Long Blue Line: Based on a True Story (30 page)

It was Super Bowl 2007, and I was just about as big as I could get. Everything hurt. It hurt to walk, breathe, roll over, and to try and put up with Derrick. He would come home from work with that familiar, gut-wrenching tightness on his face. After nailing him and guilt-tripping him as best as I could, he still denied using any sort of drugs. It was easier to just believe him and drop it. My intuition knew better but I ignored it. I couldn’t deal with his crap at that point in time.

I was excited that it was Super Bowl time. It was a good way to take my mind off of everything. I made tons of food that day. It was freezing cold outside, and I welcomed the idea of lounging on the couch with an enormous plate of hot food, which sat perfectly on my pregnant tummy. Just as I was about through with the cooking, Derrick announced that he invited his brother to come over and watch the game with us, and his brother was bringing three other friends and a baby. Part of me hated the idea, but part of me wanted to be able to hang out with other people and just be normal. I wanted to be a part of the world again and do things that everyone else did. More than anything, I wanted to prove to myself that I was normal and the people whom I was around were normal. Everything that had happened to me was all some freak accident, I recited in my head. Derrick’s words invaded my mind and found their own way to my
hippocampus
and became stuck in my frontal lobes for years. Sometimes I wondered how a person could have such control. At different times over the years I thought he was some sort of supernatural demon.

Everyone showed up with alcohol, cigarettes and marijuana. My dinner wasn’t so exciting anymore. This included a younger couple with a newborn baby. I became angry because I saw myself from an outsiders standpoint. I allowed my babies to be around these people and the substances. It was pathetic. It was bullshit. There was no excuse that could make this scenario okay. I simply couldn’t handle it. I went into my bedroom and locked myself away for the night. I was hoping that Derrick would at least come in to see what was wrong, but he could care less. I didn’t see him again until about 2:00 a.m. The next morning when I woke up and rolled out of bed, he had already left for work.

As I walked into the living room to make something to eat, rage came over me. The house was absolutely trashed. I saw empty beer bottles everywhere, old rotted food left out, and dishes left all over the place. I called Derrick. “You call those people your friends? If they can’t even respect your home, what makes you think they respect you? I cleaned house and made dinner all day yesterday! Am I just your bitch now or what?” I screamed. “You know what hoe? Shut the hell up! It’s my house and I’ll have any one I want over, and I’ll tear it up if I feel like it. If you hate it so bad then clean the mess up!” he hung up. He had an excellent way of making me feel worthless. I picked up the tall glass cups off of the hutch and threw them as hard as I could onto the front door. As they shattered, the purple mixed drink stained the walls. It reminded me of blood.  Then I wished it were my blood. I wanted to just die and get it over with. I didn’t even care if Derrick killed me. When he returned later that day he had his bipolar mood shifted back to normal. He was decent and he cleaned the house.

There was nothing left to do besides wait. Wait for the unknown. Wait for the next set of daggers to cut mercilessly into what was left of my heart. When the daggers were finished with my heart, they would stab holes of grief into my brain. The holes would take a very long time to heal. They would be there until I took my last breath on earth.

I remembered when the Social Worker asked me for my due date, and I gave him a date that was actually past my due date. I came to the conclusion that it would actually be better for me to have this baby as soon as possible. I knew the nurses were already informed of my high-risk status. Derrick and his entire family behaved as if everything would be perfectly okay. His mother and I exchanged emails on a daily basis, and she actually became a very good friend. She was really the only person I had to talk to that wouldn't swear at me or attempt to throw random objects my way. She sent a new crib, baby clothes for a boy and a girl, toys, and pretty much everything that we would need. The baby's room was all set up with everything in place.

When I was in my 37th week of pregnancy, I went to the health food store and purchased a small bottle of castor oil. I was tired of being pregnant and sick of living with the suspense and fear that I wasn't going to be able to take my baby home. Whatever was going to happen, I just wanted to get it over with. Derrick was mostly enthusiastic and optimistic about the entire situation. He did make good points. He pointed out that technically CPS would have no reason to take our baby away from us. I could easily pass any drug test, and I had done everything that the Court ordered me to do. CPS would not be able to prove that the baby would be in immediate danger. He told me over and over again that he would not let anything happen. I thought maybe nature was trying to hide the possible outcome so I could get through childbirth - and maybe my own denial.

