ESC Application

Trigger warning: child loss/grief

To Whom It May Concern, 

Please consider the following account as evidence in support of my enclosed application:

Day 1 

I am in shambles. I know that’s dramatic, but I quite literally am. I must say, my future appears bleak. Parts of me are scattered across a wooden floor. A burly man sits with me, muttering to himself as he slides a pair of glasses up his nose and unfolds a piece of paper. He seems excited as he attaches one part to another, continuously checking the paper and humming to himself. It feels nice, so I let him continue his work.  

Day 2 

Well, I am no longer in shambles. I have taken up residence next to a window which overlooks what appears to be the backyard. The room is empty, but it’s peaceful. That is, until two women burst in the room giggling, disrupting my solitude. 

“Just imagine though, he’s going to be just like him.”  One says, excitement spreading across her face. 

“Mmhm attitude and all,” the other smiles, rolling her eyes and closing the door behind them.

They appear joyful as they set up a small table to my left and place a lamp on it. The first woman hangs a string of lights above me, which casts a warm glow over the empty room. 

“Looks good, kid,” the second one smiles as she nudges the other. 

I am slightly baffled, seeing as the “kid” clearly is not a kid, but I have decided I like them. 

Day 5 

I must say, I do like this house. I haven’t seen beyond this room and the door is always closed. However, it smells nice. It’s usually quiet aside from the random bursts of laughter. And the “kid” has continued to bring items to keep me company, a colorful stuffed octopus and a red rubber duck sit on the windowsill. We stare out over our yard; I like to think of it as our kingdom and this home is our castle. 

Day 6 

I hear them before I see them. The women are back and again, they are bursting through the door. Except this time, they’re grinning and doing their best to hold back their excitement. Another one follows them, and I must say, although she looks like them, she is much bigger. I know that is not very polite of me, but I am unsure how else to describe her. It looks as if she is hiding a basketball under her shirt. 

“Oh guys, this is perfect.” Tears slide down her face, even though she’s smiling.  I find this very confusing. 

The three of them continue to chat about the numerous lighting features the lamp has to offer. The “kid” tells us it’s a smart lamp, and I am mildly insulted, for I am also smart, but I let it slide. The crying woman sits with me, rocking slowly as she leans her head back and sighs. 

“Ahh, it feels so good to sit down, I could stay here all day,” she laughs.  

I realize she is the one I have been hearing laughing. I find it quite beautiful. 

 Day 8 

The crying woman, the large woman? I should probably learn what to call her. Anyways, she randomly drops boxes off in the room. There appears to be no organizational system. But the woman always seems giddy to add another box to the collection, and every time she enters the room, she seems as though she is seeing the future, rather than the chaos of what it currently is. 

Day 10 

More boxes. She has begun opening them now, so there is even more chaos, if one can imagine. 

Day 12 

A man opens the door. He’s different from the one who assembled me. Quieter, more hesitant, but he has kind eyes. He’s dragging a large box inside the room, and he leans it against the wall to my right. It may come as a surprise, but I am not always able to identify other household items. However, the picture on this box appears to be a bed . . . with bars. I have decided I like these humans; I do hope they don’t turn out to be strange. 

Day 15

The woman enters the room as I am admiring a cat in the backyard as it mindlessly chases their tail. The woman’s stomach has grown, and she holds it lovingly as she sits on the floor across from me. She tips a hamper of small clothes over and reaches inside to grab a tiny one-piece covered in dinosaurs. Tears flood her eyes as she smiles, and I am reminded of why I call her the crying woman. She continues to sort through clothes, cutting tags off them and creating a pile. She opens some boxes and organizes items in the closet. Several hours and yawns later, I watch as she stands in the middle of the room smiling, hands caressing her belly. She leaves the room looking excited and although I’m not quite sure what to expect, I begin to get excited as well. 

Day 16 

I fear something has happened. For the first time last night, the house was not calm. I must say, I am rather used to hearing the crying woman cry, but last night seemed different. I find I am worried about her. 

Day 17 

The house remains quiet, aside from worried whispers and the sound of an occasional curious paw swiping under the closed door. I am grateful the cat cannot reach me, I once heard from a cousin of the damage their claws can do to our exterior. Anyways, my room remains dark. No one visits me. 

Day 18 

I continue to worry. I have not heard the crying woman’s laugh, nor have I heard her voice. 

