I hate this place.
I hate how dark it is inside.
I hate the beeps and blips and alarms.
I hate the wires.
I hate the plastic and the smell of alcohol.
I hate the barricades.
I hate the lack of privacy.
I hate hearing babies cry out for their mothers.
I hate seeing mothers in wheelchairs, hunched over, incisions weeping, faces that look blank with fear.
I hate the disruption of my family life.
I hate coming here on a beautiful Sunday morning when I should be sitting outside on my front stoop watching my little ones play in the sunshine.
While I am so grateful for the technology that likely saved my child’s life, and especially to the professionals who cared for my baby with so much skill and affection, I am going to walk out of here and not look back.
I cannot wait to take my child outside to see the sun and to smell the fresh air and to thank God for the simple gifts that are so easily taken for granted.
Things such as snuggling your baby without a dozen wires and cords getting in the way… without having to ask someone permission… without having to drive for 45 minutes one way to see him.
To snuggle in bed with my newborn and smell his sweet milky breath.
Today, my husband told me that yesterday, Josiah took a bottle and for the first time, actually drank. This is good news, it means he’s learning to suck. It means he’s a step closer to coming home.
Still, I cried.
I cried because I don’t want him drinking from bottles, even if they contain my milk. I don’t want others feeding him. That should be my privilege alone right now.
Another thing to grieve.