The Touch of A Hand

I could tell "Baby Boy A" had Down Syndrome just seeing him from across the room. For many newborns, it is not so obvious. But this baby had classic symptoms: slanted eyes, rounded face, thrusting tongue, fragile skin, erratic breathing difficulties (he had heart trouble) and blue hands and feet (due to poor circulation, or all the needle pokes he'd already experienced in his young life). I am partial to Down's babies so was delighted to be caring for him. I like to tell the mamas, when they are ready to hear it, about all the Down kids I know who are making a difference in the world.

He was so quiet. It was almost as if he wanted to be as good as he could. He rarely cried. He got jaundiced so had to have photo therapy. His home became an isolette filled with bright lights. His only garb was a bikini and shades over his eyes. I left him that way and the next day when I returned I could tell he had had his fill of the "box," as we call it. He wanted out. Plus I knew he missed his mama who had had to go home the day before. I got him out of the box, cleaned him up, bundled him snugly in a blanket, and held him tight. His big brown eyes looked deep into my heart, and he stopped crying. I held him as long as I could before my other babies demanded attention.

Back in the box his breathing went funky so we did more tests on the poor little fella. He passed them all, but still didn't look right. Just a nursing instinct. So the docs decided to keep him another day just to watch. After all he had the big heart problem.

His parents came to visit. They don't speak English. The day before, soon after they were told by interpreter the definitive diagnosis, I went into mama's room. She was crying and dad looked bewildered. My limited knowledge of their language failed me at that moment. I had no words to comfort them in their grief and fear. So I went to mama and put my hand on to her shoulder and held it there while I looked into her eyes and shared her sorrow for that brief moment. I tried to communicate hope. Just a touch of my hand, but it seemed to bring some comfort.

How frustrated I felt not to be able to talk to her as I would if we shared the same language. The next day when it became apparent that their baby had to stay yet another day, I told her best I could in her language and her tears burst forth again. Imagine--not understanding everything, having a sick baby, and not being able to take the baby home to care for. Again I reached for her––what else could I do? I tried to let her know it would be okay as I rested my hand on her arm. I wish it could have been more, but that was all I had. And, of course, "Baby Boy A" will be on my mind for a long time to come.