I wasn’t there when they transferred her baby to the other
hospital.
I had gone home.
She cried and cried on the phone when we spoke.
She wanted to go too.
She didn’t want her babe to be alone.
But, there were no beds for her at the other hospital.
She watched her baby being wheeled away without her.
It was devastating.
Three. Whole. Days.
Seventy-two hours.
Before, she saw her terminally ill babe again.
She faked her recovery well enough to get a day pass to go.
She got to hold her.
The nurses, gently, manipulated all the wires and tubes in
order to be able, to place the babe in her arms.
She wept.
She cooed.
She silently sobbed; overwhelmed with joy and grief
simultaneously.
She was inconsolable when it was time to leave.
The separation from her precious daughter was
torturous.
She rushed her own recovery in order to be discharged.
She went from hospital to the Ronald McDonald House.
She lived at the hospital and slept at the house.
Her baby was too fragile to suckle.
Determined to provide her with breast milk, she used a pump.
She learned to give the milk to her baby through a tube.
Living in the pediatric ICU, she learned to care for her
babe.
A month later, she was as competent as the nurses.
Her babe stabilized and was transferred out of the ICU.
I was so happy.
She sounded so positive.
I couldn’t wait to see them both.
When she called me, I knew something was wrong.
It took her time to tell me.
Hospital policy restricted visitation to parents and
grandparents only.
I was not allowed to see her baby now.
This was unacceptable.
I was angry.
I was so sad.
They don’t understand.
I loved that baby and she may not live.
Devastated.
She saved me.
Somehow, she took the time to save me.
She made the hospital change the rules and allow me to visit
her babe.
She knew how much I needed to be with them.
She said she needed me.
She made me feel very special.
She let me be a part of those first days.
We didn’t know how many days we had with her.
And she shared them with me.
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