Day 19

The “kid” opens the door. She pulls a strange machine out of a case and sets it on the table, allowing two long tubes to hang. She empties a bag of empty bottles with caps into a tote and sets a permanent marker on the table along with some labels. She sits with me for a few minutes in quiet, and I notice she is crying when a tear splashes on my arm. I rock her and hope the crying woman is okay. 

Day 20 

She enters the room quietly, and to no one’s surprise, she is crying. Except these tears seem different. She seems sad and scared, less excited. I notice her stomach has deflated significantly. She sits with me and adjusts the lamp to a low dim. She grabs two bottles out of the bin and attaches them to a funnel-like top. I am taken aback when she lifts her shirt to expose her breasts. However, it appears she is using the large machine brought in by the “kid” to collect milk from her body. To maintain her privacy, I will spare the details, but know this: humans are quite magnificent.

Day 21 

It is 3:30 in the morning. And the crying woman is back, collecting more milk. She attaches the bottles, turns on the machine, and promptly leans her head backwards. I hold her while she sleeps, lulled by the pumping noise. Her phone startles us 20 minutes later. She unhooks the bottles, writes the time on a label, and places the label on the bottle. She turns the light off and shuffles out of the room. I do hope she gets more rest. 

She returns at 5:50 in the morning to repeat the entire cycle again. Except this time, she pulls up a website on her phone and watches an incredibly small human sleep while she waits. The small one is hooked up to machines and snuggled in an enclosed bed. The crying woman is of course, crying, as she watches. I wonder if this is who the dinosaur outfit was meant for, but it appears it would be far too big. I will say, I did not know they made humans this tiny, it is rather cute. 

Day 22 

The crying woman is gone for most of the day, but she arrives in the late afternoon to collect more milk and catch a 20-minute nap. She smells different, less like herself and more sterile, like sanitizer. I wonder if the small one does not like her perfume, as I assume that is who she visited today. 

Day 28 

“Pumping party!” the “kid” yells as she opens the door. She waltzes in, followed by a group of women. Each of them finds a spot on the floor and the crying woman sits with me. The women chat while the crying woman does her routine. I learn the small one is a boy, and he’s quite feisty for being born so early. The women seem absolutely smitten with him; I find it quite lovely. 

“Look at youuuu,” one of the women sings, pointing at the full bottle of milk hanging from the crying woman’s breast. 

She smiles tiredly, leaning back and I rock her slowly. “I know, it makes me so happy to have something to bring him.” 

Day 35 

I have grown quite accustomed to our routine. She joins me in the evenings before going to bed and we watch her son sleep on her phone. She typically comes back around 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning, and either sleeps or watches him while I rock her. She then starts her day out with me before leaving for what I have now learned is the hospital, where her baby is staying. I enjoy our time together. 

Day 37 

It’s 3:00 in the morning and she has spilled milk on my cushion. She’s crying, again. If it were anyone else, I would probably be furious. But since it’s her, I do not mind. She has enough going on, spilled milk is not the end of the world. Yet, she keeps crying. She dials a number on her phone and asks a front desk person if she can get an update on her baby. We wait as she is transferred. 

“He is okay mama, get some rest,” I hear from the phone.  She sighs with relief, and I wonder if maybe she was not crying about the spilled milk after all. 

Day 39 

I fear something has happened again. I have not seen the crying woman. I am worried about where she is sitting to collect milk for her child. 

Day 40 

One would think I am an expert in the crying woman’s tears by now, but these tears are different. I’m holding her as her entire body seems to collapse as she sobs. She cries so much her face seems unrecognizable, puffy and red. I miss her laugh. She did not leave for the hospital today. 

Day 42

The crying woman opens the door and is followed in by the man with kind eyes. He lays on the floor while she joins me to collect more milk. She has been slowly decreasing how often she does this, which is quite sad, I like this time we have together. She completes her routine and joins the man on the floor, nestling her face into his shoulder. It strikes me that he must be the child’s father. I watch as they hold each other.

Day 50 

She joins me most mornings. We watch the cat play in the backyard. She rubs her empty belly absentmindedly.  Some days she cries, other days she just stares. Every day, I hold her. 

Day 55 

I have been introduced to the crying woman’s therapist. She’s warm and friendly, and she listens as the woman cries. I like to think we make the perfect team. We have noticed the crying woman tends to “space out” when she feels overwhelmed emotionally. During these times, the therapist often asks, “Do you feel the chair underneath you?” And then it’s my time to shine. I rock her while she nods her head. 

