. As they walk together to the cafeteria they can't help but agree that Mother's Day is overrated anyways.