Friday, December 28, 2007

A Hospital Epiphany

It was a few nights after Christmas, some years ago, I was taking report from Chaplain Jerry in our office at the hospital.  He told me to expect a call that evening about a pair of stillbirth twins that had been taken down to the hospital morgue.  Two grandmothers of the parents of the twins were coming in from out of town, and wanted to see the babies before they were taken to the funeral home.  “By the way,” said Jerry, “these two families don’t get along.  The teenage father left the mother when he found out she was pregnant.”

Around midnight I get the call and find Frank the security officer waiting outside the morgue to unlock it.  “Hello Frank,” I say.  But he jerks his eyes over toward the loading dock where I see two elderly women waiting, one bent over in a wheelchair.  Oh man.  They were supposed to meet us upstairs, after we had taken the babies to a private room.

I start to explain the protocol but the tall grandma stops me.  “We’ll look at them here,” she says.  Okay.  I walk over to the large stainless steel door and yank hard on the handle.  Inside the walk-in cooler a lone bassinet stands on wheels.  Under the sheet are two small shapes placed head to foot, one in a blue striped blanket, the other in a pink one.  The boy looks normal, almost asleep.  But the girl is much smaller and her head is not normal.  I worry about how the wheelchair grandma will handle this.

But when I roll the bassinet over in front of the grandmas they both sigh, “Ohhhh…” and instinctively lean in toward the babies, raising their hands to the bassinet.  “Ohhh loooook--” says the tall grandma, melting.  “Can we hold them?” I lift the chilled, pink blanketed form into the wheelchair grandma’s upturned hands and she scoops it to her breast like a kitten.  Her bent back and lowered head perfectly surround the swaddled infant.  The tall grandma gets the boy, and soon they are unwrapping blankets and exploring hands and fingers and feet with a genealogical eye that only great-grandmothers can do.  “Oh, look at his little toes!” The tall grandma smiles and the wheelchair grandma is beaming and says, “That’s his father’s nose, that’s for sure.” “Oh look how long her fingers are!” “Those are Lucille’s hands they certainly are.” “You know my daughter had hair just like that when she was born.” “Oh really?  “Oh yes, it was black and thick like this.”

And these grandmas saw not a single defect or deformity.  And after fifteen minutes they had gone over every inch of their great grandbabies and then switched them and began the exploration process all over again.  “Oh she’s so sweet.” “They are dear, aren’t they?”

Then the loading dock door slams and two nurses come in laughing and stamping snow off their feet.  Frank’s been getting calls on his radio and I know we have to end this.  I roll up a nearby lab coat for a small pillow.

But when I take the boy from the wheelchair grandma I’m startled to feel the little body is warm.  Then the tall grandma hands me a soft, warm baby girl.  I can hardly lower her back into the bassinet.  I placed them with heads together on the pillow, and tuck the blanket under their chins. Then I turn off the light and close the big stainless door quietly, leaving the brother and sister warm and facing each other under the boy’s larger blue striped blanket.

We say goodbye to the grandmas.  Then Frank and I tiptoe away from the morgue like empty-handed kings leaving a manger.  Ruined by joy on a wintry night.

Broadcast by Jeff Nixa on December 28, 2007
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