February 14, 2013 by greenhouse04
I was reminded the other day of a bad memory. A friend and I were talking about giving our kids’ shots (her two-month-old was soon to get his first), and I related the story of when Emma had her blood drawn at 5 months.
As I spoke, I was suddenly awash in the memory of that horrific event.
In my mind’s eye I could see my precious little girl whimpering and lying listlessly in another woman’s arms, exhausted after 45 minutes of terror and pain, while a medical worker squeezed blood from her finger drop by drop.
I can picture 45 minutes earlier, when two birth parents, two medical workers, and me and Emma huddled in a tiny room.
I remember being asked to leave since the room was too crowded, and standing outside the door in the hall listening to my daughter’s screams as they tried again and again to find a vein.
I can clearly see myself finally re-entering the room during a lull in the proceedings and asking to hold Emma for a moment. I remember how she calmed down in my arms.
I can still feel the helplessness, the feelings that I had abandoned my daughter to these people she didn’t know to be subjected to torture, denied even the comfort of the familiar arms of the only mother she knew.
It sounds like I’m exaggerating, but this is what I remember. I am so glad she is my adopted daughter in the full legal sense now, and I alone (and my husband) have the right and responsibility to be there for our daughter during traumatic experiences like that one.