Grace in the NICU

I have been away from my own blog for awhile, but still read the RevGal site, and was struck by a question in today's book discussion about Caroline Westerhoff's book "Good Fences".

4. If you have had a chance to do a unit or more of Clinical Pastoral Education, you have heard a story like the one of page 98. A student feels distressed after baptizing a baby who had already died, conflicted about what baptism means and whether it was appropriate in this case, but also certain that the parents needed pastoral care in this form. How do you respond to this case study? What might you have done in the student's position?

Sadly, I have not read the book, though it looks worthwhile. Even more sadly, I have been in the situation described both as a CPE student, and as a parent, so I thought I might offer my own thoughts, without much reflection, since then I tend to doubt myself and erase what I have written and never post it. So here goes:

In 1991, as a summer CPE student in a large university hospital (where I met Mr. Incredible, but that's another story), I was spending the night in the chaplain's on-call cell during one of my first overnights there. I never got used to the heart-pounding wake-up call of that beeper, and the disorientation of waking up in the little room with the thin sheets and the glow-in-the dark stars and moons on the ceiling. Hurridly combing my hair, and then trying to navigate through the maze of corridors toward the location of the emergency, my mouth was always dry, and my stomach clenched at the thought of the unknown trauma ahead. This particular night I ended up in the neonatal intensive care unit. A sadder place to be in the middle of the night, I have not found. The parents of the babies doing well go home to sleep at night, resting up for another day of beeping alarms, adventures in feeding, and precious time in the rocking chair. You get called to the NICU overnight for a loss that happens way before its time.

There were three generations of a family in the darkened room to which the nurse ushered me. A seventeen year-old mother sat in the chair. Her own mother stood nearby. In the arms of the teenager was a tiny bundle. He lived only a few minutes. His twin was holding his own out in another area. The primary thing the women wanted from me was not comfort, or answers to why or even prayer. They wanted me to baptize the little boy. They had no real church affiliation that I could discern. They were not Catholic, like the family later in the summer for whom I called a priest. They had some idea that this baptism must be done, but only in the vaguest sense. There was no urgency about the state of the baby's soul. Just a request for my help. I stuttered out something and promised to return.

Retreating to the chaplain's offices I scanned the shelves for some guidance. Nothing. I sat at one of the desks and tried to put some thoughts on paper. What would I say, if I decided to do it? How would my denomination (Presbyterian) know? Would I be in trouble? My gut told me that something needed to be done. I had nothing else to give this family, other than a ritual, which they clearly needed. Maybe I could sort of fudge the actual wording of the sacrament of baptism. The night staff was about to rotate off for the day, and I wanted to do something before they left. So I returned to the NICU, and ended up in some kind of classroom with the family, some nurses, and the doctor. Reaching down into some reserve I didn't know I had, I held that still small boy, smoothed the blanket from his head, prayed to God who knows what it is like to lose a son, and named the boy a child of God, with water. It was easy and hard. Afterwards, the doctor gave the family a beautiful achingly tiny wooden casket that he handmade at home. I wonder how many he has given away? We had both given what we could to this family. By the next day they were calling it "the memorial service", and I think that was truly what it was. I have never regretted it.

Six years later I was the mother in the rocking chair. My own still small boy had lived four days. His twin was holding his own in another hospital. We desperately needed a ritual. Two pastors trying to say good-bye when they had never really gotten to say hello. We fretted and discussed how best to let our extended family, captive in one of those awful consultation rooms take part. A wise nurse finally convinced us to stop thinking about everybody else, and just do what we needed to do for ourselves. While I was with WonderBoy during one of the four days, Mr. Incredible had been visited by a chaplain, who had anointed our Jack with oil, and said a lovely prayer. We did not feel the need for a ritual with water. I don't really remember what we did, but I know I held our Jack, and Mr. Incredible sat behind me with his arms around us both. We prayed and sang and talked. It was easy and hard.

Ten years past, and I wonder about that other mother. Her sons would be sixteen now. She herself just 33. I imagine I have become to her like the nurses in the NICU have to me: sort of faceless, the details fuzzy, but moments of kindness stand out. I pray that her other son has grown strong and healthy like mine. And that the baptism/memorial service I helped her with gave her, and continues to give her some peace, when she remembers what may be the darkest time for her. It was for me. I decided that night, sixteen years ago, that theology must give way for grace in those dark hours. I would do it again, but I pray that I never have to.