A Mother's Love

Short Sad Story About a Mother's Profound Love

         A Mother’s Love

         “It’s a beautiful baby boy!” Nurse something or other told me. I had completely forgotten her name. I was so overwhelmed with the joy of a new baby. The amount of love that I felt for my child was instantaneous and enormous. I reached out to hold him close to me and they forced me back. I glowered at them. This was my baby. I wanted him. And he was crying. I did not want my baby to cry.

         “Ma’am, we know that you really want to hold him, but we just need to make sure that he is healthy.”

         “I need him to stop crying right now,” I retorted, tears springing to my face. I knew that they had good reason for taking him, but I couldn’t get past his cries. It sounded like he was so uncomfortable. It sounded like he wanted his mother.

         Nurse Something was a bit taken aback at my outburst but reassured me I would have my baby soon. When I got him he was quiet, and that brought so much joy to my heart.

         Over the next few days, I was told by many of the nurses how to care for my baby and what I should do and not do, and blah blah blah. How it was ok if the baby cried a little bit and little babies did that. But I did not accept that. My baby was always going to be happy. My baby was not going to cry.

         Hospital staff was surprised at how irate I would get when other people took the baby to get him cleaned or cared for. I said that I did not care how tired I would get, nor did I care how much work I would need to do, I wanted the baby as much as possible. They acquiesced to most of my demands and when they didn’t I became angry and irritable. I just wanted my precious baby.

         I would only let them give my baby vaccines if they could promise me that he would be sleeping and not cry during them. I would assert that it was my right to determine if and when my baby received vaccines. I knew my rights. They argued vehemently with me, but I would not let up. What was more, the whole time that they were arguing with me, my baby would cry and I would yell at them to stop and they would yell back. It was a crazy situation.

         Needless to say I was so happy to get out of the hospital and into my own house. My husband died a few months ago and I finally got some light back into my life. My number one priority was making sure that my baby did not cry. I would feed and rock him constantly. My job gave me maternity leave, but that only lasted for 10 weeks. So I quit my job and was just with my baby all day. I would worry about the money when it ran out. Now, I just snuggled my boy in my arms.

         I tried to hire nannies, but they were not good about making sure my little angel was not crying. I could not watch him cry. What’s more was that I had to make sure that he didn’t cry. Him crying meant he was in so much pain and I couldn’t handle him being in any sort of pain. Even when he was sleeping and I knew that I should sleep during that time, I would just watch his cute little head rocking back and forth in my arms and I’d hold him tight.

         Anyway, my family was angry with me for quitting my job and could not understand why I couldn’t leave the baby with someone, even for a few hours. I refused. My little precious angel could not cry.

         But one day I noticed spots that were creeping up on my little boys legs. He was old enough to smile now and I would do anything to make him smile. Staying up way later and getting up way earlier than I should’ve. Every day felt like an uphill battle, but that little smile on his face made it all worth it. I had managed to get his crying down to a minimum now and I was very happy about that. I couldn’t stand it if he cried. It would break my heart and I’d think of my dead husband. He was the light of my life and I stared into new light every day.

         The spots were itchy and my baby would scratch them. I knew it was bad for him to do that, but I didn’t want him to feel bad, so I let him scratch. If I stopped him from scratching, he would cry. He’d feel bad. That wouldn’t happen to my baby. I let him scratch. Sometimes, I would help him out.

         Me and my sister got into a big argument over my baby. She said he needed to go to the doctor. I said absolutely not. He kept scratching. He was bleeding with every scratch and she yelled at me that his skin was infected. I didn’t care. He wasn’t crying. She tried to pull his hands away and I stopped her as some blood seeped into his eye. He started to cry. I ran over to him and threw him up into the sky. He started laughing, his eyes still bloody.

         My sister was saying something about child protective services. But my baby was smiling. He was bloody. His skin was turning sallow. But he was smiling. My arms were so tired, but he was smiling. Very soon after, the police were at my door. I remained calm and asked to see the warrant. They said they just wanted to talk and I repeated myself. The whole time I was making funny faces at my baby. The skin was noticeably green but he wasn’t crying. So long as he was happy, I didn’t care. The police left because I knew they did not have a warrant

         I knew they were coming back soon one though. I had to get out of my house. They’d take my baby. My baby would cry. My baby would be upset. I looked at my beautiful boy. Seeing the bloodied face of my baby brought tears to my eyes, but at least he was smiling.

         I grabbed him and my arms ached from simply lifting him. I put together as much food and water as possible and stuffed it in a bag, while I had to occasionally clean off the blood from his face. I rushed to my car and strapped him in. This was the hardest thing for me to do. I couldn’t control if he cried while I drove and he’d be so sad.

         I felt a thousand knives stabbing my heat as my baby wailed in the back seat. I began to cry uncontrollably as well. It was getting hard to see the road through my tears but I had to make sure that I didn’t crash. If I crashed, my baby would be even more upset.

         I stopped on the side of the road and rushed deep into the woods, plants cut into my legs as I ran. I found it. I couldn’t believe it was still there. A small patch of leaves that gave way when I applied pressure. It was a holdover from a hideout that I had as a teenager. Good times.

         I jumped in with my baby. The scratching was getting very bad and his hands were raw, grimy and full of scars, scabs and blisters. It couldn’t be comfortable, but he was smiling. I tried to put him down but he wouldn’t let me without crying. I picked him up, feeling the burning of a hot iron in my arms, but I pushed through the pain to see the adorable smile on my small, pudgy baby.

         I did miss seeing my baby healthy and with clear skin, but it had been so long since then, that I had more or less forgotten about that time. Now it was very green and scabby. But I’d love him no matter what.

         The next few days were very difficult. My baby slept on me the whole night every night. He’d wake up constantly to scratch and I’d sing him a funny song for hours. Sometimes it got so bad for him that nothing I would do could stop him from crying. I would curl up in the corner and bawl my eyes out because my precious angel was hurting.

         Over the next few days, my baby’s skin became greener and greener and he was itchier and itchier. I started having hallucinations as well. The confined dark dank space was getting to me too.

         Then it happened. I woke up to my smiling baby staring at me and he said it. Slowly at first and then more forcefully: “Ma… Ma… Mama… mmm.” I hugged him forcefully, but pulled back when he started wailing. He needed to scratch again, which he did on his head, ripping fresh wounds and causing blood to trickle down his forehead. I tried to move it away gently but he screamed and so I helped him scratch, and blood gushed onto my fingers.

         About an hour more of helping him scratch and smiling at him passed, and then I heard the thumping of feet overhead and many police officers telling me to come out with my hands up and the baby over my head. I held my boy close and said nothing. They felt around for the hole and dragged me out, still holding my angel. They then yanked my beautiful boy from me! I tried kicking, scratching and biting, but nothing worked. That was my boy! My precious child. He was crying! He was screaming “Mama.” I felt the first handcuff clink on my wrist and it became too much. I passed out.

         I woke up in a hospital bed, unable to move much. My sister was there. She told me that I was going to jail. She told me that I had killed the baby. Then she slapped me. Hard. She was immediately removed.

         A single tear escaped my eye. I wanted to scream but couldn’t physically do it. I wanted to bawl my eyes out but couldn’t physically do it. What was worse was that I couldn’t ask how much my sweet little angel had cried before he died.