Love Interrupted: The Hospital’s Hostage

Part One

I stood just outside the doors of the hospital, my heart racing as I clutched the stuffed octopus I had brought for him. My chest tightened with each moment that passed. Though my heart yearned to be by his side, I was forced to remain at arm’s length. CHOC had deemed me a “domestic terrorist,” their unfounded accusations of me threatening to blow the place up looming over me like a dark cloud. “How absurd,” I thought. How could they think that? I would never harm the hospital that housed my sweet boy.

In truth, I would wait until he was safely out of there, until all his records, blood samples, and stem cells had been transported as well. That was my priority. Yet, I realized that was likely why they hesitated to let him leave; they were probably terrified of me or what I was capable of.

The very thought of considering such a drastic measure brought a surge of panic. It was ironic, really; I hadn’t even thought to blow the place up until they planted the idea in my head. In the chaotic whirlwind of emotions and frustrations that had led me here, the thought crossed my mind. I caught myself, mentally shaking my head, as if to reset the Etch A Sketch that had just mapped out an irrational plan of domestic terrorism. Whoops, I thought, feeling a mix of pride, guilt, and disbelief at where my mind had wandered.

I was impressed by how well-planned out the attack would be. At least I was rational enough to plan to have his blood and stem cells safely out before I went apeshit. But then again, wasn’t it their decisions that had led us here? Wasn’t it the months of confinement, the heart-wrenching separations, and the pain they inflicted that brought me to such a desperate mental state?

“Stop it, Maile!” I scolded myself, trying to regain my focus. I needed to bring myself back to the moment. Kingston and I were finally on the verge of being reunited, where we belonged. I anchored myself in reality, surrounded by the stark, cold concrete hallways of the ambulance-only tunnel outside the hospital.

I was not allowed to meet him at the elevator. The hospital’s insufferable attorney had ordered me to remain at least twenty feet away from the main doors. The absurdity of it all struck me; how had it come to this? I had fought so hard for my son, and yet here I was, treated like a criminal instead of the devoted mother I was. I had to shake off the angry thoughts that swirled in my mind and redirect my focus to the positive. Kingston was coming out any minute.

“Focus,” I told myself, breathing deeply to quell the rising tide of anxiety. I could hear the distant sounds of the double doors that provided the escape route from this hellhole they called a place of healing. The hurried footsteps of ER doctors and staff echoed through the corridor, rushing to tend to the emergency patient they had just brought in.

It looked bad. The kid on the gurney was bleeding profusely from the head, his pale face a stark contrast against the crimson soaking his clothes and the stretcher. He was clearly unconscious. My heart ached for him and his mother, who was still with him, her face etched with fear and desperation.

“Assholes,” I thought bitterly. “I hope they don’t give her life-changing news. Or at least, I hope she doesn’t have a real motherly reaction once she walks through the doors of this hell on earth.” My own pain was still raw, and the thought of another mother experiencing that kind of heartbreak felt unbearable.

“FOCUS, MAILE!” I mentally slapped myself, recognizing that I had let my thoughts drift yet again. The urgency of the situation around me threatened to pull me in, but I had to hold my ground. I needed to be present for Kingston. I had to give all my attention to the sounds—the beeping machines, the muffled voices, the shuffling of feet. Each sound felt like a countdown, a rhythmic reminder that my son was about to be back in my life.

I stood there, anchored in my determination to keep my emotions at bay, to be strong for Kingston. This moment was crucial, not just for him but for me as well. I had fought so hard to bring him here, to ensure he was safe, to advocate for him in a place that had treated me like a pariah. As I waited, the cacophony of the hospital faded slightly, replaced by the singular thought: Kingston was coming back to me, and I needed to be ready for that reunion.

The sound of the double doors creaking open snapped me back to attention. I saw the paramedics wheeling Kingston’s gurney toward the waiting ambulance. I wanted to run, to reach out, to grab his hand and pull him back to me, but I was tethered by the hospital’s rules and the lingering shadows of the past. Instead, I watched with bated breath, my heart racing as they approached the vehicle that would carry him away from the prison of sterile walls and fluorescent lights.

“Just a little longer,” I whispered to myself, gripping the stuffed octopus tighter, as if it could somehow bridge the distance between us. The world around me blurred as I focused solely on Kingston—the little boy who had been through so much, who was now about to embark on a new journey. I was determined not to let anything distract me from the joy of his return.