The last shred of hope you had disintegrates
while you leave the hospital.
The fifteen percent chance of survival hangs above your head like a guillotine.
You attempt to live your life as normal as possible,
but as you partake in habitual activities
you cannot help but wonder.

Every sip of tea you take,
you ask yourself, “will this be my last cup?”
You pick your son up from kindergarten and pray this won’t be
the final time you see him.
Every chance you get, you kiss your husband
like it’s the last time,
and it very well may be.

You grasp your twenty week old baby bump
as depression disables you.
The doctors say she has an extra set of chromosomes,
along with multiple other terms you could not pronounce.
You need to have surgery immediately.

The harsh reality paralyzes you
as they prepare you for the operation.
Your last thought is your family and all you could be leaving behind.

Two hearts beat.
Then,
one stops.