I stood before the imposing locked double doors. Nervous. Excited. Lonely.
My wife should be here beside me. But after a long, excruciating labor that turned into an emergency Caesarean section, she's resting a floor down.
"She's beautiful," she told me with a relieved grin and I kissed her head after hearing the cries. We only had the slightest glimpse of our daughter before the medical staff whisked her away to the neonatal intensive care unit. I think I saw maybe the back of her peach fuzz covered head and a small arm curl up to reach for the ceiling.
I remember the day we drove home from our first fertility appointment. My wife cried all the way home after being told she was on the cusp of "advanced maternal age". As I drove, I rubbed her leg with my free hand, telling her "it'll be alright". When we got home, we ordered in from that quaint Italian place we liked, poured ourselves each a glass of merlot, and shared a pint of dark cherry chocolate ice cream.
I wanted her to feel better. I knew it wasn't my fault, but I wished I could have met her sooner. Started our family at a less risky time.
But that wasn't possible, so I held her and kissed her until we made peace with the news and were ready to try again.
Almost seventeen months later, here we were - my wife recovering downstairs and our baby girl just past these doors. I didn't even know what to say when I pushed the intercom button. My wife and I hadn't settled on a name for her yet. Well, I failed that first job as a new parent.
I finally jammed the intercom button with my finger and waited for something to come out of the speaker. The elderly woman's voice coming from the box had a thick southern accent. "Can I help you?"
I cleared my throat. "Um, yes. I'm visiting my daughter. She was admitted last night."
Daughter. It felt weird saying that.
"Last name?"
"Beaupre."
"Ok, let me buzz you in. You'll see me at the desk to your left."
The doors in front of me parted and I took slow, deliberate steps into the unit. Although the hallway was lit, all of the rooms lining it were dark and quiet, with the doors shut. I walked up to the desk on my left and found the owner of the voice from the intercom box waving at me, a mask upon her face. She stood up and beckoned for me to follow her.
I followed her instructions in a daze, pulling out my phone to sanitize with an alcohol wipe, then donning a mask of my own, and washing my hands for an insane amount of time in scalding hot water. My mind wasn't on my body. It was on my family that I had this desperate need to be with.
After I was thoroughly cleaned and sanitized, the lady pressed a button on a big black oval device hanging on the side of her scrub top. "Hey, Linda - got the father for baby in bed nine right here."
"Ok, be right over!" The voice I presumed was Linda's replied from the device.
We barely waited a minute and Linda marched right over in her navy blue scrubs, her graying hair in a messy bun swaying precariously above her. "Mr. Beaupre? C'mon, let's go meet your baby!" She waved me over and I jogged over to follow behind her.
"How's your morning going?" I asked politely, not sure what else to say in between the sound of our footsteps.
"Pretty good - aside from your daughter, we don't have a lot of new babies on the unit this morning. So it's peaceful." She stopped in front of the room to the right of us and opened the sliding glass door and curtain in front of us. She directed me to an automatic hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall and I rubbed my hands together some more.
The dark room glowed with an eerie blue light coming from the enclosed plastic box in the center. I peered closer into the plastic box to see my hours-old daughter, squirming on her back in nothing but a diaper and an eyeshade. She had a few oxygen tubes in her nose and some sticky pads with wires on her, but they moved right along with her. Parent failure number two: I definitely bought diapers that would be too big for her.
"Do you have a name for her yet?" Linda called back to me as she was typing something into the computer.
"We...don't..." I muttered quietly, standing in front of the box without a clue of what to do next.
"That's no problem - we make personalized name cards for the babies, so once you make a decision, we can make it happen!"
"What's..." I paused, feeling dumb for asking. "What's the light and the eyeshade for?"
Linda turned to me with a knowing smile in her eyes. "Baby is a little too jaundice, or yellow, for doctor's liking. She has too much of a byproduct in her body that's hard for her to get rid of. The blue light helps make it into a form she can metabolize - but the lights aren't too good for baby's eyes."
"I see..." I continued to hover awkwardly by the box, still feeling like a failure.
Linda chuckled and stepped away from the computer, pulling a chair next to me. "You can touch her through the holes in the incubator. I have a few other babies to check on, but here's the call button, if you need anything." She pointed at the remote on the wall and patted my shoulder before stepping out.
After settling into the firm chair Linda set out for me, I leaned forward, slowly inching a finger in through one of the holes in the incubator by her hands. They're squirming and moving all over the place, grasping air - until one clings to my finger. Her hands are softer and smoother than anything I've felt in a long time. I'm struck by the odd fragility and strength in her grip.
"Hey, you..." I speak softly, unsure if she can really hear me or know who I am.
It doesn't matter really. I know who she is. She's a part of me and a part of my wife. No matter how many failures we had up until now, she's here.
She squirms more and yawns, displaying her little pink tongue and toothless gums. The way she wriggles in the light, she looks ready to inch on out of there.
We may not have a name for her yet, but in that instant, I have a spark of inspiration for at least a little nickname. One I can't wait to share with my wife.
"It's ok glow worm, I'm here."