Day 65

She opens the door, tears already running down her face. I often consider calling her by her name, or maybe even “the mother,” but honestly, her nickname just fits so well. The father, also known as the man with kind eyes, follows close behind. He holds a small purple ceramic pot with tiny footprints engraved on it, and he gently sets it on the table next to me. 

“He’s home,” he whispers. 

“It feels good to have him here finally,” she says, smiling through the tears. 

I’m happy to finally meet him, and it appears he will be keeping me company. I hope he enjoys cat-watching as much as I do. And I hope his mom begins to laugh again soon so he can hear it. 

Day 80

The crying woman joins me, and I rock her as she holds her child. 

Day 85 

The one woman has returned. I suppose I never did give her a nickname, but I assume she is the crying woman’s sister. They have draped the table in an orange fabric covered in golden butterflies and set up a framed picture of the small human. They set out crocheted animals, paper marigolds, and a painted glass Pegasus covered in vibrant colors. Small battery-operated candles are scattered throughout the display. It appears to be a celebration of the crying woman’s son. I watch the candles flicker through the night and wait to see if the small one will join me. 

Day 100 

She visits me every few days. Often to cry. Sometimes to just sit and hold her child. She tells us about her day and how she imagined he would be if he were here now. 

Day 130 

The door opens and before I can tell who it is, a grey cat bolts in the room. It’s a moment of sheer panic and I am just sure my perfect fabric exterior will be altered forever, but then the woman races in after the cat and chases it from the room. She slides in a tote full of old clothes, whispers “hi, my sweet baby,” and leaves. I sure hope there are no more close calls with the resident cats, I did not sign up for that.

Day 150

The room is clean now. The child’s mother came in and organized everything, placed items in boxes and piles. She didn’t get rid of anything though, and I’m curious to see if this room will ever become what she had hoped it would be. 

Day 215 

She lays a purple yoga mat across the hardwood floor and sits in the middle. It’s 7:00 in the morning, and the sun is rising. I can’t help but remember the mornings when she was rushing out the door by this time. She’s taking deep breaths and stretching slowly, the air around her seems to still. She shifts into extended child’s pose, heart reaching toward the earth and forehead kissing the mat. She takes several deep breaths and begins to sob. Tears collect on the yoga mat, and I exist with her while she grieves, bearing witness to her love. 

Day 247

I hear her laugh again. I forgot how lovely it sounds. 

Day 250 

The crying woman’s son and I share the room with several plants now, they are good company for us, and I rather enjoy watching them grow. I do this most days, while I listen to his parents joke with each other outside the door. I find it quite sweet, the way they always find ways to make each other laugh. 

Day 285 

I do believe she is crying again. It’s early morning, the cat in the backyard has not even made it out for her morning stroll yet. She bursts in the room, smiling wide, even as tears stream down her cheeks. Humans are confusing. She joins me near the window and holds her baby, singing to him sweetly. We watch the sunrise together. The backyard cat begins her morning rounds. 

Day 365

I find I have created quite the routine in this household. I spend the morning cat-watching with the small one, I like to tell him about the world outside. Some days, his mother joins us to hold him or talk to him. Every week, I fulfill my role in her therapy session. I often watch the door carefully, occasionally a grey or orange paw swipes and I briefly fear for my wellbeing, but I trust the crying woman to keep the other residents out. 

“Another one?” I hear her ask, as she walks up the stairs. She comes in the room and drops a package in the pile that has steadily been growing these last few weeks. As she bends down, her hand gently holds her midsection causing her loose shirt to cling to her stomach and I see it then, another basketball shaped bump. It appears we have much to be excited about. 

I believe this account fulfills the requirements to receive licensure as an official Emotional Support Chair. Should you have any questions, please feel free to reach out. Thank you for your time and consideration.

p.s.

Day 526 

I know the application only requires one year’s worth of accounts, but I feel it is only fair to include my biggest achievement yet. For so long, she has cried tears of fear, anger, and sadness. Today is different though. Today, she walks in slowly and I notice she is moving with a careful measured pace, as if she is holding something precious. And it turns out, she is. She sits with me, and I hear another little one, although not as small as the first. The small one squeaks and coos as the crying woman holds it against her chest and reaches to also pick up her son in his urn. 

“Meet your sister, sweet baby,” she whispers to him as she cries, because of course she’s crying again. And as they rock together, I hold them. 

Sincerely, 

The Chair