Chapter 21

We walked out of the hospital room and down the corridor. From the moment I stepped through those swinging glass doors I could not breathe; shallow breaths helped me sustain consciousness. My feet kept time, one after the other, as I fixed my gaze on the wheelchair ahead of me. Pam was not looking back; that had to be a good sign. The white lamb set lazily on her right leg, her arm draped half-heartedly across it as the hospital staff wheeled her up the path and over the uneven concrete toward Mary’s car. 

Paul was carrying the car seat. Naomi was tucked securely in, her red-leopard printed blanket tucked snuggly around her; I silently prayed this would keep her still and content. She was not crying, and I was relieved for that; tears might be too much for Pam, a sign that she should change her mind. 

My inside, my very being was unsettled. Half of me wanted to push Paul from behind, hurrying our trek out to the car. I wanted to race out of the parking lot, ducking my head behind the covered door, and not look back. 

The other half of me wanted to scream out desperately in the tension of the moment. I wanted to embrace Pam, thank her, tell her it would be all right, that Naomi would be alright. I wanted to assure her, comfort her, give her something more than that stuffed lamb to hold onto. Nothing would be enough in that situation, could be enough in that moment. I knew that — nothing outside of my beautiful baby girl, and at this point I did not want to give her back.

We parted at the end of the sidewalk, Mary escorting Pam to a car parked nearby. There was no hug, no reassurance of words suitable for goodbye, and so we parted in silence. Paul and I walked on, down the remainder of the sidewalk and into the parking lot. 

As Paul unlocked the doors and a sense of urgency came over me, my hands shaking as I secured Naomi’s seat into its base. It seemed I could not secure her fast enough, or impress on Paul the importance of our haste, but he seemed to sense it on his own. We shut the doors, scanning the parking lot to make sure they drove out first. 

I do not remember relaxing until we pulled out onto the street and past the first signal. We had Naomi, in our car, in the back seat, and we were headed home. Home. That moment felt like a dream: one I had waited so long for, and now could not fully embrace. I purposefully calloused myself to the idea, trying to protect myself from the pain of potential loss. Now I had to switch gears. Naomi was our daughter. This fact I had not allowed myself to think about, let alone comprehend, was now my reality. A little girl, my little girl. 

I went back to the shelter that day and slept as long as I possibly could. Sleep was my reprieve, my friend, my escape from my painful reality. The next day my breasts were swollen, hard, and painful reminders of what I no longer had. I remember crying to one of the staff members at the shelter “I want my baby back. Please help me get my baby back”. 

This was a very difficult transition. I had practiced emotional separation for so long that my feelings did not know what to do. One moment I would be connected and the next, separate. I would purposefully stare at Naomi, adoring every pudge and wrinkle, convincing my heart that it was safe to embrace this new reality. I made deliberate attempts so that my heart would learn to speak louder than my head. As the days passed, after many a diaper and wardrobe change, I slowly learned how to become vulnerable again.

 But I was exhausted, physically and emotionally; I had run out of reserves. After the hospital stay, Bronchitis settled into my lungs; caring for a newborn (along with my three other children) was too much. I found myself getting angry. Why did she not just let us go home? Why was she not more considerate of my schedule at the hospital; between the crying, snoring, and visitors, I hardly got a wink of sleep. Now, as I was trying to recover, both physically and emotionally. I thought the trials would subside with time, but it soon became painfully clear to me that they had only begun.