Thursday, 16 April 2009

• Abba, Father: The Anonymous Baby on Her Own (For Now)

  I leaned over the crib and stared at her.  She wouldn't stop crying, so I picked her up and then realized that the diaper was wet.  The sun was setting, leaving the room dim and quiet, disturbed only by peripheral noises in the hospital hallway and the sound of her distress.  I gingerly held her up, setting her flat on the bed, and watched her arms wave from side to side as I puzzled over how to change my first diaper.
  
  "Hey," I whispered.  "Stop crying."  She didn't listen.  I spent a few moments fumbling with the pacifier before cradling her in my arms and sitting down in the rocking chair, swinging back and forth easily.  A plastic music box hung on the crib's stainless-steel safety bars began playing a lullaby.  We swayed to the simple music in the quiet of the dusky, twilight shadows.  It was as if the hospital, that crazy world of pain and light and noise, had rumbled into the distance and forgotten to pester us.
  
  That morning during report, the residents said that the infant was recovering well from some treatable illness or other.  I couldn't recall the details; all I remembered was the small fact that we were now responsible for her.  We, meaning the hospital and the State, were granted temporary custody in the place of the parents, who were "currently indisposed of."  I thought about the other rooms on the pediatric floor, each of which held two beds: one for the patient and one for the caretaker.  Each room had its own guardian: an anxious mother or grandparent or cousin or other relative.  Each room except this one. 
  
  I remembered the words of the overnight nurse who stood by the bed at rounds, updating us on the baby's condition.  "She's doing well," the nurse said absently, thoroughly distracted by the baby.  The team continued talking about the details of custody and social work; meanwhile, the nurse remained preoccupied.  She cooed at the baby.  "Hey," she said quietly, gently caressing the swaddling clothes: "It's going to be a tough world out there."
  
  We had been caring for this patient for several days but I, being overwhelmed with concerns about my own patients, had never paid much attention to this one.  However, that last comment caught me by surprise and pushed the rhythm of my thinking out of sync.  One of the residents said, "If you have time, come in and hold her.  It's okay."
  
  For the rest of rounds, throughout lunch, and into the hustle and bustle of afternoon errands, my mind and feet wandered back to that room.  Whenever I peeked in, I found someone at her bedside: a nurse, a social worker, another floor staff member.  It seemed that word had gotten around and everyone quietly came together to do what they could.  I didn't get my chance until the end of the work day, just in time to hear a few cries from the crib.
  
  So we rocked back and forth while my mind wandered.  What kind of person would she become?  Did she have any sense of how alone she was in this world?  Who would recognize her weakness and rise up to defend her from frailty and vulnerability?  In ten, twenty, or thirty years from now, would she still let me hold her in my arms?  Would it be possible for me to adopt her?  And why did I hesitate at the thought?  How different would things be on the day I held my own child?
  
  Unfamiliar feelings of affection, anger, and helplessness swilled around inside of me, unfocused but centered on this loose bundle of warmed clothing and weak, spastic movements.  I didn't know what to think or how to feel or how to respond.  I still don't.
  
  I couldn't wait to write this stuff down, mainly because I didn't know what to do with all these ambiguous thoughts.  I held her for a few minutes and yet it's taken me two days to articulate what I've been feeling.  Who will love her?  Who will watch her first steps?  Who will dream good dreams and sing lullabies for her?  Who will give her the first cherry ice pop, a first kiss on a scraped knee?  Who will keep her safe in this world of terrors?
  
  I was walking outside my apartment tonight, thinking about these things.  I stared up through the bare tree branches, past the rosy buds and into the lamplight that stood transfixed beneath a muddied sky.  I asked my Abba, father, to provide one for her, and then realized that I didn't know her name.

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