When Sandra was born, Blair was out of town visiting Walmart. He never would have made the trip had his wife not assured him that the baby wasn’t due for another week at the earliest.
By the time he arrived at the hospital in Queens, Sandra was a day and a half old. He hurried to the obstetrics ward on the sixth floor. He gave his name to the nurse and explained who he was there to see.
The woman was Puerto Rican, in her late thirties, attractive in an understated way. But slow to smile. Her finger traced names along a foolscap sheet of paper. Then she apologized and asked him to wait a moment.
Blair didn’t think anything of it. The nurse was most likely following protocol. He took a seat.
The wait turned into twenty minutes.
“Mr. Mulligan?”
He jumped at the sound of his name. He came face to face with a young doctor—of average height and weight, brown eyes and a scraggly beard. The man smelled like he hadn’t showered or bathed in at least a month.
“I’m Dr. Morgan. Your wife is asleep. I’ll take you in to see your daughter. Would you follow me, please?”
Typical of hospitals, they traveled in a semi-maze. Three-quarters of the way along the corridor the doctor said, “I want you to know, there’s been a slight complication.”
Blair steadied himself. “I beg your pardon?”
“There’s nothing to be alarmed about. Your child is doing as well as can be expected. Before I take you into the ICU, you should know that it will appear worse than it actually is. MAS is rather common these days.”
“MAS?”
“Meconium Aspiration Syndrome.”
Blair was suddenly oblivious to the interns and nurses passing by. “And merconium is what exactly?” he asked.
“Meconium,” the doctor corrected. “It’s an infant’s first stool. Among other things, it’s made up of mucus, bile, and water. Normally, it’s expelled into the amniotic fluid prior to birth or during labor. In the case of your daughter, she ingested the contaminated fluid. This is what caused the respiratory problem.”
“You mean, she swallowed her own poop?” Blair wanted to know.
“No, no. Meconium is not poop. Not exactly.”
“Oh? So what is it, then?”
“Well, it’s poop, as you put it, but unlike feces it’s sterile, and has no odor. Mr. Mulligan, your daughter is doing okay. I just didn’t want you to jump to conclusions. She is in the ICU, like I said.”
Blair’s anxiety heightened. He did not associate the intensive care unit with anything good.
There were too many of them. Tiny newborns lying in incubators. He followed Dr. Morgan to the furthest corner where a middle-aged nurse, wearing granny glasses, was seated. She was monitoring various instruments. When she noticed him, she stood and said, “Mr. Mulligan, I presume? I’m Susan Armstrong.” She indicated the incubator next to her. “And this is your beautiful daughter, Sandra.”
A mop of reddish/blond hair. The correct number of fingers and toes. All overshadowed by the tubes and wires running to and from her mouth and chest.
Suddenly, it seemed to Blair that his daughter’s heart was racing too fast. Up and down, up and down. He felt his own pulse picking up, in sympathy. He turned to the nurse. “Her heartbeat doesn’t seem normal,” he said.
The doctor replied, “It’s perfectly normal, Mr. Mulligan.”
He didn’t know if he should believe him. He bent down to get a closer look. Sandra’s chest seemed to bounce with each breath she took.
“Barring any complications,” Dr. Morgan said, “your daughter should be released from the ICU before the week is out.”
Blair traced a line with his hand along the glass of the incubator. “She’s so tiny,” he whispered, in awe.
“Tiny but beautiful,” the doctor said, obviously trying to cheer him up.
Standing in such close proximity, Dr. Morgan’s BO started to get to Blair. He moved away, until he was diagonally across from him. “When will Dr. Sherkin be here?” he thought to ask. Kal Sherkin was their obstetrician and someone in whom Blair had full confidence.
“He’s already been,” the nurse said. “But he’ll be back.”
When exactly? he wondered, but knew what the answer would be. Doctors worked to their own schedule.
He remained standing, observing his daughter. He was nervous despite Dr. Morgan’s attempts to reassure him. It was just sinking in that he was actually a father. He wanted to bathe in the euphoria, and not have to fear for Sandra’s life.
For weeks and months after his daughter was released from the hospital, Blair kept a constant vigil. The least complaint started him wondering—throughout the teething process, the times she came down with a cold, whenever a rash appeared. Every bit of discomfort she displayed sent his mind into overdrive.
Blair had to discipline himself to refrain from pestering their doctor. And it took until her first birthday before he finally believed that Sandra was out of the woods. Then he vowed that he would protect her from harm for the rest of her life.
No matter what…