Sitting in CPS With My Two-Month-Old

Content Warning:

This post includes references to infant injury, medical trauma, and involvement with CPS. Please read with care.

“Do you know what a fracture is?” the doctor asks me. She sits across from me in a dark leather chair, legs crossed, a stack of papers on her lap. I’m in the CPS office of BC Children’s Hospital, holding my tiny baby close to my chest.

I shake my head no.

“It’s a broken bone. Your son has seven broken bones.”

Numbness. No, rage. Grief? Every emotion that I’ve repressed for the last two weeks bubbles up in an instant, and I begin to cry. Deep, guttural sobs that leave me tear-streaked and breathless. My baby stirs as I cry, and when I look down at his sweet face, I notice he’s covered in my tears. I wipe his cheeks with his blue blanket.

“Leighton.”

Just me and my baby, my sweet Bo Bo, it’s okay, mummy’s here, you’re alright…

“Leighton.” A little louder this time. My head snaps up. Oh yeah, the doctor. The social worker.

I look down at Bo again. He’s sucking the nubbins on his left hand. I love his hand. No full fingers, just sweet tiny nubs. I want to eat them. My baby is hungry. It’s okay, Bo, I’m here. I lift my shirt and arrange the pillows around me so that my arm can rest while Bo latches onto my breast. He’s so small, but such a fighter. And he eats so well. My little booby baby. My sweet baby…

“We need to talk about his injuries.”

Seven words, tiny daggers to my heart. I nod slightly without looking up, eyes focused on my son’s face.

“I know this is hard to hear, but you need to understand the severity of the situation. A baby’s ribs aren’t easy to break—they’re highly flexible in a new infant. Significant force was used to cause these injuries.”

Maybe when we go home we can watch a Christmas movie with Granny. That would be nice. Bo’s been getting to sleep so late though. I wonder if Granny still has that bottle of wine she got for her birthday.

“In addition to Ambrose’s broken ribs, he also has a fracture in his right humerus. It’s his right arm, the bone running from his shoulder to his elbow.”

A broken arm. I had one of those when I was a baby. Mom left me in a highchair without the tray attached. I wonder if she felt guilty. I was so little…

The doctor is talking again. “I’ve reviewed the hospital and police reports that were made on November 20th, as well as the results from the last two skeletal surveys.” She leans forward slightly, and I look up to meet her gaze. “It is my professional opinion that this was not accidental injury. The fractures, bruises, and probable bite marks point toward child maltreatment.”

I nod. I knew that. I knew it wasn’t a fucking accident.

The social worker’s calm voice replaces the doctor’s. “We need you to fill out these consent forms so we can send our findings to your social worker and the police officers who are working your case.” He hands me a clipboard and pen, which I grab with my left hand. Bo is still attached to my right breast. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is moving slowly now, signaling the end of his feeding. I can feel his chest against mine. I balance the clipboard on a pillow next to me to sign the forms.

“I know this is incredibly difficult for you, and I want you to know that you did the right thing bringing your son into the hospital. His fractures are healing nicely, and there shouldn’t be any long-term damage. We will schedule another visit a few months from now. Until then, continue to follow the safety plan and check in regularly with your social worker.”

My cheeks get hot with the mention of the safety plan. My useless fucking social worker, the idiot policemen. Investigating me for child abuse?? I sent you the pictures. I told you what happened! I didn’t hurt my baby. My sweet baby, my Bo Bo. My tiny little baby.

The doctor says something, but I don’t hear it. I’m looking at Bo. He’s sleeping now, his mouth open but unlatched, his breath pairing with the rise of my chest. His right hand rests on my breast, and I lean down to kiss his fingers. His scent overwhelms my senses—fresh baby and milk. I’m crying again.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper.

Another tear falls on his cheek.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.”