Thankee...Kaz you should write something. You haven't.
*hugs to CT*

"You're shaking, " Dr. Cedevor placed a warm hand on my bony, pale shoulder, his fingers wrapping around the bone. I looked up into his grey, tired face with hopeful anticipation. "What happened?"
I said nothing in reply, not knowing what to say, for there were no words in my mind, only images. I saw a baby kicking and struggling against the salt fluid that encompassed him, and an older child acting out a seemingly dissimilar version a few days later. I parted my lips, shuddered, and pressed them together again. Running my fingers around my temples, I sunk my head between my knees. Tears were dripping down my face in a plethora and gathering in one brief trickle at my chin.
"I need to tend to you now. Come with me," he said.
I arrived in Montreal bright Wednesday windy morning. Pausing a few long moments in a waiting room with four other women, each of whom had a partner or friend to hold her hand if she needed comfort, I realized I was entirely alone. The crisp, white-clad nurse laden with the smell of a hospital in winter, although it was not, led me into a quiet, luke-warm room, where the only sounds were from the metallic, distant buzz of the floor radiator and flies skimming across the white, chipping ceiling. She bade me remove my clothing and slide myself onto the cold, tissue paper covered raised table.
A thin, pleasant spirited woman, dressed in a thin white lab coat over a long, flower printed dress, entered my room with a clipboard and pen, and a warm greeting. She told me to worry not, "I'll take a little fluid out, put a little fluid in, you'll have some painful, funny-feeling cramps, but after a little while you'll expel some tissue."
So simple it seemed to me that I could just expel all of my problems in only a few hours of physical pain. The foggy ruins of my mind told me not to flee the room naked. I placed my slender, clean hands on my hips, my fingers reaching across my stretched, inflated belly. As the nurse behind her filled a small syringe, the doctor patted my thigh and encouragingly told me that everything would be fine. The nurse seemed skeptical as she distributed the sedative/painkiller and informed me brusquely as to what is was.
I did not feel that five and a half-inch needle enter the thin layer of flesh between my world and my son's, and remove the amniotic sea my baby had so placidly existed in for five months. I did not feel another long needle replace the ocean in my uterus with saline, a salt acid that consumed my premature child's skin, and drowned him by filling his lungs with the fatal fluid, then oxidized him from the inside out. But I remember the first helpless agonizing movements, writhing against the acid in his spherical aerie. He squirmed, kicked, writhed. I could feel his violent actions against the inside of my stomach, but I could do naught now.
The nurse tried to take my hand but when I looked up at her experienced, death-jaded face, I struck her. Looking down and prating senselessly to the little being I had chosen to drain life from, I cried silently, and placed my fingers once again over my tummy. A child was drowning between my helpless hands, within my dispassionate womb, seasick from the fatal Hemlock I had administered.
He moved invariably inside me for little more than an hour, struggling helplessly for the life he would never have an opportunity to fulfill. I yearned for the moment he would cease his writhing, not because I wanted to be rid of him, for now I wanted him with all my soul, but because I knew by the violent actions within me that the intense, agonizing pain he was experiencing could not be eased by anything but death.
I delivered him the next morning, entirely formed, even to the minutest detail, but for the burns on his vulnerable body. The nurse took him away, put him in a plastic biohazard bag and sent him out with the rubbish…
The doctor and I sat in awkward silence for several minutes. I couldn't possibly voice my encounter, and he would not have understood it. Finally Mrs. Cedevor entered obliviously, with a large bell-shaped teacup filled with hot spiced cider. It tasted bitter to my lips, but it had no consequence, for all seemed bitter now.
"You saved his life." The doctor informed me factually. I just looked mournfully into his grey, fatigued eyes. He started then, just recognizing my face from many years ago when he removed my appendix or set my broken nose, but he did not mentioned it.
"Maybe you shouldn't be alone," he said thoughtfully, and put his hand on my shoulder, his fingers wrapping round the bone.
"Maybe I shouldn't," I answered slowly. He stepped out to check on the child, leaving his wife alone in the room with me. I didn't give her a farewell, but I smiled distractedly and left, the bells on the door ringing as I swung it shut.
By then, the sun was beginning to peer cautiously over the town's tallest hill, not yet ready to abandon its sleep, but willing to stretch out a few dull colors in a skeptical yawn. I found the ocean once again, although I knew why this time. As I walked by the scene of last night's incident, I looked then to the sand, not to the water. Noticing the stub I had dropped the previous evening, I stopped to scrutinize the bit of deformed candle wax abandoned on the earth. I looked at it closely for several minutes before replacing deep it in my pocket. I will remember not today, nor tomorrow.
Without inhibitions I sloshed into the ocean, unfearful of the darkness or the cold, for the sun would protect me, even when the light, then resting in my pocket, had gone out.