there are no atheists in the NICU...

8:30pm February 1, 2001 and I am standing in an operating room on the second floor of Aurora Sinai Medical Center observing as a team of neonatologists and obstetricians frantically work to extract my son from the womb four months earlier than his projected arrival. The acrid potpourri of iodine, disinfectant and body fluid combined with the drama of the event nauseates me, but I manage to maintain composure and retain the contents of my stomach. My son's mother is anesthetized; eyes taped shut and intubated. I haven't the courage to watch the surgeon open and enter her abdomen. Instead, I look at the floor for a few moments, then shift my gaze to machines and instruments with red and green lights that keep time like life giving metronomes. One of the masked physicians utters, "Out," and my son is wrapped in towels by a nurse who jostles him about like a bowler cleaning lane wax off of her marbled Brunswick. She sets him on a heating table which is subsequently surrounded by a completely different team of masked health care professionals. I sneak a look at my son while various leads, needles, tubes, tape, etc. are applied. He is the size of a chicken sandwich. His eyes are fused shut. His fingers curl and toes spread. I can see the blood vessels through his paper skin. He is taken away from me when the heating table is rolled out of the O.R. into the hallway, then to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. The surgical team is finishing, closing incisions, courteously leaving everything as they found it minus a fetus and placenta. I am instructed to leave, discard my sterile attire and wait in the hall.

An unusually short and remarkably hairy man approaches me, identifying himself as Dr. Bob. He addresses me as "Dad" which I find odd, but haven't the energy to give him my real name.

Dr. Bob ~ "Hi Dad. I'm Dr. Bob, your son's neonatologist."
Earl ~ "Hi Dr. Bob."
Dr. Bob ~ "I imagine you have quite a few questions, many of which will be answered over time."
Earl ~ "OK. Can I ask some now?"
Dr. Bob ~ "Your son has arrived sixteen weeks early, which is obviously not optimum."
Earl ~ "Obviously."
Dr. Bob ~ "Five or ten years ago, we would not have even attempted to apply life support."
Earl ~ "Well, I'm glad he wasn't five years early, then."
Dr. Bob ~ "I'm going to be very frank."
Earl ~ "I'm still going to be Earl, if that's OK."
Dr. Bob ~ "If I had 100 twenty-four weekers, 50 would probably not live."
Earl ~ "Cuts your workload in half. Glass half full."
Dr. Bob ~ "Of those 50 surviving, we expect that 25 would be significantly handicapped."
Earl ~ "Significantly? Like wheelchairs? Or Paris Hilton?"
Dr. Bob ~ "Of the 25 remaining, most will have marginal problems such as reduced motor skills, etc."
Earl ~ "Hey man, I don't even put air in the mini-van tires. That's what '30 Minute Lube' is for."
Dr. Bob ~ "For now, we will focus on the next day or two. We will have much more information in twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
Earl ~ "So you don't have any empirical truths for me, just odds. You're like Jimmy the Greek for infant viability."
Dr. Bob ~ "Not Greek. I'm Armenian."
Earl ~ "Well that explains the hair."

And Dr. Bob is gone. I stand alone in a the corridor that separates the surgical suites from the NICU. I walk up to and through the double doors that lead to the nursing unit. I am instructed by the receptionist that I will need to fill out some paperwork in order to gain access to the area where my son is kept. I realize that my family is still awaiting word from me as to the health of mother and child. I ask the receptionist if I might take the paperwork out to the waiting area so that I can get some assistance from my family. She replies in the negative. I stare at her for a moment, complete the appropriate forms and she gives me a light blue name tag that I affix to my sweatshirt. I exit the unit and head to the waiting area.

I answer myriad questions, but I am on auto-pilot. I choose not to explain the odds as Armenian Bob had done for me. Mother Tesch would not cope very well. I am beginning to show signs of breaking. Mother Tesch, my sister and sister-in-law accompany me to an area approved for smoking on the first floor, outside. I smoke, they make conversation. I am involved in the conversation but have no real idea what's being said. I am hollow. Their words enter and ricochet around my head, down my throat and into my stomach. Mother Tesch guides me into the hospital and encourages me to sleep. I agree.

I sleep, fitfully in a chair next to his mother's bed. It is 5:30AM and I need to smoke again. My head is heavy with the confusion of sleeping in a strange place, but I regain my bearings quickly. I ask someone in pink surgical scrubs where I might get a 'cup of Joe' and she looks at me like I am speaking Portuguese. "Coffee?" I mime a cup and drink from it. She apologizes that she cannot help. After locating the encrypted directions on a well hidden sign, I stop for a coffee in the cafeteria on my way to a different smoking area in the back of the hospital.

I enter the aluminum and Plexiglas shack designated for sinners such as myself, with my evil cigarettes. I spark up and savor the burning tobacco as it enters my lungs. My eyes light up with the rush of nicotine and my head clears more with each sip of bitter hospital cafeteria java. Along with regaining my wits comes the gravity of my son's situation. He has arrived four full months before his frail machinery is ready to sustain life. The last twenty-four hours have scooted past, leaving me disoriented and overwhelmed. His life will be determined to be long-lasting or short-lived in the next twenty-four hours. My hands are shaking and I am beginning to panic. I do not know if my son is fighting to live or waiting to die. My eyes are darting about the smoking shack. I am sure that the other occupants are aware of my quirking. My cigarette is burning into the filter. Can I handle this? I want my son to live, but Armenian Bob may have already saved 50. What if my son is #51? I drop my coffee. I am on the verge...

I exit and the spring loaded door slams into the aluminum jamb behind me. Entering through the automatic sliding doors, I am looking for a restroom. No. That won't provide the privacy I need. I am jogging, snapping my neck left and right in search of sanctuary. My breathing has become choppy and I try to hold it. I am not ready to release. I am on the second floor racing to the NICU.

There is no receptionist at the desk, under which is the lock release button that allows entry into the patient care area. To my left is a door marked, "Quiet Room." It is there for parents of the unfortunate 50. It is unlocked and I succumb to myself before the door is latched. I am crying harder than I have ever cried. I cannot breathe. Tears, snot, saliva mesh at my chin and form a line that runs from my chest to my silently screaming mouth. I kneel before a soft, but horribly uncomfortable sofa and bury my face in it. I am tearing at the cushions. I am frightened. I am angry. I am lost.

When the attack has subsided, my body is too dense to pull itself up on to the couch. I roll over to sit on the floor, legs stretched before me, head leaning back. I am praying, but I don't know to whom I am praying. I am offering deals to him/her/it. I'll be a better person. I am sorry that I haven't prayed until now. I'll pray more. No, probably not. I am a poor bargainer. I do not know what to offer. I only know what I want. Please. Please, let him live.

**************

He did live. Seymour David Chocolate Man Tesch (Further explanation of the name is forthcoming). He not only cracked the Top 25 but is nearly free of flaws altogether. The only notable effects of his early arrival are that he wears glasses as a result of Retinopathy of Prematurity and he has a propensity to enjoy the occasional slice of pizza on the potty. (Mystery solved!) I am eternally grateful to Armenian Bob and the staff at the NICU for the life of my son. I cannot say that I have prayed since that day, nor can I say that I unquestioningly believe in a higher power. Before that day, if asked about my faith, I would have answered without hesitation, "I am an atheist." I couldn't say that now. What do any of us know? One day, maybe, I'll be standing in front of some being seated on a throne of Kraft macaroni and cheese or some such nonsense, and she'll say, "Thanks for the call. I'm sorry I was busy. Good thing you had Armenian Bob there to handle things."

Maybe...