I didn't write very much this year. I think I was busy doing other things. Looking back on it, I really wish I had written about those things because some of them were really hard and it probably would have helped. I wish I had written about the time I caught a baby for a woman who was so high that she couldn't tell me her name as her uterus contracted nonstop and she started pushing at six centimeters. A baby boy slid out, gray and silent and she wouldn't look at him while the pediatric PA worked for fifteen minutes to get him pink and breathing. I watched the sweat drip off my forehead onto her thigh as I stuck my entire hand in her uterus and pressed down on her belly, hard, I knew it hurt but she didn't react and that scared me more than if she'd reared up yelling and screaming in my face. I could feel her uterus pouring blood into the bag between my knees and I knew there was cocaine in her blood and I imagined I could smell it, like its acrid, putrid scent was burning the inside of my nose as she bled and bled and her silent baby would not cry. Cry, I screamed in my head at the baby, and Stop fucking bleeding, I screamed in my head at her, and finally they both did, and I said to myself, This is not what I thought it'd be like, even though, by now, of course, I should know.
|All of the studying. With Tucker, of course.|
|Campers, doing art.|
|Summer camp tie-dye.|
|Campfire cooking. Closed-toe shoes required.|
And this girl. Always this girl. I can't think too much about not living with her anymore because it makes me want to cry. Our friendship has not always been easy. We have fought, we have grown apart (then grown back together again), and we have said terrible things to each other. But our capacity to return to each other, to try again (and again, and again), to hold each other up and know one another inside and out - it is the truest thing I know and probably the only thing I really believe in.
Another year gone. Bring it on, 2015.