eyes. My tears re-emerged.
“Bye bye, baby girl. Mama loves you so much.”
Tears were streaming down my face. I could taste the saltiness as they seeped into my mouth.
“I’ll call you when I get to my room. Okay? We can FaceTime so Mama can see your beautiful face.”
I hugged her tight for a long while to make up for all the hugs I wouldn’t be able to give her during my solitary confinement. She wiggled a little, but Ed held onto her. I hugged them both and just leaned into Ed‘s shoulder. I finally let go, picked up my purse and walked over to my dad. I kissed his cheek and hugged him goodbye.
“Que Dios te bendiga, mija,” he said. May God bless you, sweetie. “Te quiero.” I love you. He kissed my forehead. My sweet father had immigrated from Mexico at the young age of eighteen; he lived on his own until he met my mom ten years later. He taught me Spanish as my first language when I was growing up, a life skill I’d always be grateful for, and we still often spoke to each other in our native tongue.
“Gracias, Papa,” I whispered. “Te quiero mucho.”
Ed handed Abby to my dad. We slowly walked out the front door. As Ed turned the key and locked the door behind us, I could see Abby through our big front window—the one she and our dog Charlie would lie in front of as babies and watch as our neighbors walked their dogs. She was out of Papa‘s arms and running towards the window; she banged on it to get our attention. She smiled and laughed—she probably thought I was coming right back. I blew her a kiss and waved goodbye knowing that I was doing the only thing I could do as a soon-to-be mother of three and not just one, but it still hurt.
Chapter 8
Move-In Day
Dr. Cooper wanted me to check-in around 9:00 a.m.
I looked down at my cell phone. It was 9:02. Right on time. I wished we would’ve gotten stuck in traffic—anything to delay this moment.
“Crys, we’re here,” Ed said as he parked the car in front of the hospital valet.
“Okay,” I responded, gazing off into the distance. From the hospital doors I could see the entrance to the zoo across the street. The gates had just opened, and the people that had been lined up down the street—as if it was a hot night club—began to flood in. The parking lot was filled with SUVs and minivans—parents applying sunscreen and bug spray to their children, loading pre-made picnics and coolers into their wagons and strollers. They were beginning their fun-filled day of animal sightings, jungle-gyms, train rides, ice cream cones and laughter. I would have given anything to join in the fun and be there with Abby. Almost anything, except for the well-being of Katie and Lauren. I snapped out of it. Even though a part of me believed despite all the dire warnings, I had to keep reminding myself that I could get through this pregnancy on my own without being a science project under twenty-four hour observation.
I stepped out of the car and took a few steps through the sliding glass doors. I was greeted by a hospital volunteer, a young guy maybe in his early twenties, wearing a brightly colored red vest that made it impossible not to notice him. He wore a nametag on his vest that read “Volunteer.”
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Welcome. How can I help you?”
“I’m checking in as a patient in the antepartum unit.” I said, setting one of my bags down on the floor next to me.
“Oh okay, let me arrange wheelchair assistance.”
“No, I’m okay. A wheelchair won’t be necessary.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, it‘s actually hospital policy, for um…” he struggled to delicately state his next few words. “Pregnant moms that are hospital patients must be wheeled on hospital premises.” He signaled to the guard standing next to a few empty wheelchairs who then wheeled one over to where I was standing.
Ugh, no thanks.
“Well, technically I’m not a patient yet,” I told him.
I wasn’t sure if the volunteer didn’t hear my statement or if he just chose to ignore me. Either way, he stuck out his arm and offered me assistance in sitting down in the wheelchair. I handed my purse to my mom. As soon as I was seated, the volunteer took the break off of the wheelchair and began pushing me. We were off to the fifth floor antepartum unit.
I felt annoyed as we wheeled along. This mandatory ride made me feel as if I had already lost control of my actions. As far as the hospital was concerned, I was a liability waddling around. They were in charge from here on out, I was just along for the ride. It drove me—control freak in charge of everything—crazy to have to hand over the reins of my life to someone else.
We walked down the hallway and stopped and waited a moment for the elevators. I was here being admitted into a children‘s hospital. It all felt strange to me—to be wheeled around when I was fully capable of walking. I was neither sick nor injured. In fact, aside from dealing with the anxiety of my impending bedrest, I felt pretty darned good. Checking into a place for sick and injured people felt wrong.
The elevator opened up and we got in. We rode in silence for the five levels up to the unit. We stepped out of the elevator, and I instantly noticed a huge change in temperature. The temperature on this floor was sub-zero freezing. I rubbed my arms wishing I had pulled out my fleece from my duffle bag. As we wheeled down the hallway, we passed the hospital gift shop. It had two large, glass windows, and the display cases were filled with teddy bears, floral arrangements, tiny pink and blue cigar gum sticks and balloons. This is where visitors stop and buy gifts for their family members’ and friends’ new babies. Right after your baby is born, you get a flood of flowers, edible arrangements with the chocolate covered pineapple and bananas and soft fluffy stuffed animals that say “Baby‘s First Giraffe” or whatever. But then I wondered if it would be the same this time. Would our friends and family stop at this gift shop and get our girls gifts? I thought as I rubbed my stomach. My anxiety level rose, and I envisioned the first few days after the girls’ birth and how different they would be than my experience with Abby. It tugged on my heart to think that my babies most likely wouldn’t be coming home with me. They would be staying here in the NICU of this hospital in this arctic blast.
I checked in with the receptionist at the front desk of the antepartum unit. The hospital had gone digital since I had given birth to Abby. She handed me an iPad and directed me to fill out the extensive medical questionnaire. But I couldn’t focus on reading the questions. I kept pausing and overthinking as if it were a difficult problem on a math test that I could skip and go back to at the end. I got to the last page and checked a bunch of boxes, then scribbled my signature on the iPad and dated it. May 25, 2014.
My life as an independent pregnant woman was ending, and my life as the long-term hospital pregnant mama was beginning. Yup, I’m a long-term patient, checking in for God knows how long. The rest of my life. At least that‘s how it felt.
“This must be how inmates feel on their first day,” I said looking over at my mom.
“Only you don’t have to wear an orange jumpsuit,” she said with a smile.
“The thin blue gown isn’t much of an improvement,” I said.
We
