The name of the hospital was Holy Family. That seems ironic to me because this is where my daughter and I were separated from each other.
They put me in a double occupancy room by myself. I don't know if it was because it just worked out that way or to spare me the company of women who kept their babies or what. It's probably best to think they were trying to spare me the pain of seeing other mothers with their babies.
If they were aware that I would experience pain, and I'm certain that some of them were, then why was it generally accepted that it was good for young mothers to be separated from their children by adoption?
Anyway, the room was cold and barren. It was more empty than any hospital room I've ever been in; it was more like a jail cell, and I could not get warm. All the people who'd crowded into my hot delivery room the night before were gone, and I was alone. I was alone and empty and so, so very lonely.
I didn't understand these feelings. It was hard for me to comprehend them. I'd made the right choice, remember? I'd done what I was supposed to do. I'd given my baby away. Now those people had my baby, and I was the barren one.
I kept hearing a baby cry, especially at night. I kept asking the nurses as they came and went, but I can't really remember what their answers were. I think some of them went away promising to check but never getting back to me. Others may have told me that none of the babies were crying. Some may have told me I couldn't possibly hear the babies because I learned later that I wasn't even close to the nursery. At any rate, they never gave me the answer I was looking for. I was asking about my baby, my daughter, and I wanted to hear that she was crying and that she needed me to hold her.
Most of the nurses seemed to have no time for me and no comprehension of the terrible emotions I was going through. Maybe they knew, and so were uncomfortable being around me. Only one nurse understood -- and she understood better than me because I was totally confused about what I was experiencing.
This one nurse always talked to me with kindness and compassion. She checked on me often. She offered me back rubs. She did her best to help me through that hospital stay. I refused all of it, even though I thought the back rubs would feel good. Just the same, I remember being sorry whenever her shift was over. This must be when I started punishing myself for giving my child away.
I have one more memory of the hospital where I gave birth to my daughter. The memory of when I went to see her -- my baby.
It was in the evening, I think. I waited for my mother to get there; I wanted her to go with me. I didn't mind having to view her through the glass like everyone else -- not having her brought to my room like with my first child. I didn't like it, but I was more interested in seeing my daughter than quibbling about that. Besides, I was such a passive little mother. It was a long way to the nursery; I remember being amazed about that because of the crying baby I kept hearing from my room.
We got to the window, and a nurse came holding holding my baby all bundled up in her arms -- moving and turning her so we could see more. She was so adorable. I remember thinking how much she looked like my sister as a child. I was smiling for the first time in this hospital. Mom and I looked at her and smiled and talked about her for so long.
Her hair -- she had lot's of hair, and it was pretty long. The amazing thing about her hair was that it seemed to be dark at the roots and light at the tips, like mine. I'd bleached my hair, and it had grown out. I remember thinking how wonderful it was that her hair would be like mine right now and in that way.
Anyway, that's the way she looked to me, and I din't ever want to stop looking at her. Maybe the nurse ended it. I can't remember. I do have a sense of no longer being satisfied just looking at her. And, being such an obedient little birthmom, I knew I wasn't allowed to hold her. Can you imagine that? Just accepting a rule that says you aren't allowed to hold your own daughter. She'd been inside me for nine months, and now I wasn't allowed to hold her in my arms.
Mom and I started back for my room. I ached from the waist down from giving birth to her and from standing there so long. I was hobbling and in pain, but I was still elated from seeing my daughter. We walked past an open door or a window, and I glanced inside as we passed.
I saw two people, a man and a woman, putting on hospital gowns, masks, and gloves. They were going in to hold one of the babies in their arms. And, I remember thinking, "Why won't they let me do that with my baby?"
Then some how I understood that they were or could be going in to hold MY baby. My baby that I wasn't allowed to hold! Maybe mom told me it was them. Maybe I recognized them. Maybe I just realized that it could be possible. I don't know; I can't be sure. I can't be sure about it all, maybe it was just a horrible nightmare that I had there in the hospital after seeing my baby. Maybe I never even saw my baby, but I believe it happened. And, I remember feeling very hurt that they could hold her, but I wasn't allowed to touch her at all. I can picture myself crying myself to sleep about it, but I'm not sure. I'm certain that I was no longer feeling alright about not being able to hold my own daughter. That feeling is very strongly linked to the image of those people putting on the hospital gowns.
I know that I sure feel like crying about it right now.
I believe this was my last day at the hospital. In fact, I'm certain that's the reason I decided to go see my baby because it was my last chance to see her -- ever. That's what I believed at the time, and it was certainly my last chance to see her as an infant.
That's it. I have no more memories of the hospital where I gave birth to my only daughter.
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