Berry
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- Nov 19, 2006
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When you have a big family something bad is going to happen sooner or later. You know that, but it doesn't make it any easier.
Getting ready to go to bed. Phone rings. Hysterical voice screams, "The baby didn't make it. The baby didn't make it."
"What baby? Who's this?"
A calmer voice comes on the line. "We are all down here at the hospital."
Clank.
I start getting dressed. My wife calls the hospital. "Do you have any babies in distress down there?"
"Sorry, ma'm. We can't give out any information without the full first and last name of the baby in question."
"I can give you the names of the possible mothers. I don't know all the babies last names. Can you do that?" I was called and told, not my wife so we can narrow down the possible mothers into a manageable group.
"Sorry. Unless the mother is the patient I can't tell you anything without the full first and last name of the baby."
I arrive at the hospital. Right now I'd be happy to find out this was a bad joke played by an idiot with a sick sense of humor. Unfortunately it is real.
My granddaughter, barely 16, not old enough to be a mother, is now the mother of a deceased baby. No one is old enough to be that. Wasn't that long ago she was looking up at me from a pair of diapers herself. Seems like just last week I was taking her to Micky D's for Mac Flurries.
There are at least 20 people here, most of them crying. Some are strangers. The baby's daddy has family too.
Who is here is interesting. My daughter, and the woman my granddaughter's father left her for, are crying in each other's arms. Where is the man they shared? I'm told his current wife doesn't want him around past lovers and would not let him come. Is that the way it really is? I don't know. I feel as though I have walked into the middle of a badly written movie.
I have another daughter, Bobbie, who is driving down the canyon from Reno, dealing with ice and rain. She has a cell phone but there are lots of dead spots there. We have agreed that if I don't hear from her by 10:45 pm. I'm going to start up the canyon looking for her. I don't even text her what is going on, she has enough to worry about.
The police are here. They need to question everyone involved? Why? Is something wrong?
Just standard procedure.
Someone is shoving something in my arms. I look down. "Here. Do you want to hold him?"
No. No. No. I do not want to hold dead babies. I feel the cold of his body as they push him at me. They are crying. They mean well. They want to share something precious with me. I watch as they caress his brow and kiss him.
"No."
Only live babies.
I'm not holding dead babies.
Some woman is down the hall screaming profanities at the police, and someone comments even dead babies should not hear such language.
It is like being battered by a tornado -- And I'm on the outskirts. My granddaughter is standing over her baby crying. She is in the center of the storm and there is no way in hell I can get inside of it and drag her back out to safety. I can only watch and hope she can ride it out, and someday come home safe.
My granddaughter won't leave until they take the baby. I won't leave until someone takes my granddaughter home.
When everyone has gone I'm standing outside the hospital in the rain. Bobbie and her sister drive up, a hot latte for dad. "Sorry we couldn't get here sooner."
I woke up this morning dreaming about people carrying dead babies.
Nobody should have to kiss a dead baby.
Getting ready to go to bed. Phone rings. Hysterical voice screams, "The baby didn't make it. The baby didn't make it."
"What baby? Who's this?"
A calmer voice comes on the line. "We are all down here at the hospital."
Clank.
I start getting dressed. My wife calls the hospital. "Do you have any babies in distress down there?"
"Sorry, ma'm. We can't give out any information without the full first and last name of the baby in question."
"I can give you the names of the possible mothers. I don't know all the babies last names. Can you do that?" I was called and told, not my wife so we can narrow down the possible mothers into a manageable group.
"Sorry. Unless the mother is the patient I can't tell you anything without the full first and last name of the baby."
I arrive at the hospital. Right now I'd be happy to find out this was a bad joke played by an idiot with a sick sense of humor. Unfortunately it is real.
My granddaughter, barely 16, not old enough to be a mother, is now the mother of a deceased baby. No one is old enough to be that. Wasn't that long ago she was looking up at me from a pair of diapers herself. Seems like just last week I was taking her to Micky D's for Mac Flurries.
There are at least 20 people here, most of them crying. Some are strangers. The baby's daddy has family too.
Who is here is interesting. My daughter, and the woman my granddaughter's father left her for, are crying in each other's arms. Where is the man they shared? I'm told his current wife doesn't want him around past lovers and would not let him come. Is that the way it really is? I don't know. I feel as though I have walked into the middle of a badly written movie.
I have another daughter, Bobbie, who is driving down the canyon from Reno, dealing with ice and rain. She has a cell phone but there are lots of dead spots there. We have agreed that if I don't hear from her by 10:45 pm. I'm going to start up the canyon looking for her. I don't even text her what is going on, she has enough to worry about.
The police are here. They need to question everyone involved? Why? Is something wrong?
Just standard procedure.
Someone is shoving something in my arms. I look down. "Here. Do you want to hold him?"
No. No. No. I do not want to hold dead babies. I feel the cold of his body as they push him at me. They are crying. They mean well. They want to share something precious with me. I watch as they caress his brow and kiss him.
"No."
Only live babies.
I'm not holding dead babies.
Some woman is down the hall screaming profanities at the police, and someone comments even dead babies should not hear such language.
It is like being battered by a tornado -- And I'm on the outskirts. My granddaughter is standing over her baby crying. She is in the center of the storm and there is no way in hell I can get inside of it and drag her back out to safety. I can only watch and hope she can ride it out, and someday come home safe.
My granddaughter won't leave until they take the baby. I won't leave until someone takes my granddaughter home.
When everyone has gone I'm standing outside the hospital in the rain. Bobbie and her sister drive up, a hot latte for dad. "Sorry we couldn't get here sooner."
I woke up this morning dreaming about people carrying dead babies.
Nobody should have to kiss a dead baby.