I opened the bottle of castor oil around 9:00 p.m. It took me a couple of hours to drink the entire bottle because it was so disgusting and oily, but I was determined. I wanted to have his baby on time. The contractions finally came and they came frequently. At one point they were about 2 minutes apart and lasted for 30 seconds. Eventually they slowed down and completely went away. Luckily, I'm quite experienced when it comes to meditating my way out of throwing up. I went to bed miserable and sick and even more frustrated. I was hoping that my next doctor appointment would confirm some sort of sign of impending labor.

As the technician scanned my very pregnant belly, she was focusing on the monitor to determine if there was a recent loss of amniotic fluid. She pointed to the red area and the blue area. The red indicated my uterus and the blue area indicated the water that was supposed to be in it. There was hardly any water. My doctor informed me that if the ultrasound detected a loss of fluid, they would induce me that same night. “If that’s what your doctor says, then it looks like you’re definitely going to be heading to labor and delivery tonight." I was excited, and seeing my baby on the screen erased any fear and doubt I had been struggling with. I was going to live in the moment and focus only on a having a safe delivery. Something came over me that completely allowed me to relax and let go of all of my fears.

My doctor poked her head into the ultrasound room to ask the technician about the status of the scan. She informed her that I had little to no water left. That was all she needed to hear. "Are you ready to meet your baby?" she asked. I smiled and nodded, and she knew she was asking me the question I'd been waiting for. After wiping the gel off of my stomach, the doctor led Derrick and I down the hallway to the labor and delivery room. I was so excited to meet this life that was hiding in me for so long.

After I was strapped in, and practically stuck to the bed, the nurse informed me that they would begin my induction around midnight. There wasn't anything to do except wait. After watching the clock relentlessly, midnight finally came and the nurse started the induction. About 2 hours later, I was in full-blown labor. I made it clear from the start that I wanted an epidural. I really didn’t want to go through the same pain that I struggled with previously. Since Derrick fell asleep before my induction, he wasn’t any company to me. I was becoming upset and annoyed. He didn't try to help or reassure me when he knew I was going through the pain of the contractions. I was sure he would probably stay asleep during the birth of our child. At that point, I didn't even care. If he was going to behave like an arrogant jerk, then he didn't deserve to see our new life arrive.

Around 2:00 a.m., the contractions were as strong as they could get, and I began to feel that horrible pressure. The nurse came in and I requested an epidural. After waiting in pain for another half hour, I was relieved to see the anesthesiologist walk into my room. This was when one of the nurses woke Derrick. They had him assist with the process by holding me as I slouched over his shoulder. I didn't even feel the pain of the needle tapping into my spinal column. I was worried that the epidural wasn't going to kick in soon enough for the delivery. The anesthesiologist was taping the catheter in place, and I knew that this baby was literally right
there
. I didn't tell them this because I was worried that they would stop the process. Thankfully, I was completely numb just in time for the
Ring of Fire
.

My baby girl was born less than an hour later. Her cry was so sweet, and I rubbed her head and spoke to her hoping she would recognize my voice as they put her on my stomach. The doctor then said, "What's her name?" "I don't know yet," I calmly said. Derrick immediately said, "Her name is Danielle.” I had gone over this with him on a daily basis for the last nine months. He wanted her to have a name beginning with the letter D. He was trying to get as close as he could to naming her after himself.

"It's a girl? Oh my gosh!" Derrick’s mother, Wendy, was screaming over the phone with excitement.  My baby was quietly sleeping in my arms. We were full of complete joy. My fear was replaced with elation. I felt completely euphoric, and I loved this little girl so much. Derrick was surprisingly good with her. He remained calm when she cried and fell asleep cuddled up to her so I could rest.

