Useless.
I was absolutely worthless for months while my baby fought for her life. If my dad and mom and my aunt and uncle hadn’t taken turns coming down to Georgia from Denver, I wouldn’t have eaten, bathed, or stepped outside of the NICU for close to two months. My family rallied around me and took care of me while I barely held it together for the tiny life hanging on by the thinnest of threads.
The only thing I could do, the one thing that I knew was right and made me feel like less of an insignificant, meaningless lump of flesh, was decide to go back to Denver and be near my family as soon as the baby was well enough to travel. When I could finally take her home, I didn’t want her going to a place that was empty and void of anything that made it feel like a real home. I wanted her surrounded by love and people who would do anything for her, the same way I was when my dad and mom saved me from being lost to the overcrowded and understaffed child welfare system. I knew exactly what it was like to be a child who felt unwanted, and I refused to let my little girl experience anything like that, even if she was way too young to remember.
It took a little over two months for the baby to finally be healthy and strong enough to leave the NICU. It took another month to square things away with my former military career. I’d always been interested in design and infrastructure. I didn’t want to build things the way my dad did, but I did want to put the plans together for things that helped people in some of the worst places have an easier life. I’d asked to be part of the Army Corps of Engineers when I signed my second contract with the Army. I was lucky that it was a career choice that would carry over well into my impending civilian life. I signed all the paperwork and looked into my options once I was fully out. I named the baby Hollyn as an homage to my birth mother. She died when I was very young, but I still had a lot of love and unresolved feelings where she was concerned. My real mother—who raised me from the time I was five, saved me from foster care, and eventually married my father—and my aunt Echo, who also had to fight to keep me in her life, came and watched Hollyn when I couldn’t be home. They tried to teach me the basics of caring for an infant, but neither woman had raised a newborn baby of their own, so we were all kind of stumbling around in the dark the first few weeks.
I had to learn how to use a car seat and did all my research on baby-safe products. I researched the best diaper brands and clothes. I signed up for a parenting class so I could make sure I was feeding her correctly, and I learned as much about colic, cradle cap, and the endless list of other ailments that were common to preemies. It was a crash course in parenting, and I was honestly overwhelmed and underprepared when it was finally time to pack up my few belongings and take Hollyn home to Colorado. My Aunt Echo and Uncle Nicholas (who always told me, with no real explanation, “just call me Benny, kid,”) helped me make the long trip. While we were on the road, my mom and dad worked their butts off to set up one of the many houses my dad bought, gutted, and renovated into a masterpiece for my daughter and me so we had a place to live when we arrived. It was a full family effort to get me home. I’d never felt more loved or supported.
It was also slightly hilarious to watch my Uncle Benny handle a tiny newborn. I swore the guy used to be in the mob, or something just as sinister, back in the day. He was a big, slick guy who always looked like he could break your neck with his bare hands. He had a wicked scar that slashed across his entire throat. Whatever happened to him in the past made his voice rough and raspy. He always dressed in designer clothes and drove some of the flashiest cars I’d ever seen. When I was growing up, I clearly remembered long stretches of time where he seemed to disappear, and my aunt would always say he was away on business. When I got older, I realized there were many shady, questionable things about their life, but my aunt was happy, and my uncle clearly thought she hung the moon. He treated her and me like we were the most important people in his life, so I learned to look the other way and not ask too many questions where his business was concerned. He was as much of a novice around babies as I was, but he jumped in with both feet to help care for Hollyn on the trip home. The baby took to him right away, and he joked it was because she already had expensive taste—he was rarely without multiple jewel-encrusted rings or a watch that cost more than I’d made the first few years I’d become a soldier.
The closer we got to Denver, the easier it was to breathe, even with an occasionally cranky baby in the backseat. For the first time in a very long time, the weight I carried from always feeling like I came up short started to feel less heavy. For once, I knew all the way down to my weary soul I was doing the right thing and could move forward without regret. I wasn’t second-guessing myself or beating myself up over endless indecision. One of the things being a soldier taught me was to trust my intuition and doubt myself less. Now that I was a father, I hoped the hard-earned confidence would carry over so I didn’t hurt my child while I tortured myself over making the right calls. I’d done that to someone else I cared deeply about in the past, and I never wanted to end up at those crossroads again.
When our small caravan pulled in front of the house that was only a couple of blocks away from my parents, I was left breathless, and I felt my heart stop once again.
This time in a good way.
The entire place was decorated with balloons and flowers. All pink and girly. Perfect for a welcome-home party for a little girl. There was a banner with Hollyn’s name and cute little circus animals taking up a good chunk of the front yard. And it wasn’t just my parents waiting for our arrival.
They had called in the troops to welcome me and my baby back home.
Family and friends I’d known since I was a little kid were gathered around, all ready and waiting to meet the tiny miracle I brought back with me. I was so overwhelmed with emotion, and a flood of relief, that my hands started shaking and my shoulders slumped forward. My forehead dropped to hit the steering wheel in front of me. I heard the back door open and the baby fuss as my mom reached in to take her out of the car seat she’d been strapped in for hours. I tried to tell her thank you. I tried to let her know how much I appreciated everything she’d done for me and how grateful I was that I ended up being hers, that she had picked me when it seemed like no one in the world wanted me.
But I couldn’t get the words out.
Instead, I let out a shaky breath and closed my eyes as I felt the burn of tears against the back of my eyelids.
I couldn’t remember giving myself permission to cry since the moment I found out I might be a father. I refused to feel sorry for myself or let myself be the victim when I wasn’t the one in the ground or fighting for my life. I told myself over and over again I had to be strong for Hollyn, so that’s what I did.
I didn’t cry when I found out I was being cheated on. I didn’t cry when I found out I might be a dad, or when the baby was finally declared mine. I didn’t cry when Hollyn’s mother died, or any of the days Hollyn was in critical condition in the NICU. I didn’t cry the first time I was allowed to hold her, or the day I was finally allowed to bring her home. I didn’t cry the nights she was awake and wailing at the top of her lungs. I didn’t cry when I couldn’t figure out what she wanted, or when I doubted I would ever be able to give her what she needed.
But this—seeing so many excited faces, so many warm smiles, so much joy for the arrival of this little girl—broke me. It was the joy, the happiness, the delight in having that little life home that wormed past my defenses and sucker-punched my heart.