In a flurry of activity our son was whisked to the neonatal intensive care unit (N.I.C.U.), my wife was returned to her room to recover, and I was left to my own dark thoughts. Tick. Another second rolls into another minute that my son has survived. In my mind each minute was marking another birthday for my son. Tick. An hour has slipped by at last. Sixty birthdays for my son have passed and some how through the feelings of numbness and helplessness I remember the nurse telling me he weighted one pound seven ounces and was eleven and three quarter inches long. Tick. The nurse enters my wife's room and tells us that we can go and see our son. Holding her hand tightly as we enter the nursery to behold the tiny form attached to an almost endless labyrinth of wires and tubes that made him appear more mechanical than flesh and blood.
Tick. Alone once again with my thoughts as I roamed the halls of the hospital the sound of my footfalls echoed as the salt from my tears stung my eyes. Disoriented as I arose from kneeling in the hospital chapel. Unsure as to when I entered the chapel and how many ticks of the clock have passed. The only certainties were I had been praying and time had passed as evident by the large pool of tears in the chair I had been kneeling against. Tick. It was time to collect myself. I had to find out if my son still survived and how my wife was recovering. Steeling myself as I departed the chapel with an extraordinary sense of peace as I returned to the N.I.C.U. to discover my son's fate.
The clock continued to tick in the time that I was away and did so for four long months filled with doubts, rage, frustration, and hope. Tick. Brendyn is released to come home at the end of the four months.
Brendyn is now a happy, healthy, and very active four and a half year old, but there are still times I find myself listening to the ticking of a clock and saying a silent prayer.
