Ellie

The coral foam of chlorhexidine gluconate drips down my arms from fingertip to elbow as I perform my liturgical scrubbing to prepare to see my hours-old daughter in her perfect plastic container, her wee body hooked to lines and leads and tubes that measure, beep, disperse, push, press, bubble, and breathe — the most benevolently threatening of which is the CPAP, which gurgles like a baby-sized hookah and lovingly, aggressively forces the exchange of gases in Eloise's lungs. Little droplets of condensation form on the seal around her nose but never slip onto her tiny pink lips, pressed together for medical reasons described but forgotten and punctuated by an infinitesimally narrow tube that somehow serves the dual function of collecting cavernous gut fluids and delivering nutritious milk despite its diminutive gauge.

The NICU is the sort of time-warpy place where four hours at the bedside feels like four weeks of having small birds keep you awake by eviscerating you with a million teensy pecks; and on the other hand, one shred of good news stretches out toward an infinite eternity that is suspended only by some hellish alarm squawking about medical despair — or a mere malfunctioning probe — fifty beds over. Several hospital staff echo proudly to me that this hospital is a baby factory — 10,000 births a year — and this NICU accepts those poor souls who come off the line with some defect or difficulty: A hundred beds for struggling children, the smallest of whom are half a pound or less. In this endless hallway of suffering, Eloise by contrast is both a giant — seven and a half pounds — and quite fortunate — struggling with breathing under a diagnosis that has "transient" in the name, lending an ephemeral character to our despair and an eternal light in our hope. When Regina and I feel after 9 hours in the hospital that we've been there forever, we meet a couple in the scrub room who have been there for 9 weeks.

If Dostoevsky is right that "man is a creature who can get used to anything," the NICU is perhaps the proving ground. It's true, of course, for Regina and me, who quickly take on habits and understanding of things that were yesterday foreign: wheelchair rides and byzantine hallways and five-digit numbers that assure the security of our baby and visitor logs and pulse oximeters and IV flow measurements and rounds and gastric fluids, bubbling and collecting in a syringe, forced out by the flow of air measured in liters and pressing open alveoli, something we are sure was covered in biology class. But Dostoevsky's maxim is far more true for Eloise, who emerged from a cozy womb screaming and minutes later made peace with a breathing mask, EKG leads, a pulse oximeter, and an IV that punctured a tiny vein to deliver dextrose. Her equanimity shows itself in miniature hands folded lightly and eyes swollen tranquilly shut and the curve of small lips from which peaceful little bubbles emerge. The beautiful little girl fights to breathe but seems to accept that whatever world she's ended up in, this is just the sort of thing babies do.

That same peace passes our understanding, so we turn to the Litany of Trust, its patient refrains taking on a new and deeper meaning. From anxiety about the future, Deliver me, Jesus. From the fear of being asked to give more than I have, Deliver me, Jesus. From the fear of what love demands, Deliver me, Jesus. That not knowing what tomorrow brings is an invitation to lean on You, Jesus, I trust in You. That You are with me in my suffering, Jesus, I trust in You. That your plan is better than anything else, Jesus, I trust in You. That life is a gift, Jesus, I trust in You. We recite the prayer awkwardly between hospital meals, conversations with doctors, and re-runs of the worst season of Parks and Recreation — and it's always perfect. Our spiritual posture takes on a certain repose, softening from the need to control and welcoming the fruits to be borne of suffering and confusion.

Father Mike tells the story of a young father who sits by the bedside as his young son is administered chemotherapy. Though the boy is too young to speak, he looks at his father as if to say: "Father, father, why have you forsaken me?" The father knows that he is doing the best he can for his son's fragile life, and yet he can also empathize with the boy's confusion about the state of things. Regina and I sit now in place of the boy: We know that God's plan is better than our own, but we don't understand.

Modern man is too seldom humbled, so close to complete is our subjugation of nature in vain — and futile — attempt at control. In moments like these, we are painfully reminded that our call is not to fashion for ourselves a comfortable destiny of our own design but instead to conform ourselves to the narrow way that has been destined for us by a loving and perfect God. Eloise, too, has a way prepared for her, and may God make us grateful for every moment of it.

For she is as close to a vision of perfection as we can grasp on a fallen earth. Her delicate and dark eyes scan the room and aim to make sense of formless shapes and shifting lights; her tiny nose wrinkles and sneezes; her little lips stretch and yawn and shiver subtly amidst dreams of heartbeats and warm caves; her long fingers reach out to grasp a tube or hand and her small body softens as she rubs her ankles together and drifts into a peaceful sleep. She's all scrunched up and inquisitive and hungry and perfect.

Little scratches and dots and spots on her body act as witness marks to the treatment she's received and the masks and tubes that have day by day left her little body. Now she is left with just the basics of monitoring: a strong, consistent pulse; an even and reassuring respiratory rate; and blood rich with oxygen supplying the prettiest rosiness to her delicate cheeks. And today, we pray, we'll get to take her home.