My husband always says that the comment sections online are a great window to see the worst in humanity. People write things that they would never say in real-life. It's easy to voice your "opinion" when your identity is not attached to the comment. I often wonder when I wade into the murky waters of online comment sections if the people who write such awful things would write those things if their mother saw it. Their neighbors. Their children.
Even though my husband has said this for years, and I have agreed with him time and time again, I do sometimes make that little trip over to the dark side. And while it's generally disappointing and sometimes angering, it's never personally hurt me. Until a few years ago.
My daughter's birth was not an easy one. In fact my whole pregnancy was not an easy one. I had an unfriendly doctor who caused me so much stress that I had blood pressure issues almost every time I saw her. Due to some complications during the pregnancy it was decided that I would be induced.
Anyone who's been induced knows that it's not a simple thing. Nor is it quick. It took two full days for my daughter to finally show up--and three minutes before the deadline of my doctor wheeling me in for a c-section.
So, the hard part was done. Or so we thought.
Our stay at the hospital was not pleasant (although I don't know many people who have "pleasant" stays at hospitals, to be honest). We were first time parents and this was a whole new world. Neither of us had really slept in a couple of days due to the longevity of the birth so we were (already) running on fumes. And it's in that fog that our nightmare began.
It all started innocently enough. The nurse came in and mentioned that before we could leave the next morning we needed to have E's hearing tested. They would just take her into the nursery and we could get a couple of hours of sleep. Neither of us thought twice about this, we knew we needed a little shut-eye to prepare for the next day.
After they took her out and my husband tried to get comfortable on the lovely chair/bed-thingy they have, we decided to turn off all the lights. It was our first attempt at sleep in complete darkness in days.
And I don't think I said one word or had one thought...as soon as my head hit that pillow I was out. We were both completely exhausted.
Fast forward an hour...or two...but what felt like 5 minutes...and a crying baby was back in our room, lights were turned on and a nurse was talking to...no, scolding...us. Actually, scolding me.
In my blur, I remember a baby being thrust upon me and a nurse repeating over and over "We can't test her hearing because she's just constantly crying. She's hungry. You need to feed her. You have to feed your baby. She has to eat."
I had been struggling with nursing, but the other nurses were encouraging. Helpful. This nicotine-fueled nurse (the smell of her just-finished smoke break was overwhelming) kept forcing the baby against me.
In all the fog I had a fleeting thought. Our baby girl was not wearing the same pajamas I had put her in before she had left the room. She was back in the hospital provided onesie. I thought this was odd, but just set it aside. She had probably made a mess on it, if you know what I mean.
At this point my husband was slowly coming around. And I was so happy because I could share the most wonderful news...
She had latched on to me!
Up to this point I couldn't get little E to really latch on. Sometimes I'd think she had but after I felt her in this moment, I knew that she really wasn't getting it before.
But my husband seemed distracted. I had asked him to check for the other pajamas in her things and he was rummaging through the blankets. He had a weird look on his face. There was a teddy bear in the crib that he kept looking at. It was new and I had seen it, too, but I assumed it was a gift from the hospital. I thought they gave one to all the babies. Or something like that.
Then he said those seven words I'll never forget.
"Hey...are you sure...is that....Elena?"
And that's when time stopped. It didn't slow down, it stopped all together.
All the clues that I had rationalized away...
Different clothes.
Teddy Bear.
Latching differently.
I knew before I even looked at the tag on her ankle.
Now time sped up. My husband lifted the baby out of my frozen arms and placed her back in the crib. He took her out to the nurses station. He returned, face pale.
"Where's Elena."
"Where's Elena?"
"Where's Elena!"
Those were the only words I was able to form.
Within a minute or two she was returned to us. With the head nurse.
According to them, she had been in the nursery the entire time. There was a miscommunication and the nurse on duty for us had not followed protocol. This was their fault. They were so sorry.
Over and over again she said this.
Neither of us really said anything. We were still in a state of shock.
After she left we tried to settle in again.
And then our original nurse came back into the room.
She seemed embarrassed and sorry. That I could somewhat accept. But it was the excuses that made me sick to my stomach.
I was just coming on to my shift.
They told me to bring that baby here.
They told me it was absolutely necessary the mom feed the baby.
I was just doing exactly what I was told.
I should have checked the tags.
But the baby was frantic, I was trying to best take care of a distressed baby.
My shock was starting to wear off and anger was filling its place. And I could see the anger in my husband's face. Hear it in his voice. Wanting to avoid a scene I nodded and she left.
Only to return an hour later to check on us. That's right, she was still on duty and still covering us.
We didn't sleep the rest of the night.
And around 5am she returned saying she needed to get E in for her hearing test, they still hadn't done it.
My husband went with.
The next morning the Hospital Head Nurse came to see us. There were apologies. There was sympathy. But there were also a lot of excuses. And things that I think she said because she thought it would make us feel better. Here were some of my favorites.
"Your baby was safe in the nursery that whole time. It's really the other mother that this affects."
"In some cultures wet nurses are common."
"We'd love to cover your parking."
And then she gave us the good news. How, although completely optional, they would really appreciate it if I would submit to some testing as bodily fluids were exchanged between the baby and I. They wanted to reassure the other mother that nothing bad was transmitted to her daughter.
Of course I agreed, because if the roles were reversed I'd want the other mother to do the same. But being poked and having more blood drawn added to the overwhelming sense of shame that was starting to spread over me.
