I spent a long Saturday sitting in the NICU, with the baby tightly grasping my finger. She seems to be doing better, although there is still an area of concern in her belly. She is trying to come out of her drug-induced sleep, scrunching up her tiny face, furrowing her brow, trying oh so hard to open her eyes. Her movements are so normal, so ... baby-like ... that it is easy to forget the numerous I.V. lines that infiltrate her small body, the tube that is inserted into her throat, filling her lungs to their proper capacity, and the direct line that feeds into her heart, carrying nourishment and the necessary germ-fighting drugs.
Well, it is easy to forget for the moment - that is, until you refocus and take in the entire picture ... the little body lying in the plastic bubble, unable to be held, head held in place by a bean bag so she does not dislodge her tube. It is then that you realize there is nothing baby-like about this picture, this reality, this horror show. And you want to run, never return, never see the sights of this place again. But you don't. You sit, and you offer comfort in the only way you have - one finger of your hand, extended through the portal of the plastic bubble, grasped ever so tightly by the little hand that lies within. And you open your book and settle in for day #78 of your journey from there to here ... and you wonder "to where"?
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