Patrice didn’t get to hold her baby.

She woke up without him. She woke cold, shivering, and being fed hot chicken broth.

They pile blankets on her while ignoring her questions.

“Where is my baby, is he ok?”

Finally, a nurse places a cold hand on her forehead.

“He is alive, but you can’t see him.”

Her abdomen hurts from where they cut her open and pulled him out. Her legs are still numb, and she can’t feel her toes.

She tries to take a deep breath, things will get better. They must.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asks, she is afraid. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

The surgery was terrible, unexpected, and not part of her plan.

“He is having trouble breathing and won’t eat properly,” the nurse says, adding another heated blanket.

Patrice is still shivering, and anxiety fills her belly like angry moths.

They take her to her room and move her into a new bed.

It hurts to move, even with the pain medication. But she can’t stay in the wheelchair, the bed will be safer, more comfortable. It must.

A day passes.

She still hasn’t seen her baby, her sweet little boy.

A social worker comes in to talk to her.

“We just want to make sure you are ok,” they tell her.

She isn’t ok, but she doesn’t want to talk to this stranger. Instead, she puts on a brave face and lies.

“Things will get better,” the social worker says.

Patrice doesn’t believe her, but it must.

Her husband comes in and shows her pictures. He’s been in the NICU with their son. He’s gotten to touch his soft skin and smell the perfect baby scent.

Patrice looks at the photos. She doesn’t know how she should be feeling. She can’t cry or smile.

He scrolls through more photos. Patrice wants to look away, but she doesn’t.

Their little boy is huge, he’s shiny and pink with a cupid bow mouth and dark grey eyes.

This isn’t her baby, it can’t be. She doesn’t feel anything when she looks at the photos.

“Don’t worry, Patrice, things will get better, they must,” he says.

Hours pass in a haze. She’s medicated and dozing in the awkward hospital bed. The fluorescent lights hurt her eyes. She can’t sleep, it alludes her teasing like a lover. She won’t turn off the lights because the darkness is worse.

She watches hours of annoying cooking shows. How can anyone possibly take green beans, deep-fried crickets, and salami and make it into a delectable dinner?

A nurse tells her if she can get into a wheelchair then she can go see her baby.

It is a surreal experience. She isn’t allowed to hold him. She can only touch his tiny hand with her finger. He is covered in wires, hooked up to machines, and wrapped tightly in a white blanket.

Despair floods her system. She doesn’t know this child. This cannot be her son. He is precious, but aren’t all babies?

Her husband looks on worry evident on his face.

Another day passes.

The doctors tell Patrice the baby is not well enough to go home with her.

“But when?” she asks.

“We don’t know,” they say.

“Things will get better, right?” she asks, “they must.”

They don’t answer her.

She eats, but the food is bland. She wants to see her family and go home to her own bed. Her arms and womb ache for her baby, but he’s like a phantom, ever slipping from her grasp.

She watches home shows where people with ridiculous jobs like hamster wrangling have millions of dollars to spend on homes in a faraway place like Italy.

Patrice refuses to see her son. He doesn’t feel like hers, and every time they wheel her in to see him she feels worse.

“You have to go see him,” her husband says, pacing in the sterile room.

“Why? There’s no use. I will deal with him when I get home,” she says. They are releasing her today.

She’s packing the few things she brought to the hospital. Including the tiny outfit she picked out, especially for her son. She holds the blanket she had made to her face and takes a deep breath in.

“It will get better.” Her husband kisses her cheek gently and leaves the room.

Patrice is doubtful, she’s leaving the hospital without her baby.

She doesn’t know for how long they will be apart, and she doesn’t know how to act when she finally takes him home.

Her heart and mind war within her. Self-preservation is kicking in, and depression runs in her veins instead of blood.

As she zips her bag closed and prepares to leave the room she closes her eyes.

She will come back and see her baby tomorrow.

Even if she doesn’t want to, she knows…she must.

– Renee Lake