The sun had risen and the nurse woke me up to check on my vitals. Derrick and the baby were still sleeping, and I was trying to figure out what I would name her. It’s not that I didn’t like the name Danielle. I actually thought it was kind of cute. What annoyed me was that Derrick only wanted that name because it would complement his own. It was irritating that I was the one who carried this baby for so long, and he wouldn’t even consider other possible names. I was excited his parents were coming to meet their first grandchild. They began driving from Texas when they got the news that I was going to be induced. The drive would probably take two or three days. The nurse brought my breakfast into my room and raised the head of my bed so I could sit while I ate. My left leg was still slightly numb from the epidural, so I wasn’t quite mobile. The nurse came back into my room a few minutes later. It was time for my baby to have her first bath.

The nurse needed to wake Derrick so she could take the baby over to the nursery to clean her up. He yawned and stretched across the cot-sized hide-a-bed. “Well, it looks like we’re in the clear,” he said. “If they were going to take her they would have done so already.” I glanced at the clock and it was nearing eleven. It was a weekday and his conclusion made sense. We definitely would have heard something by now. I was so happy that things were happening as they should and without incident. I was eager to take our baby home and settle into my new routine. I heard some chatter coming from the hallway. Shortly after, I heard one of the nurses laughing loudly. “Whew, that scared me for a minute,” I said. Derrick started snoring. I was still exhausted and thought it would be good to get some rest myself while the nurses were giving the baby her bath. I immediately began to drift off.

Suddenly I heard the door to my room open. I assumed that the nurses were just returning my little girl. I wanted to see if she was hungry enough to nurse. I wanted to establish breastfeeding right away, and so far she hadn’t had any problems. When I opened my eyes and looked toward the door, two police officers in their black uniforms slowly walked in. Adrenaline and shock slammed my entire body. A man with shoulder-length hair wearing a badge followed behind them. “Derrick!” I yelled in a panic. He didn’t budge. “DERRICK!” I yelled even louder. He sat up as if he were ready to fight. “What?” he asked, still in a daze. “There are cops coming in here!” I cried. His face went from confused, to concerned, to pissed off all in an instant. He stood up and walked toward the end of my bed where the officers and Social Worker met him. The Social Worker looked down as his clipboard. “Are you Elizabeth?” he demanded. “Yes. Why are you in my hospital room?” I replied, making an attempt to get myself together. “Is this…uh…Derrick?” he asked, again glancing down at his clipboard. “Yes I am Derrick,” he replied. “The State has ordered us to assume custody of your child, and I’m here to enforce the Court Order.” Tears ran down my face. Derrick stepped toward the Social Worker. “You’re not going anywhere with my baby. If I have to go to jail, I will. Trust that,” he sternly replied. One of the officers stepped closer to Derrick to guard the Social Worker. “Hey man, just sit down for a minute. You don’t want to go to jail. I don’t know your situation, but I would be upset too. I do know that if we have to take you out of this room in handcuffs, it’s just going to make your situation a hell of a lot worse.” Derrick sat down. I was surprised at the empathy that the officer was showing.

“What reason do you have to take my baby?” I demanded. “I’ve done everything that I could possibly do to prevent this from happening. I’ve completed rehab, parenting classes, drug testing, and I am on good terms with my Probation Officer. The State is pretty much telling me that I can’t have any more kids. Is that what it is?” I furiously asked. “The State isn’t telling you that you can’t have any more kids. We have case reports saying that you accused Derrick of hurting your other child, Zoe,” he said, looking at his clipboard again. “I didn’t know who to blame when that happened! There were multiple people in my house, and I don’t know what happened! The detectives never even figured it out. If you think that he is responsible, then WHY isn’t he sitting in jail right now?” I challenged. “I can’t answer that question, but Social Services has determined that leaving the child in your care will put her at a substantial safety and health risk.”

I buried my face in my hands and cried so hard that I couldn’t breathe. The pain was all coming back – the painful reminder of all I had already lost.  This was the pain of having no control over the whereabouts and well being of my babies. This was the painful reminder that no matter what sort of improvement I made, I was still a bad mother. The Social Worker left the Court ordered document on the counter and they began to leave my room. “So I can’t even see my baby while I’m here?” I yelled after them. The Social Worker slowly turned around. “Yes, you can see her in the nursery.” He walked out.