Leaving the hospital and returning to our house helped tremendously. The first day home flew by; my in-laws were there and it was nice having that help. But nothing prepared me for that first night.
As we got ready for bed (meaning I changed out of one pair of yoga pants and into another) I had an anxiety attack. I couldn't get my breathing under control and couldn't see straight. When I finally regained control over my body I laid down, with a light on. It took me almost a year to be able to sleep in a completely dark room again.
And it was during the nights over the following months that my mind would return to that night in the hospital. The same thoughts would come back, repeating in my head like a broken record:
I should have known it wasn't my daughter.
I should have asked about the pajamas right away.
I should have looked at the tag.
I should have known.
I should have gone with to the nursery.
I shouldn't be so upset, it wasn't my child that was given to the wrong mom.
I should have spoken up about the crib and the items in the crib.
I just should have known.
I can't remember how long after my stay at the hospital that a news story broke (in another part of the country) about this exact situation happening. And then 2 years later it happened again in Minnesota. I remember seeing this story pop up on my Facebook timeline. All the shame and embarrassment came flooding back. And then I saw that there were hundreds of comments. I naïvely thought the comments would be focused on the hospital and questioning their failure to follow protocols that are in place to prevent these things from happening. But, no, instead I was blamed. I mean, the mom that was given the wrong child to breastfeed was blamed.
So many people said that she should have known it wasn't her child. One woman (the mom of 4 she proudly declared) wrote that she had the faces of each of her kids memorized the second they were born. That any good mom, any mom paying attention, should know her child. Another woman commented that the mom who breastfed the wrong child was making a big deal out of nothing--it wasn't her child that was given to the wrong mom. A man wrote that he was grateful he was married to a woman who never allowed their son out of their hospital room for the duration of their stay. Another man suggested the family of the child that was given to the wrong mom sue the hospital and the other family because they touched their child without permission.
I could go on. I didn't read them all, but I read a lot of them. And every negative feeling I've ever had about myself, every "should have" scenario, every question, every hateful thought came rushing back. I texted some friends, talked to my husband and called my mom. After they all scolded me for even looking at the comments, I laughed about the stupid things people say (especially when they are hiding behind a keyboard and the name "anonymous") and discussed how easy it is to have really firm opinions about things that you've never experienced. And I felt better, but wondered if I'd ever truly get over it.
It's been four and half years since this incident. And while I think about it from time to time (mainly when I hear of this happening to others), it is not a part of my daily life anymore. And I learned a couple of valuable lessons from this experience.
Follow your gut. First I want to be clear on this: I did not do anything wrong. I know this now. What happened that night happened because the hospital, specifically that nurse, did not follow protocol. But the one thing I learned is to always listen to that little voice in the back of my head. There were certainly some signals that perhaps if I had picked up on earlier some of this could have been avoided. BUT, having said that...
Do not go down the "what if" path. One of the thoughts I would have late at night is "What if my husband hadn't spoken up? How long before they would have realized their mistake? Before we left the hospital?" or "What if I had just looked at her ankle tag right away, as soon as I noticed the change in clothes?" and "What if Elena had been given to the wrong family?" All this did was add to my shame and made me think about scenarios that never happened and more than likely never would have.
And, the biggest lesson of all: have compassion. It's so much easier to have compassion for people who are going through a hard time instead of judging them or offering opinions. Including strangers. And, if you wouldn't say something to your mom, wouldn't want your kids knowing you said something or wouldn't want it said to you...don't type it in a Facebook thread. Don't make that comment on an internet article. Don't say it.
As far as reading comment sections? I generally don't because I've learned that people just want to fight and be aggressive. And I don't have time for that. So I just stay away from them. Which is unfortunate because there are times when good discussions are started on comment threads. It's just hard to filter through all the crazy stuff in order to find the quality remarks.
Year two (2011). E had no interest in hanging with Santa and B just wanted to play with the bells. This picture took about 2 seconds to take and was the maximum amount of time I could handle her screaming. I think my face, while smiling, speaks for what is going on in my mind... "Just hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up."
Year three (2012). Our one and only kids only picture, but neither is very impressed. The attitude E is throwing...but, if you think that's bad, just wait until the 2014 picture. She was also still recovering from a nose injury; she tripped and fell flat on her face. We thought she broke her nose. Plus, this all happened two days after B ran into the corner of a wall and had a huge goose egg on his forehead. The doctor was not impressed with us. Needless to say, not the best holiday season for us. Perhaps their attitude had more to do with their convalescence than Santa. The only Santa picture that makes me a little sad.
Year four (2013). E was ready to sit on Santa's lap but not to smile for the camera. So very serious! And while this picture makes B look just a little tentative, I can assure you he let his opinion known. And he was not sitting on Santa's lap. Period. He's never gripped me so hard. He would not even let me switch sides that I was holding him on. That's how resistant he was. And I learned a valuable lesson from 2011. It's really not worth forcing it. If he wants me to hold him, is that so bad? It's funny how things I was so determined about early in parenthood (Santa pics where the kids MUST be sitting on his lap) change over time.
Year five (2014). E was all set to set on Santa's lap. She had been talking about it for 
I love our tradition of seeing Santa every year. Hopefully next year we'll have two happy, excited kids. But if we don't, that's ok, too. Santa pictures aren't for everyone. And what's so bad with a family picture? I did make a vow to get in the picture more so, really, this is a perfect opportunity. Did you grow up seeing Santa? Is it a tradition you are continuing with your kids (or will continue if you have kids)? Ever deal with a screamer? Share your story in the comments!
