In September 2014, I had my third daughter, Nadine, in Auckland, New Zealand. It was not an easy birth, which left me with a sore neck and a bad headache. A few days later, I had to go back to the hospital for tests, and I took Nadine with me because she needed to eat.
I didn’t want to be there. I was so tired and I didn’t want to let Nadine out of my arms. But I really needed a shower. The hospital gave me a room with a bathroom, but before I went in, I hesitated. Nadine was sleeping in her small bed. Should I bring her with me? I decided not to. She seemed safe, and I would only be a few steps away.
When I came back to the room, a nurse was there. We both looked at Nadine’s bed. It was empty. “Did you pick her up?” I asked. “No,” she said. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. It felt like I’d been hit with cold water: someone had taken my baby. It was 2 p.m.
I ran in the hospital, shouting for help. A nurse led me back to my room. I couldn’t stop thinking about the moment I left Nadine alone. Why didn’t I bring her with me? I’d never been so scared. But I didn’t cry until my husband Conrad got there 20 minutes later. Then I couldn’t stop.
After 30 minutes, a police officer said a baby was taken out of the hospital by a woman nearby. We waited and waited, until around 2 a.m., there was a phone ringing. Conrad answered. Then he smiled. Even before he said anything, I knew. Nadine had been found. About 30 minutes later, we finally saw her again!
The memory of that night never completely went away. I quit my job so I could take care of Nadine. Even now, nine years later, I worry if I won’t see her for too long. But Nadine is a happy, confident girl. I watch her sleep and feel grateful every day that she’s back with me.
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