"May I?"
With a simple nod Shelagh's palms presses against the cloth of the dowdy colored tunic.
"I am trying to locate the silver lining in all of this, but it has been exceedingly more difficult with each passing day. Part of me wishes I had simply turned my back on the vows I made. I wish that like you I had a change of heart. It would be a unique set of challenges, but that would have been easier. Every detail of the ordeal feels like a punishment. I convinced myself that despite the occurrence of a significant trauma the worst of it was in the past. Certainly no further consequence was necessary. A month ticked by, and a heaviness in my soul did not offer to pass. A second month passed by, and with the absence of one cycle came a wave of symptoms I have seen daily for the duration of my career as a midwife. The third month I spent the bulk of my time convincing myself that the internal climate of my body was certainly too old, and utterly inhospitable for the task. In the time since then there is clear evidence that is not true. Recently when I ushered a tiny body into the world that failed to greet life it dawned on me that end is not one I wish one even the products of conception that I did not offer my consent to. Sister Julienne has given me the gift of time. Though, I am not sure if it is a gift or a curse. I am confident that at the end I will still not have a clear answer on what I am meant to do."
"What do you want to do?"
"Turn back the hands of time, Shelagh."
"Yet that is not possible. Time slips through the hour glass with no indication of stopping."
"My ever expanding presence confirms the fact."
"What can I do to help?"
Sister Hilda shrugs, "I don't have any answers. I only have questions."
The weeks that come prove to be particularly taxing on all of the Sisters, and midwives. After breakfast Sister Hilda watches begrudgingly as her fellow midwives flee from her place of confinement. She turns her mind to tasks at hand, but the dishes are particularly uninspiring today. Her body stands before the soap filled sink, but her mind wanders. A hand gently slips the sponge from her fingers, and nudges her aside.
"Fortunately despite the misgivings of my mind my body is still quite capable of removing debris from the breakfast dishes. Perhaps you should give less heed to the misgivings of your mind at this point, and focus your attention to the needs of your physical body."
"I am sure it is likely going to tell me that I must void my bladder for the four hundredth time this morning. After I manage that task with certainty it will insist it is famished despite the fact that my stomach has yet had time to digest my breakfast."
Sister Monica Joan smiles, "Once you have succeeded in that task perhaps you could elevate your lower extremities."
Sister Hilda tests her elder's resolve, "You cannot see my lower extremities. For that matter, I cannot see them."
"Years of experience, and endless days of watching you putter around here spit shining every corner convince me that they are swollen."
"Then what am I going to do? I have cleaned, organized, and polished every item that is in the entire place except your bookshelf."
"You have organized everything that requires order, but your mind. It cannot be avoided any longer."
Sister Hilda groans as she leaves the kitchen. She grimaces as she summits the endless stairs to the facilities. Eventually she joins Sister Monica Joan in front of the TV hoping that is too engrossed to notice that she has disregarded her advice. Sister Monica Joan rises from her seat, and extinguishes the light that glows from the Television. She precariously situates herself on the couch next to Sister Hilda. She squirms in her seat as Sister Monica Joan's eyes laser holes through her.
"What do you expect from me? I have nothing left to say. I have nothing left to give."
"What are you feeling?"
"Uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable every single second of the day."
Sister Monica Joan nods, "And they know that. Our beginning may color parts of our lives, but it does not define us."
"I cannot embrace this."
"Then find someone who can."
Sister Hilda falls silent. Sister Monica Joan's hand rises, and begins to recoil as she sits on the cushion next to Sister Hilda.
"I am not the H bomb you know."
"I would certainly hope explosives unnecessary."
"I am also not made entirely of porcelain. I will not shatter. Go ahead."
Sister Monica Joan presses the palm of her hand against a swollen womb that not even the robes of the sisterhood can conceal at this point.
"How many more weeks are you scheduled to endure this state of symbiosis?"
"Roughly four," Sister Hilda quickly calculates.
Sister Monica Joan finds her rusty clinical skills prompting questions.
"And precisely how long has your uterus been contracting? I am certain that even your denial does not run that deep."
"I'm not ready."
"That is of no consequence at this point. Why did you allow everyone to leave on their rounds? You cannot do this on your own. I mean technically you are skilled enough, but the mechanics are all wrong."
