Little Big Man (by Andie Grace)

I was overjoyed when Mike and Melissa decided that my family didn't need to cancel our planned visit to Austin because little Duggie arrived earlier than expected. Although I did not want to impose, and was set to wave off and wait for a later time to visit, I was eager to get down to Texas from San Francisco and see my friends with my own two eyes, and see that they were doing okay and hug them and let them know how much I am thinking of them all. Likewise, I was praying I'd get a chance to meet the new Mr. Wilson myself, and I was not to be disappointed.

All the week leading up to my visit to the NICU, I was nervous. Being that I tend toward tears at the drop of any emotion, even happiness, I was afraid I'd take one look at Doug and lose it completely... which didn't seem a very helpful thing to do in front of a Maw and Paw who above all else probably need those of us around them to remain as hopeful and strong as they have been in all of this. I watched Melissa dutifully pumping every 3 hours around the clock, and working so hard to care for her family and still try to take care of herself, and suffering through a spell of under-the-weather while keeping a sweet smile on her face and welcoming us houseguests with famous Wilson hospitality. I saw them all at their house keeping it together, trying to on with life during the waiting period, while probably screaming inside with the aching for the day they can bring the baby home.

I wanted to be strong for my friends. But I cry, dang it. I cry at everything. Hell, I will cry at a dog food commercial if it catches me off guard. Nonetheless, I wasn't going to miss out on this chance to greet Duggie, so I braced myself. I steeled my nerves for how small he'd seem (especially since I'm used to looking at my own 4 month old daughter right now, an absolute giantess by Doug standards), for how helpless he'd seem, for how scary it might be to see such a tiny person outside of his mama's womb. I braced myself for him to look uncomfortable, to be all bundled up, almost unrecognizable as a human being under wraps and tape, tubes and wires. He's really cute, I'd manage, trying not to choke on my tears, gritting my teeth at how awful it would feel. But I had to meet him for myself...so I strode across the parking lot and into the doors of St. David's.

Mike met me at the nurses' station and I scrubbed and masked up, following him down the hall to the NICU. I stepped inside the curtain, and was greeted with a wonderful sight: a relaxed-looking little baby, curled up with his eyes closed, sighing on his mama's bare chest, his little hatless head showing off a fine shock of dark hair. His fingers were grasping a bit at the cannula in his nose, and I was struck by how coordinated his tiny hands were already, despite their size. He only had one very small IV for antibiotics, and Mel told me it was set to come out later that day, and a little tube for feeding him his delicious mama's milk, which I could imagine must be the most soothing and wonderful sensation in the world for him. He breathed slowly and moved calmly and seemed, to me, actually happy and relatively comfortable, looking every bit like you'd imagine a little baby would look when snuggled up to mama, safe and warm...small, yes, but so very, well...baby.

I realized quite suddenly that I wasn't crying at all. In fact, I felt relieved to find him looking far more comfortable and relaxed than I expected. And actually, I found myself smiling behind my surgical mask from ear to ear, feeling safe in his presence, his very existence a distinct reminder that miraculous things happen in this world and it's okay to have hope and to believe that the people you care about really are special in their strength and capacity for love. He's so cute, I said, and meant it.

And the funny thing is, sure, he's very small, but somehow, once I saw him, he didn't seem so tiny after all. In fact, I felt, when you think about how much love and hope and strength he represents, he seems downright enormous.