I am in the hospital and giving birth to you. I have made the decision to give you up for adoption. It is by far the hardest thing ever for me to do this but it is the right thing. I have nowhere to go. There is no support. None.
I lay on a stretcher in a quiet room and it is now after the pushing, the noise in the birthing room. I ache. I cry. I lay there and think, “What now?” Have the nurses forgotten me? After a time I am wheeled into a four bed room and the nurses pull the curtain around me for privacy. I cry some more. I hear the other three mothers talking quietly among themselves as they feed their babies. I am to stay here for a week to convalesce. I do what I want and I ask for my child. The nurses ask me if this is a good thing for me to do. I want to hold my daughter in my arms. To remember her sweetness. If I do not do this I know that not doing it will kill me. She is brought to me and still the curtain surrounds my bed with us two in there. A cocoon. I feel safe with her. When I leave I will have nowhere to go. But for now I am safe with her. I stare at her fingers. Her eyelids and I noticed a long blood vessel and I try to memorize what it looks like. This will be the identifying feature when I go searching for her. This is the plan. She is such a good babe. I rarely hear her cry. She is with me almost 24/7. The staff is concerned. The welfare worker is concerned. I tell them not to worry. I will give the baby up for adoption. I will not change my mind. They are concerned for my welfare though. I lie to them. All is well I say to them. All is well. The days pass and I know the countdown comes. I cry when she is not with me. I cry out loud one night that one of the mothers from the other bed comes to me and hugs me tight. I sob more now. A dam that has been broken. I ask her to leave. I will be okay. I am already grieving my girl. Danielle Lise.
The worker comes with the long document and carefully goes through it me to make sure I understand it. I understand more than she knows. I know that Danielle’s parents are in the building waiting. Hoping. Scared that I will change my mind. I am resolute. I will not. I do not. I sign the paper. I have written my baby a letter and it is attached to the document. This document I will not see again until Danielle turns 18. The childish writing of a skinny, scared girl not knowing where she will go in the world. I spend the last hour with my girl and my heart breaks. It breaks. Shatters. Then she is gone. It is fast. The signing of the paper and so soon they take her. She is no longer mine. But I know in my heart she has gone to her mom, the woman who will teach her to love, to know joy, to watch her grow. I cannot think about that anymore as I dress and walk out of the hospital into the day.