{WW} relief

{WW} relief

The elevators at Royal University Hospital were crowded that warm July day. I squeezed on, holding my purse and lunch-kit and pressed the button for fourth floor. My little 3-day-old baby was waiting for me in the neonatal unit, his little skinny legs pulled up against his body. One good thing about being postpartum six weeks early was the part of fitting into pre-pregnancy clothes, beings as I tend to gain my allotted thirty pounds in the last three months.

“Hey, I’d give you a hundred bucks for that good Mennonite cooking in there.”

My mind suddenly registered fifteen faces around me, looking at me, smiling. The elevator was crowded. A man in a hospital gown, attached to an IV, stood at the back of the elevator grinning at me.

“Uh… probably not,” I stammered. I was the only Mennonite on board.

“Come on!” he persisted. “I’d give you a hundred bucks for that good Mennonite cooking in there!”

I looked at the elevator lights, willing it to go faster. How would I explain this Mennonite cooking?

My face flamed. “No… it’s probably not something you’d like,” I answered.

“On, come on. You know what kind of cooking we get here,” the man said.

All eyes were on me, when with relief I saw the elevator doors open at fourth floor. “It’s actually breast milk for my baby,” I said, stepping off with my head held high.

The elevator erupted in laughter behind me and I heard the man, in a little quieter voice, say, “I’d still give you twenty…”