The pain all came back to me - the pain from being in the hospital with Chloe and Zoe, and the pain from a loss that can’t possibly be understood unless personally endured. Once again, this system was defying nature. My maternal instincts were naturally fierce, and there was nothing I could do to protect my baby and keep her with me. I was wrong when I thought that my tears were gone. When I thought I couldn’t possibly cry any more, I cried even more. After losing Chloe and Zoe, this little girl was the only thing that gave me a reason to stay strong. This little girl kept me going when I was locked inside a cold jail cell for sixty-two days. I felt her kick for the first time as I was lying on my hard concrete bunk about four months pregnant. From that moment forward, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I had someone else to keep me company, and I had someone else to love. As she grew, I held on more and more. At around six months pregnant, I was released from jail to spend thirty days in a rehab facility. I felt safe and secure and happy that my unborn baby and I could at least sleep on a regular bed. I never in my life thought I would be so excited to see and squeeze a pillow. She moved around more and more every day. She was my little angel. If I felt like crying, she moved around even more. She reminded me that I had a reason to smile. I had a reason to love, hope and live. Her life saved my life. If I hadn’t become pregnant with this perfect little girl, I could very well be on the streets today, or even worse, dead.

I was hurting deep, deep down yet so excited to meet this baby and learn who she would become. I was looking forward to raising this baby with everything that I learned from the mistakes I made and everything that I knew I was now capable of. My actions as a mother to Chloe and Zoe were unforgivable. My love, however, was always strong and genuine. I grew up in a safe and secluded little town. I had never witnessed anything dangerous. I had never seen a dead body. I had never suffered through trauma. I didn’t know that I was one of the few lucky ones.

Until you’ve been quickly drawn down into the world of drugs and crime, you’ll
never
know what it feels like to live in that world. Why? It often feels like nothing is different. It quietly creeps into your life, and your perception of reality stays the same. I didn’t even see it coming. When you’re using a substance, you lose site of what normal is. I never, ever predicted such a tragedy could happen and such a loss could result. It happened to me and it happened to my children. My new baby was my only hope. Admitting to my faults and trying with my entire being to redeem myself would never be enough. It proved to be true that I would never, ever be forgiven. There would not be a second chance.

I cried because I was furious with the world and furious with myself. I was angry that I so tightly held on to so much hope that turned out to be nothing but a lie. Everything was a lie. I couldn’t trust anyone. I couldn’t believe anything. I also couldn’t count on the community police officers and Social Workers to help guide me in a safe direction. As a child, we’re taught that these are the people we should trust if there is an emergency or a crisis. These people are supposed to be the ones who want to help you. Then when you’re not a child anymore - you’re the bad person.

Sometimes I just wanted to scream -
WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME! WHY DIDN’T YOU FORBID ME TO SEE HIM! WHY DIDN’T YOU ISSUE A PERMANENT RESTRICTION ORDER! Isn’t it the job of the community to help create a better quality of life? Couldn’t just one person - my Therapist, my Probation Officer, the Judge, or ANYONE, just tell me to run!

The truth is they did. They tried anyway. Never directly, but the hints were there. For being so academically smart, I was actually quite stupid! I was ignorant, blind, and selfish. I was still a kid. I missed out on hanging out with friends, going to school functions, and following my dream of becoming a nurse. I spent my high school years pregnant and taking care of a family. I never thought that I would some day want those years back. I wanted to make up for those years, but no matter how much I tried it never felt like enough. I didn’t stop to think that those years would be gone, and they would never be there again. Trying to make up for the lost time ruined my life - and it hurt others in the process.

Derrick sat next to me on the hospital bed and held me as I hysterically cried for over six hours. His aunt came to visit after she heard the news. His parents were on their way from Texas and driving as fast as they possibly could. Worst case, at least maybe they could take her. That way she would not be in a foster home, and I could try to get off Probation early so we could just move there to be with her. That had been our Plan B for a while. We didn’t talk about it too much because the thought of this happening was one that was too much to bear.

