It's a nice enough looking building, all official and comforting, with people buzzing in and out in their neatly pressed scrubs, looking like they know precisely what they're doing and where they're going. In the hallway there, there's a heart statue, or maybe it's a statue of kids in a ring, perhaps playing a game of "Ring Around The Rosy."
The desk is always manned by a sweet-faced volunteer to help you find whatever you've lost or find your way, except when, of course, you cannot find it at all. There are flowers there, too, beautiful flowers, always fresh flowers. Usually lilies are mixed in, fragrant lilies, reeking of death and funerals, but the flowers are so beautiful that you can almost forgive the scent that makes you want to vomit.
Over there is the place you cried until you dry-heaved as you took your infant daughter to her third MRI in her first week of life. And just past that is the chapel where you prayed for her life. The stained-glass windows during that frigid February day shone a cold bright light as your daughter slumbered through an anesthesia coma, and you tried to forget all that you knew about neurosurgery.
You prayed with all of your soul.
Above the chapel is the waiting room where you sat after you'd dropped your daughter off into the arms of her neurosurgeon, hoping that the last kiss you gave her warm, delicious head, wouldn't be the last kiss you ever gave her. You sat in that waiting room with the three people who cared enough about you to show up and hold your hand and you choked back tears as the operating room nurse brought you back a bag of your daughter's first hair in a bio-hazard bag.
You held that bag and wondered if that would be all you had left of her.
Below that waiting room is the gift shop where you dragged Nathan, someone who you will always treasure for being a friend when you needed one most, to buy your daughter something hopeful. A necklace. Carefully, you pick out a necklace that you will give your daughter and someday tell her, "Amelia, Princess of the Bells, Mommy bought you this when you were having your brain surgery."
It's a very beautiful necklace. A crystal encrusted heart on a simple silver chain in a velvet bag. It is perfect.
You hope she knows that this necklace is very, very important.
Two floors and a yawning corridor away, is the happy floor, filled with women and new babies, where your life was forever changed with seven words, "Becky, there's something wrong with your baby." A new world was created then, a secret place only you could go, this land of tears.
Your soul broke.
Up above that room, down another winding corridor, you screamed as they wrenched your nursing baby from you. Your breasts wept, too, as you cowered in that bed, terrified, in your secret place, your own land of tears.
In the dark basement, worlds away from the happy new parents above, you joined the ranks of the hollow-eyed ghosts in the NICU as you signed in and out to see your daughter. There, at least, you didn't scare anyone with your eyes swollen nearly shut from crying and cheeks raw and bleeding from hospital grade tissues.
Above her bed there would be her bed post-surgery in the PICU and seeing her in a gown that bore the same logo as the hospital you'd worked at in nursing school made it almost easy to pretend this was all some vicious nightmare. That maybe you'd wake up to a normal, healthy baby.
Then your daughter would cry, her voice raw and hoarse from intubation and you knew this was your new world order.
When your other children came to see their sister, you'd rearrange your horrible face into a mask of what you hoped would pass as cheerfulness, ply them with candy, and hope that they wouldn't look too closely at your shaking hands or tear-stained face. When they screamed, "I want MOMMY!" as they left for the day, you felt torn between the two worlds, one of which you'd just as soon leave behind, too.
All corridors eventually feed into the cafeteria, where you remember laughing for the first time in months. It was a jangled, strangled sort of sound, but there it was: a laugh, from your mouth, and it was real.
Down by the statue of the heart or perhaps children dancing in a circle is where you waited with your daughter as you took her home with you for the last time. Surrounded by all of the pink things you could find, balloons deflating slightly in the cold February air, you were exhausted, but ebullient: your warrior daughter had made it.
A mother had never been prouder. You held her car seat close to you as you whispered to her sleeping cheek, "You made it, my girl. You're a fighter like your Momma, all right." This time, for the first time in her life, when the tears wet her cheek, they were the good kind.
But late at night, when the rest of the house sleeps, these are the corridors that your mind roams, over and over. Your memory, always photographic, can recall everything with the sort of clarity that makes you relive those days constantly.
Constantly having her wrenched from your arms, always back in those terrible moments roaming the halls, seeing the same desk clerk, smelling those awful lilies, dry heaving into the diaper bag.
The sadness is omnipresent and yet nowhere. It is the new world order.
Save for roaming the corridors all night every night, you haven't been back to those halls since your daughter had those awful thick black stitches removed from the back of her head.
You must return. New problems, a new specialist, means one thing: you must face your demons and return.
A new desk clerk and a new flower arrangement await you in the official looking building in which you found absolutely no comfort and now you must face up to walking these halls once again. It's likely that you'll cry. It's likely that you'll dry heave. It's likely that no one will understand your reaction to this big official building. It's just a place, after all.
But this is so much more than a place. It's where the old you shriveled up and died and the new you was dragged screaming into the world.
So you and your ghosts walk the corridors all night every night, reliving the worst parts of your life, wishing they could be laid to rest, knowing that they never will.