A Guy In the NICU

Jack walked into the hospital. He passed the receptionist in the lobby. He rode the elevator to the second floor.

He approached the horseshoe desk and checked into the newborn intensive care unit.

The NICU nurse gave Jack a lanyard to wear around his neck. The lanyard had his photo on it.

His picture was godawful. Worse than a DMV mugshot. His white hair was askew. His expression, vacant. Like a guy who’d just been hauled in for vagrancy.

The head nurse gave him a gown to wear. She waited while he washed his hands with antibacterial soap. Then, she led him back to The Room.

The Room is a place with pleather chairs and soft lighting. The chairs are positioned in a half circle. There are lamps instead of harsh, overhead fluorescent lighting. Tranquil piano music was playing.

“Have a seat, Mister Jack,” the nurse said.

He sat down and waited.

In a few minutes, in walked a young nurse. Ponytail. Tennis shoes. She was carrying something small in her arms. Something swaddled in a hospital blanket. Clutching it against her chest.

She presented it to him.

“This is Briana,” the nurse said.

A tiny, pink, infantile face was looking at him. Eyes open. The baby’s eyes were blueish-gray. That same pigmentless color of all newborn eyes.

“Briana,” he said quietly.

“She’s a sweetie,” said the nurse.

Briana fit right in his arms. Like she was made for him.

Briana had been born to a drug addicted mother. She was suffering from maternal drug-use withdrawal. She’s had a lot of problems. Her first two months have been hell on earth.

Jack’s job was merely to hold her. To love her.

It’s called touch therapy. Jack is part of a local cuddling team. NICUs around the country have been using volunteer cuddlers to offset early trauma and developmental delays in tiny patients.

One registered nurse puts it like this: “Human touch can save a baby’s life. Without being touched, a baby can die.”

In his time as a cuddler, Jack has held every kind of baby. Tiny preemies. Full-term babies.

He’s been doing this for a year now. Ever since his adult son, Brandon, died by suicide. His family therapist recommended this.

“Briana,” Jack said again.

The child was as big as a nanosecond. Her little hand fit right in his palm. Her fingers were sort of cold.

He tucked her into his chest and started humming. Babies like humming. This much he remembered from his days as a father.

He held Briana for a long time, until the nurse came in with another infant. They made the swap. It was the same as before. Lots of cuddling. Lots of humming.

On his shift, he held Kaylen, Brooke, Ivy, Michael, and Isabella.

Finally, the nurse came in and said Jack’s shift was finished.

He hesitantly handed her the baby. Jack said he would have stayed longer if they would have let him.

Before he left, he touched cheek of the drug-addicted baby and said, “I love you so much.”

As Jack was leaving, one of the nurses noticed the old man weeping in the hallwayy. She came to him. She wrapped her arms around Jack and held him tightly against her bosom.

“Adults need touch therapy, too,” the nurse said.