Derrick’s aunt immediately hugged me as I sat helpless and heartbroken. “I’m so sorry,” she said. What else could she say? I didn’t even know what to say. It was sad, embarrassing, shameful, hopeless and heart wrenching. I was sick of sitting in that hospital room. I just wanted to leave. I heard my baby crying from across the hall, and I couldn’t take it. I wanted to run to her and pick her up to be with me. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t hold my own baby in the room that I was in. I couldn’t hold her and love her in privacy and peace. It had to be under the supervision of the hospital staff. “I’m ready to go. Just take me home,” I sniffled. “There is no point in being here if I can’t have my baby. I’m just going to get attached to her and everything is going to be that much more difficult when they take her to some foster home.” I was giving up. I wanted to badly self-destruct. I wanted something to numb the pain. “I want a damn cigarette. I just want to get out of this hospital. Everything was for nothing!” I screamed. “I lost two babies, and I guess I just have to deal with losing another one,” I cried. The easiest thing to do was give up. It hurt too bad to hold on to any more hope. I was done.

“I would probably want to do the same if I were in your position,” Derrick’s aunt offered. “But try to think about everything that you do first. The nurses are watching you and if you just walk out, they will report it to the CPS. Then it will really look like you don’t care about your baby!” she said, trying to rationalize with me. I was unstable, but she did have a point. I would have to just deal with the pain and stay. “Derrick, can you go to the nursery and hold her? I don’t want her to feel neglected. She might recognize your voice,” I cried. He kissed me on the forehead and did as I asked. His aunt followed behind. I was so overwhelmed that the only thing I could do to cope was sleep. I rolled over onto my soaked pillow and cried. I cried myself to sleep hoping that I would wake up to my baby in my arms and everything would be okay.
It’s all a nightmare. I’m going to wake up.

Less than two hours later, I heard my mom’s voice in the hallway. I vaguely remember talking to her on the phone in a hysterical panic. I knew that she said she was coming to visit, but I didn’t know when she would show up. She walked into my hospital room and I woke up just as miserable as before, if not more miserable. It wasn’t another nightmare. It was reality. I became angry. “Are you ok sweet pea?” She asked as she sat on the edge of my bed. “No! I’m not okay. I’m so sick of everything and I’m done trying. I just want to get out of here because there is no point in sitting here and getting attached to her! They’re just going to take her away forever, and I can’t handle any more pain!” I yelled and cried all in the same sentence. “But Liz, you can’t think like that! There is always hope, and while you can, you need to go be with her and hold her! She’s in there screaming her little head off - probably because she wants to nurse. She’s a newborn and she needs you Liz,” she tried to rationalize with me. Eventually I got up with her and went to the nursery to see my baby. Derrick and his aunt were taking turns holding her. I told my mom to go ahead and hold her first. She was getting prettier and prettier every passing hour. I could tell that she was hungry. A while later, my mom said her goodbyes and left the hospital. It was probably too sad for her too. Before she left, she told me that she and her husband would try to take her if the Social Workers would allow it. I didn’t ever see how that would work. My mom was civil with Derrick because of the circumstances, but she and my step-dad saw him for who he was, and they did not like him at all. He would never be allowed to go near their home. It just wouldn’t work.

I held my baby girl and rubbed her head as she nursed. She latched on immediately, as if she sensed that she would soon be deprived. I cried as I held her and thought about what was going to happen. She would soon be taken from all she had known. She would not get to have my warmth while I cuddled her, and she wouldn’t have my scent to calm her down. She wouldn’t have the food which nature provided for her - she would have a stranger and a plastic bottle. I held her in the rocking chair and cried and got up only when I had to use the bathroom. I didn’t want to sleep because I was afraid she would wake up crying. I wanted to give her as many antibodies as I could while I had the chance. I asked the nurse to please wake me up if she cried, and I asked her to not give her a bottle. Mother Nature took over and I held and loved my baby until I physically couldn’t stay awake. After hesitantly retreating back to my hospital room for the night, Derrick reassured me that he would wake me up if he heard her cry. As I was beginning to doze off and Derrick was ending a conversation with his parents who were now twelve hours away, my hospital door opened. One of the nicer nurses came in rolling the bassinette holding my baby. She wheeled the bassinette up to the side of my bed. “Here is your baby,” she said quietly, as she handed me my swaddled little girl. “I can’t make any promises, and you’ll have to go with it if I suddenly have to take her back to the nursery, okay?” “Of course,” I replied. I didn’t know exactly what was happening, but I did know that my baby was in my arms again, and it made me feel better to hold her in my own room. Derrick walked toward the bed to say hello to his baby as I began to feed her.