I can handle the abusive drunks. I can handle the tweekers who are “talkin’ to the devil.” I can handle the annoying drug seekers who are being seen for their weekly “dental pain” fix. But what I can’t seem to handle are the “walk in the door with my dead baby” parents.
I understand this was baby number 8 or 9. I know you can’t remember which since you don’t have custody of any of your other children, and sure, that makes it harder to keep track. And, yeah, she was only 2 months old; you hadn’t quite gotten used to having her around. She still hadn’t quite fit into the household routine.
Now, I know, she was a great baby because she slept through the night. And, yeah, who hasn’t put their baby to bed and then not checked on them for 15 hours. As long as they’re not crying, they’re fine, right? Yes, yes, I understand it was quite the family party and no one woke up before noon… or one… or two in the afternoon. I’m sure the baby was safe and sound on the bed with her full bottle from last night.
As for medical care, sure, being weighed once at the WIC office and being told that she’s “nice and healthy” is exactly the same as being seen by a pediatrician. It’s almost as good as getting vaccinated. I know that you’re busy and just couldn’t quite get in to have her seen at the pediatrician’s office, but I am sure all of your child’s health needs were met during that visit so you could get your much-earned government support.
Now, I have to let you know that I will be calling the local police, the coroner’s office, and Child Protective Services. They’re going to be asking a lot of questions. And, I know several of the maternity nurses are going to want some answers, too, when they find out that the “meth-addicted, breeds like a rabbit, that CPS was told about” at the time of your child’s birth is now bringing back that same child in not quite the same condition as when she left.
But seriously now, I don’t mind doing a peri-mortem exam in the E.D. with the coroner’s official. I’ve done physical exams on lots of two month olds. Granted, they are not usually wearing wet, soiled onesies. They usually aren’t stone cold with obvious lividity set in. They generally are not brought in wrapped in foul, cigarette and eau de dog scented blankets. But, I am a professional. I can maintain a clinical distance while performing my duties.
I am good at my job. And, I can make it through the end of my shift. And, through the next shift. That is… until I finally get home… until the night goes quiet… until I start to wonder what good I am doing at all… until I try to go to sleep with your daughter’s half open eyes and opened mouth still burnt in my brain as if asking me silently, “why?”