Watching Over Blue Babies

Last week it was my daughter Heather’s birthday—now 25! Out of college, employed, about to get married, and wise, and pretty, I couldn’t be but the proudest father on Earth. I thought I heard her say, “… a promotion with a salary increase,” as she punched the microwave buttons to heat the fudge.

In a hallucinating second, the kitchen surroundings became the delivery room at New York Hospital; the hospital where Heather was born. Clad in a white gown, I had been allowed to watch the delivery. And as I held my wife’s hand and watched the miracle of birth, the dazzling brightness of the room changed into dark foreboding.

Something was definitely wrong! No one said a word, yet the hair on the back of my neck bristled. For a fraction of a second, it seemed to me that time had come to a full stop; that everyone in the room stayed frozen in mid-action—motionless.
Then turmoil followed: beepers resonated, screens flashed, voices became louder, commands snapped. At first I heard whispers: “umbilical cord…” “blue …” “oxygenation …” “blue baby!” And then shouts, “upstairs—code blue!”

The rush of the moment had beclouded my reason, and all I could think of was that I had lost my daughter; that my baby was born still. Since no one bothered to explain what was happening, my mind filled itself with the worst thoughts. All the offending acts of my life marched in procession in front of me, mocking me, reminding me that I wasn’t a perfect human being, and that I had sinned against God, stranger, and neighbor. Guilt assailed me.

In my distress I called to the Lord

In utter despair, my mind beclouded, yet not quite panicked, I fell on my knees and I raised my eyes to the heavens and begged, “I have tested your patience dear Lord, punish me, but let this child live.” Raspy and cracked and lame my voice kept repeating, “Take me God, but don’t take her.” Having forgotten my prayers, since I had been away from church for many years, all I could manage was to repeat my own simple words.

The nurse that had been left behind promptly attended to my wife, soothing her, calming her down. But she had no more information about my baby than I did. Seeing my distress, she assured me that the rush and the turmoil were really precautionary, and that the babies usually recovered; that they had a special unit on the sixth floor for the “pree-mees,” (prematurely born), the “blue babies,” and other difficult births.

“They got the best equipment and trained personnel in the world!” she boasted. “Upstairs, is like a space ship.”
“Where, upstairs?” I asked her. “Will they let me in?”
“Yes, parents are allowed, but not during the emergency. But go and see.”

My heart in my mouth, half-tripping on my own clumsy steps, I made a mad dash toward the elevators. Once on the sixth floor, through the wide glass windows I could see the obstetrician and his retinue gathered around an incubator. Apparently, the child had been saved, for everyone in the group seemed to be collected; in fact they appeared cheerful, smiles showing on their faces.

Of all the faces in the group, one looked in my direction and nodded in a reassuring way; I found this incongruous, for the man was a giant, a tall and heavy African American, clad in a light blue uniform, with a matching cap.
Not wanting to be called out for trespassing, I hurried back to tell my wife that the baby was saved; that she was breathing on her own in an incubator. As I hustled back, the hallways seemed long and interminable, the elevator slow, my own steps ungainly, and I moved as if in the midst of a nightmare. Doubt filled my mind, was my baby really well? Or, had I conjured up that scene? “God, don’t let me go off my senses,” I begged.

I called out to my God

Early in the morning when my wife started having contractions, I realized that I had to miss work. Since I had just hired a new assistant controller, I immediately called him at home and instructed him to review the multi-million dollar payroll, transfer funds to cover it, check the protective collar or puts and calls I had on the investment portfolio, and other tasks that I normally handled. In my arrogance and hubris, I feared my department would collapse during my absence. Needlessly I overwhelmed the poor man, as I snapped commands. Little faith I placed back then on the abilities of other people. As I watched the hospital staff work as a team in seamless effort, it dawned on me that people care and they take pride in their assigned chores.

Within minutes, the obstetrician and the nurses returned and explained to us that the umbilical cord had twisted and knotted around the baby’s neck and cut off the oxygen, and that they would have to keep her in the sixth floor for a few days. And though she was “a little blue,” she didn’t fall into the category of ‘Blue Babies Syndrome,” since these babies are born with a congenital heart defect.

As I listened, my heart was bursting with joy. Yet a voice of reason held me, for I wanted to yell my thanks to the heavens. The word Hosanna came to my mind, but I wasn’t sure what it meant; so I kept quiet, enjoying the warmth, the ecstasy of triumph of life over death.

From his temple he heard my voice.

With the doctor’s permission, I was allowed to return to the sixth floor to see my daughter. Only the nurses are allowed near the incubators, so I had to content myself with watching Heather through the glass windows. The giant black male nurse walked in with a “pree-mee” –kicking and screaming-- on the palm of his wide hand, and as he placed the loudhailer pree-mee in the incubator, the giant smiled at me. The man’s name tag read, “Samuel Moseley.”

Pointing at my baby I could see that he had twisted a piece of pink ribbon into a tiny bow and scotch-taped it on top of Heather’s head. I gave the man a thumbs up as I mouthed through the window: “Thanks, Samuel.”

What follows next is something I have never confided to anyone, but it’s time to share my experience.

When I walked into my wife’s room the next day, I felt a little silly carrying a bouquet of flowers, for flowers were all over the place. Some friends were already there, and well-wishers kept the telephone ringing. After a while I excused myself and ran to the sixth floor to see my baby and to give Samuel a box of chocolates. But Samuel was nowhere to be seen. For some strange reason I felt that as long as Samuel was there watching over the preemies nothing bad could ever happen to them. Thank God for this good man, I thought.

Knowing that nurses keep rotating shifts, I ran to the reception station and asked the attendants to give the box of chocolates to Samuel later when he came in. The nurses looked at each other. “There’s no Sam or Samuel—or male nurses on this floor,” one of them said. “You must be confused,” the other nurse added, “maybe in another building or floor.”

The loud beeps from the microwave and the scent of the hot fudge drew my out of my reverie and into the present, into the kitchen where we were celebrating Heather’s twenty-fifth birthday.
A neatly arranged bouquet of white carnations caught my attention, and as I got close to inspect them, I noticed the card—it was signed ‘Samuel Moseley.’

“You know Samuel Moseley?” I asked Heather, my mind in turmoil.
“Yeah, he’s my favorite bartender.”
“How long have you known him?”
“From the first day I went to a bar—he carded me!”
“Is he a big man—like a defensive linebacker?”
“A giant! He watches over me and puts me in a cab whenever he sees I’m getting too rowdy. No one messes with me when he’s around.”

My cry came to his ears.

Blessed be the Lord, I thought as I turned to hide a tear.

“You know, Sam—dad?”
“Yes, I met him twenty-five years ago. Exactly.”
“Dad?” I heard Heather say. “I’m thinking about applying to law school—do you think I’m ready, or am I too premature?”

NOTE: All the stories collected in East of Tiffany’s follow the writing techniques advocated by Mary Duffy in her textbook Sentence Openers. In a way, East of Tiffany’s is a companion book to Sentence Openers. At our latest count, close to half million readers have enjoyed the stories and experienced the magic of writing with the proven techniques of fiction that master writers employ.