We Didn't Hurt Her.

Imagine calling your house to tell your husband that your baby will need to stay in the hospital for a few weeks but when he answers the phone you hear sheer terror in his voice.  This is what happened on November 5^th.  I called him to tell him that the OT said it could take a few weeks to get A to the point where she would be able to go home.  Except, I never got to tell him.  When he answered the phone he said “Cheryl, they are making me leave.”  I was confused.  “Huh?” He said it again.  “They are making me leave.  I’m not allowed to stay here anymore.  I can’t stay at the house anymore.  We are under investigation for child abuse and I’m not allowed to stay at home with the girls.  I can’t talk right now, they are interviewing me.  They are coming up there next.” And then he hung up.

To say that I collapsed on the floor would be an understatement of my reaction.  I literally couldn’t breathe.  I called my friend (remember, the one from the clinic with the puking kid?) and sobbing in the phone I could barely tell her.  I could barely mutter the words to tell her that I was under investigation for child abuse.  That my efforts to take care of my child had back-fired so drastically that now we could lose our daughter to a system meant to protect her.  She immediately knew something was wrong when she heard me cry.  Again, I do not cry.  “Cheryl, Cheryl?  What’s wrong? What happened?  What’s wrong?”  I sobbingly told her that they were making him leave, that we were under investigation for child abuse, that they were going to take my kids and we were going to be alone and my world was ending and I couldn’t breathe and they were going to take my kids and they were going to take my kids and they couldn’t because I didn’t and he didn’t and we didn’t and they couldn’t, could they? They couldn’t.  I didn’t, he didn’t.  We just…We just…It’s not…

The conversation was short and long all at the same time.  She went to my house and dropped off a box for Operation Christmas (the box you fill with presents to donate to the children in need) and was turned away by the Office of Special Investigations (OSI) the military’s branch of investigators who …I don’t know… Investigate.  She called me and said “They are just making him leave for a few days so they can clear all of this up.  It’s going to be ok.  They made me leave but did you know they are taking pictures of your house?” 

Of course I didn’t know.  I didn’t know anything.  I called my Dad and it was the same thing.  I was sobbing, uncontrollably.  “Dad, We didn’t hurt her.  We couldn’t have hurt her.  Something isn’t right.  She’s everything and we’re going to lose her.  CPS is going to take them.  I can’t let them.  We’re good parents.  I am a good mother.  Dad, I can’t let this happen.  This isn’t happening.  Tell me this isn’t happening!”

But it was.  And it is.  It IS happening.  

After I finally got a chance to talk to my husband he told me that it was terrible.  The interview made him feel like a monster.  They tried to make him tell them that I abused A.  That he can’t possibly know what I do to my children when he isn’t home.  That he can just admit it if I’m abusive to them.  Then they tried to make him admit that he was guilty.  You can tell us if you just lost control one day.  You can tell us if it was accidental.  They asked him if he abused me.  He laughed said “Have you met my wife?”  (In retrospect, probably not his brightest moment.)  Finally they left, and he had to leave too.  Escorted out of his own house, out of his two crying children’s arms.  M and K don’t understand what’s happening.  They are confused.  They cry, a lot.

By the grace of God, our good friends Melanie and Andrew let him stay with them.  They didn’t have to, but they did. 

I sat in the room, balling my eyes out.  The nurse came in to check on me and asked what was wrong.  I broke down.  I told her about them making him leave, about the girls crying and about them taking pictures of my house.  I told her about our innocence.  I cried and cried.  I told her that the social worker was coming and that I was so scared and confused.  The nurse offered to stay with me when they came.  And she did. 

That night, the social worker came to the hospital to see me.  I had cried all day, all night.  I was a wreck.  Her first question was “How are you holding up?” followed by “You must be so stressed…”

I felt like every statement was a trap.  It doesn’t matter how you answer, you’re answering wrong.  I’m not holding up means you’re unstable.  I’m holding up fine means you’re cold.  I’m stressed means you’re incapable of handling the stresses of having children and crisis situations.  I’m not stressed means you aren’t concerned about the safety of your children and the crisis surrounding you. 

I was told that the next day the Sheriff and Social Worker wanted to meet with me.  I asked if we could meet at the hospital, they denied.  They said it was no one else’s business what was going on but mine.  I didn’t understand.  I have nothing to hide.  The world can know we are being investigated because we are innocent!  However, I agreed.  I was hesitant.  I didn’t want to leave A’s side.  She needed me right at that moment.  She always needs me.  I’m her mother.

I drove to the Sheriff’s office the next day, file in hand.  I have papers upon papers of documents showing that we are good parents.  Feeding schedules, charts, letters, appointments, weights, you name it and my trusty folder held it. 

My interview lasted a lot longer than I thought it would.  I got asked a lot of routine questions, again, questions with no answer.  “Have you ever gotten frustrated with A?” “Have you ever left her unattended for even a second?”  “Do you think your toddlers could have hurt her when you weren’t looking?”  I answered everything truthfully and honestly. 

Our I&CDS (Infant and Child Development Specialist) had reminded me of an incident so minor that I had forgotten all about it.  She came over one day for her normal weekly visit and in the course of our conversations I told her that I had noticed when I moved A’s arm parallel to her shoulder, she cried.  I thought that she had just slept on it wrong but I wanted her to just see it because it was so odd.  She looked at it, I moved it, A cried.  We talked about it for a while and since nothing had happened (no falls, nothing traumatic or even minor!) I told her that if it was bothering her tomorrow I’d just take her into the Doctor to get it looked at.  The next day she was fine.  However, because I&CDS comes to our house weekly, it’s notated that this happened. 

I brought this up to the Social Worker, Sheriff and OSI that were ‘interviewing’ me.  The OSI really got to me at this point.  Not only did he try to get me to say that I was guilty by asking if I was in his situation if I would think that “I” was guilty – but he also implied that my parenting skills were subpar.  After telling them of the situation with A’s arm he asked WHY I didn’t take her to the Doctor immediately.  What kind of parent doesn’t take their kid to the Doctor when they cry?  …The kind of parent who has a kid with colick.  She cried if we LOOKED at her wrong.  How were we to know that her arm was anything more significant than anything other than her normal, daily crying fits? 

I ended the interview at that point.  The sheriff asked about us taking a polygraph, I said we would need to discuss it as a family first.  The social worker said that I needed to get M and K fully examined and get complete skeletal x-rays before my husband would be allowed back into our house.  I said we needed to discuss it as a family first.  I got back into the car and called my mom.  I said “Mom.  I need to get a lawyer.  I don’t know what’s going on.  I’m confused and I’m scared.  I can’t lose A.  We didn’t hurt her.”