ANGELS BREATH

ANGELS BREATH

BY JOHN TUFT

“Protestant chaplain, NICU, urgent.” The overhead speakers make a scratchy sound as the operator keys the mike again. “Protestant chaplain, NICU, urgent.” NICU means neonatal intensive care unit. The place in the hospital where newborn babies who have life threatening issues are cared for. Protestant chaplain means yours truly. And Urgent means just what you think it means; haul ass and get yourself there, right now. NICU is a world of heartbreak and unfairness personified by the tiny humans being kept alive by hulking machines and harsh drugs. Voices are hushed; the caring hands are tender, frightened parents huddle over sterile bassinets. My heart rate speeds up when the charge nurse waves me in without gowning up or placing a mask over my mouth and nose. Some tiny person is only being kept alive by angels breath. Meaning there is no other explanation. Everything is working against the child, but she remains alive. Her heart is still beating, lungs still drawing breath. As though even the angels don’t want to deal with the approaching pain and grief.

I wish I could tell you that I have some rote prayers, some special magic Bible words, some insight into the child’s needs, but I cannot. It’s as though the angels are breathing for the child until I get there and…do what? Let my heart break along with the hearts of the parents? Envision what the life of this small person could be, should be? Tell the nurses that they are godsends being asked to handle the impossible day in and day out? All that I can think to do is to take on the pain and grief. Let it drown me so that the parents will see hope. That doesn’t sound right, does it? I will die with that tiny little girl and perhaps the angels breath will revive me. Perhaps. Or perhaps there will be no coming back.

I stand beside the bassinet, feeling the anguish of the mother and father. “What is your child’s name?” I whisper, for this is a moment of whispers. “Charlene,” they reply in unison. “Charlene Rose.” I look at the tiny body lying there, with a gastro tube in her nose, IV lines into the veins of her feet, a breathing tube sewn into the tube through her neck. “Come to me Charlene,” I whisper. I lock eyes with the lead nurse and she nods. She knows that the end is near. That I must bathe the child in my tears. So that her parents will know that she lived. So that their last memory of her and her last memory of them is not tears, but the joy of angels breath.

I pick up the still form and cradle her under my chin. Even in the midst of all this modern chemistry called medicine, she smells like a baby. I whisper, “You’re a fighter, Charlene. Your whole life has been a struggle, whether it was three weeks or four score years and ten.” I smile into the eyes that stare up at me. “You’ve done well, Charlene Rose. Mommy and Daddy are very proud of you.” And I weep. I cannot help it, so I let the tears come. They soak her soft curls and dribble down her forehead. Then she gives me a smile. And she is gone.

The nurses wrap her body in soft blankets and place her in her mother’s arms, without all the tubes and needles and machines. The mother struggles to breathe. I touch her on the shoulder, then take the husband’s hand and place it over mine. “The angels breath will get you through this,” I whisper to them and slide my hand out so that her husband’s hand now rests on her shoulder. I take my last tear and use it to make the sign of the cross on the forehead of Charlene Rose. And then I am gone.

Years and years later, I am sitting in a Starbucks in Sewickley, PA. Life has brought a lot of pain, a lot of grief, and I am feeling very alone. I am lost in the bittersweet of my drink when a young woman approaches. She looks to be about thirty years old and something about her seems vaguely familiar. But there have been so many faces, so many needs, so many reaching out to me over the years. “Excuse me,” she says, almost shyly. “Are you John?” I smile and nod. “I have something for you. Something they know you need.” I frown. “They? They who?” She digs around in her backpack, talking the whole while, “They know you need these. They were a precious gift, but they know you need them now.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She lifts out a small crystal flask. “Here!” She laughs and hands it to me. “What is this?” I ask. She hesitates before she whispers, “They’re your tears. Infused with angels breath. Didn’t you know?” I’m at a loss. “Know what?” She looks shy again. “Save them for when you need them most.” She stands to go. “Wait,” I beg. “Who are you? What’s your name?” And then I recognize the smile. “I’m Charlene. Charlene Rose.” I look at the flask in my hand. I’m dumbstruck. And when I look back to thank her, she is gone.

Words are magic and writers are wizards.