It is an experience that many fathers, and mothers for that matter, before me have told me about; a moment that for lack of an adequate way of describing is usually pawned off as something that you can't understand until you go through it. Having 'joined the club' now, I can officially tell you, that YES, what they say is true; you can never truly understand how much you can love something until you have a child of your own. More on that in a moment...
As I made the final left turn to approach the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), I wasn't exactly sure what was going to be on the other side of the double doors - at this point I was on auto-pilot. I WAS sure, however, of the presence of the 2 Angels who were standing watch over the NICU entrance. During Aria's 10 week stay in the hospital my wife and I made many trips through the halls of the hospital; down to the left from the outpatient hall (our 'cheap motel room'); around the right side of the nursery, hang a left and through the double doors to NICU. Believe me when I tell you, from this moment until almost the end of April when Aria finally came home from the hospital, every time I made that left turn toward NICU entrance, I felt their presence, or the presence of whoever was 'on shift' at the moment.
When I think about Angels, something I do often, a visual that comes to mind is similar to the depicting of a family's ancestry from Disney's Mulan. See-through versions of your lost ones, the way they were meant to be remembered, hovering above and around us all the time, working in shifts to bless us and protect us, fighting the spiritual battle on our behalf, doing their part to keep us safe and guide us through life...
Not just anyone can enter the NICU at any particular hospital. You have to have specific business there. You are either a preemie, a doctor, a nurse, or a parent. That's it. So it would also seem in the spiritual world; that you would need reason to be there, that is. These angels' job, clearly, was to guard the entrance. Whenever I would go to enter through the double doors to the NICU to see Aria, I would feel their presence, as if they were stepping aside so to allow me to enter - similar to the way I feel God's presence with a buzz in my heart, but cloaked (for lack of a better way of describing), like they were secret service or something. I don't know, call me crazy.
The moment that you lay eyes on your child for the first time, literally, hits you like a ton of bricks. Everything in your life changes (snaps fingers) just like that. Walking up to my daughter's isolette for the first time, I don't remember feeling any specific emotion in particular...I was on auto-pilot as I mentioned earlier. She was perfect, quite petite, and the most beautiful thing I had ever laid my eyes on.
Aria Corinne Minniti weighed 1 lb. 15 oz. when she was born, via emergency C-section, and was 13 inches stretched out from head to toe. For perspective, she was about the size of a small doll, and when all curled and swaddled up in the first couple weeks, you could cover her entire body with the palm of your hand. From the moment she was born, she was breathing the same oxygen that you and I breath, which considering her size was impressive, and the only reason she wasn't transferred to Columbia Hospital in Manhattan immediately; also the only reason my wife got to kiss her before the doctor wisked her away to the NICU. Dayna remembers being quite out of it at the time, and thinking something to the effect that her lips smothered Aria's entire face.
Looking down at my daughter, through the plastic of basically what was an incubator, my heart exploded. Love oozed out of parts of my being that I didn't even know existed. I remember instinctively knowing that I would jump in front of a bullet or bus to save her (God forbid) without thought or hesitation. Then for a moment, I felt the heaviest fear I've ever known. 'What am I gonna do? She's so small. I want to hold her, but I can't. Is she gonna be ok? She's so small. Holy crap, I can't breath. What am I gonna do??' However....this feeling only lasted a moment....
God's presence fell on the room. Time stood still. My heart hummed and the warmth of the Holy Spirit came over my entire body, and just like that (snaps again), I knew four things...
- She was completely healthy.
- We would have no problems at the hospital.
- The date that we would bring her home had already been recorded in heaven.
- We just hadn't gotten there yet.
She was ok. Time pressed on. And I could breath again. God met me there, in the NICU, and the schedule to guard the entrance was being filled up, at that moment, with Heaven's A-Team.
Breathing. Just breathing, and taking in the moment. My daughter. I had never been more content with simply looking at something in my entire life. I began to sing (very softy) a song that I used to sing in the car with my mother as a child: Dulcinea (translated "little sweet one"), from Man of La Mancha. I had never been more thankful for my background in the theatre, and the array of Show Tunes that I could recall upon command. At some point I began tap dancing (again, very softy), just a little soft shoe really. I just wanted her to feel me, the vibrations of my feet hitting the floor, something I knew she would be familiar to with, because I danced around my wife constantly while she was pregnant. After a couple very slow time-steps, she opened her eyes, and looked right at me to see what on earth was shaking the room, her "beach resort" as we named her isolette later. She looked at me. Our first connection. I could have dropped dead, complete in that moment. I stood there singing (very softly) and dancing for an hour, that I could have sworn was only 20 minutes...
Before I left the NICU, I placed my hands on my daughter's isolette and prayed over her. God's presence warmed my heart again, and I'm sure her's as well. I assured Aria that I would be back soon, thanked Kathy and the other couple nurses who were on duty that morning, and then finally, after some nervous chit chat, made my way back to the double doors to be 'buzzed out ' for the first time. There was still much to do at this point, things that Dayna and I felt we still had 3 months to accomplish, like naming our daughter for example...
Several weeks into her stay in the hospital, Aria was deemed 'Queen of the NICU' by a lovely nurse with short fiery red hair named Lisa. This title seemed to suit my daughter as her 'fame' (if you could call it that) grew in the hospital. Doctors from every floor and wing of the hospital came to the NICU ward to see the miracle baby, who continued to surpass expectation time and time again. Within the first week even the security guards at the hospital entrance knew of the 'NICU Queen.' I guess I shouldn't be surprised that heaven's royal guard would be watching the entrance. Again, call me crazy.