I watched and listened intently while the young doctor with short, soft auburn hair and cerulean blue scrubs tenderly placed my first baby girl in the arms of her father. 

He said, “You have a beautiful daughter, take good care of her.”

She entered this world during the middle of March, and by May my employer was questioning me intensely on my exact return. Feeling an immense desire to be surrounded by more grown-ups and less stinky diapers, my husband and I reached an agreement. We would set our schedules in such a way that either he or I was always with Baby. There was absolutely no way we would trust someone else with our precious little bundle of joy. 

Our situation seemed successful, or so I thought.

While selling over-priced costume jewelry in a fancy boutique, stashed away in a small dark corner of a five-star hotel, the telephone rang. Lydia, my associate, answered the call. Looking at me with the slightest hint of terror she said, “It’s for you.” 

I listened attentively to my husband. He was calling to tell me Baby had rolled off our loveseat and bonked her head on the bronzed table, made of metal and glass. 

His exact words were, “You need to come home NOW!” 

Frantically I made all the necessary arrangements with my employer, and in a matter of minutes was navigating my way in my candy apple red “92 Nissan through the dimly lit parking garage. Even though our century-old, burgundy brick apartment building was only a few blocks away, it felt like an eternity. I hastily maneuvered my way through the Plaza and the City of Fountains, and finally (really, less than ten minutes later) parked on our street. My heart stopped. A menagerie of emergency responders invaded my lawn and home. A dedicated convoy consisted of police officials, an ambulance, and even a fire truck. 

I ran into our apartment.  Greeted by an entourage of uniformed individuals, I tried hard not to panic. Baby was only three months old. I felt a sigh of relief as my eyes fell upon her. Not a drop of blood anywhere, she must be okay. An EMT assured me she was fine, but they wished to take her to Children’s Mercy to run some tests. I granted them their wish and was grateful it too was only a few blocks away. 

Baby’s procession speedily made its way toward the Pediatric ER. Once there we were assured once again everything was fine and they were just going to run more tests. We had left with such haste, and since Baby rode in the ambulance, we had completely forgotten her infant car seat. Also, my husband needed to go to work. I explained both dilemmas to our nurse and immediately left to resolve them.

Once resolved, I returned to Children’s Mercy. I walked right up to the reception desk and told them who I was, the mother of Baby. Apprehension filled my soul, considering my greeting consisted of hushed whispers and evil glares.

Instantaneously I was shuffled into a hospital interrogation room. I was then informed that Baby had been a victim of Shaken Baby Syndrome. Our precious little baby was suffering from a subdural hematoma and retinal hemorrhages. Subdural hematoma is when blood accumulates between the surface of your brain and your skull. Retinal hemorrhages are when bleeding occurs on the back wall of the eye. I briefly had a moment to absorb the facts, before the accusations started. They went so fast that I did not even have a second to process the complexity of my situation.

“You know your husband did this!” was the comment I remember most.

I am pretty sure my reply was, “That’s not possible.”

He was wonderful with her in my presence. 

I will never forget the compactness of that gloomy, cramped, cubed room, and the feeling that my life and every last breath were being sucked out of me. 

After hours of formalities, and discovering she might be a vegetable for the rest of her earthly existence, they took me to her. I helplessly gazed upon her. My heart sank. To my shock the Pediatric I.C.U. The nurse gave me permission to hold her. Not being a professor of medicine I had to rely on their expertise. I vividly remember cradling her in my arms, and asking, “Will she be blind?”

“We think so, but you still have a beautiful baby”, was the reply I received.   

As the day lingered on I was joined by others, mostly friends and family who patiently waited with me. By this time the sun had journeyed on, and darkness surrounded Children’s Mercy. My husband had returned and patiently waited as well. That was until he and I were greeted by police detectives, who requested we follow them. For the first time in my life, I was being taken downtown. I had no worries, I knew we were innocent and gladly obliged. 

My husband and I were separated and interrogated. It was inconceivable to me that he was guilty. I told my story and waited. There was an eerie, creepy feeling to that police station. In that monstrous building, it was just us and a janitor or two. The day shift had left, and desks were empty. I felt as if we might be the last few people on Earth.  Finally, the other detective entered my teeny interrogation room and said, “Your husband would like to talk to you.”

He entered my room. He then confessed.

He said, “I didn’t know I could hurt her!  and  “I am sorry!” 

Emotions enveloped me. Not justifying his actions, and thinking more education on this subject might have made a difference, I very quickly decided to try and keep our family together. 

From that day on he was no longer allowed anywhere near Baby. A flood of services was offered to assist us. Organizations I never even knew existed flocked to our aid. Counseling, court dates, and doctor’s appointments overflowed my appointment book. We were attempting to make our family work. 

Then one day he phoned from his mother’s home. My husband told me he knew where the bruises around her wrists, ankles, and neck came from. My mind flashed instantaneously back to that mid-June day. Where I was holding my sweet infant in the P.I.C.U.  I remember the bruises. We were led to believe it was from all her tests and treatments. Now, this instant as I am talking to my spouse I feel that that is not the case. 

I replied, “Was it you?”

“No Do you believe me?”

My reply was, “If you’re lying, it’s over.”

We finished our conversation. 

Several days later, he called and confessed. Our life with him was then officially over. He got to go to prison. We got a new life. 

She struggles. Miraculously she is not blind nor a vegetable. We just take one day at a time. 

She is no longer an infant. She’s fifteen… However, she will always be my Baby.