One can only imagine the pain of having your child forcefully pried from your arms.
You know that the police, the DCF worker, will not hurt the baby, so you hold on tight, but not tight enough to hurt your precious child, you turn your back, you close your eyes, you rest your chin ever so gently on top of that beautiful smelling head, apologizing for getting her head wet, with your nonstop tears.
So many voices forcefully insisting to “make it easy on yourself“ and just let go..
Being told that they are just preventing the “what if’s” was heart wrenching and insulting.
“What if you take those pills or worse & drop your child?”
“What if..what if..what if...”
At this point you are begging God, Satan, Buddha, every God and Goddess known to man and then some, to intervene on your behalf, and stop this from happening.
It feels as if somebody is literally pulling your heart and your soul out of your chest one agonizing centimeter at a time.
You are begging. Rambling. Hoping and praying that something you say will sink in and change this person’s mind.
You are told impatiently “don’t compare yourself to others, you don’t know the whole situation, you don’t know what we are doing with that family”
Your “what if” is their daily reality.
They. Those people who still have their children. Those people who live in filth, drug dealers and users in and out of the house, exposing their children to waking nightmares.
But DCF is not inside of their house. DCF is inside of your house. It feels like a sick sad joke.
You are watching the DCF worker go through your dresser drawers, your cabinets, your closet, under your bed, in your freaking garbage, making notes, saying “yes, I see the house is kept clean” “yes, you have plenty of diapers, formula, changes of clothing for the child” “ isn’t this a cute crib set?” Looking at the female cop, as if they really expect her to answer.
The DCF worker keeps looking at her watch, fidgeting.
Keeping your back turned, your eyes shut, hoping this is a nightmare, that you will wake up from. So much anger bubbling up inside. Trying to figure out who to blame, who to lash out on, going through every stage of grief and loss in less than a minute.
When they threatened to “physically restrain you and physically remove the child from your arms” is when your eyes pop open. You take a deep breath, whisper to your child, apologize, promise you will be back together soon.
Kiss her head repeatedly, rub the top of her head gently with your hand, pull her little dress down and twist it so it fits correctly and comfortably, put her little booties on, glare at them as you gently lower her into an ugly, stained, car seat.
That ugly stained car seat. Even your child wrinkles her nose at the smells coming from it.
You look at the worker, grab a small blanket to wrap your child up in, to protect her from whatever may be lurking on that ugly stained car seat.
All the while whispering and soothing and promising you will be back together soon
You try to be composed, you try not to cry, you try not to sob, you try not to rip that child out of her arms and run and run and run.
And you allow them to steal your child. All because of their “what if‘s.”
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