Love Letter

In Sickness and In Health

"Tom? Would you like to hold her?" The nurse looked at him with a smile. "It's ok, she'll be ok." The tiny bundle, wrapped in a soft blanket, a small pink hat, and a face that was more beautiful than the Mona Lisa was passed to him.

Sitting in the neo-natal ICU, Tom and Ali - now fully recovered - were visiting their daughter as they had every day for the last four weeks.  Being so early and so small, not that she felt like that for Ali, of course, she'd been in an incubator to help her develop her lung function. Ali had expressed her milk, and it had been fed to Emilia through a nasal gastric tube. 

They'd been told that it was ok to touch her and talk to her while she was safe in the little warm pseudo-womb, but today was the day.  She was 36 weeks.  Old enough to be out and about. Now that she was able to come out, feeding would be more 'normal'. If this went well, medically, home was next.

Tom looked at his daughter. Then his wife. Ali had suggested privately to them Tom get first hold. He needed the boost. He needed to see she was healthy and happy because of, not despite, his efforts.

Tom had been isolated and silent for four weeks. He'd gone through the motions.  Eaten, drunk, slept. He'd answered emails, spoken to Luke on the phone, and done the basics to keep his work ticking over. Stopping that while Emilia was in hospital would have helped no one.  When she came out was when she would need her daddy.

The one thing he hadn't done, and this worried Ali more than anything, was spoken about the day Emilia came into the world. He refused point blank. He also refused to touch Ali.

Not in a 'Howard Hughes oooh- germs!' kind of way, but he no longer cuddled her, held her round the waist as they stood, kissed her softly as they fell asleep.  And as for any remotely sexual encounter? That had been a disaster, seemingly not to be repeated. Tears and regret were all that came of that.

Now, four weeks later, a gaunt and haunted looking Tom sat, plastic apron on, looking terrified. If he could have run, he would have. He looked from the nurse to Ali, and his heart, once again, thought it would burst. This time, however, not with joy.

How could she bear to look at him? How could she forgive him? This wonderful woman, how could she possibly still love him after what he did? To her. To Emilia.

Emilia. She was now in his arms, her tiny fists waving as they tried to grasp him. He raised a finger to her, and she grasped on. Her tiny fingers closed around his, and she mewled like a kitten. The sound reminded him of that moment at home when.... he burst into tears and passed her to Ali.

"I... I can't... I have to get... air. Need air...I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." he left the room, leaving Ali and the nurse staring after him.

Ali cradled her daughter, tears coursing down her cheeks.  A mixture of emotion, unspeakable joy at holding her baby, and unspeakable sadness at the obvious pain her husband was in. Pain, it seemed, she could do nothing about.

"It's ok, Tom isn't unusual. We see it all the time. The fathers of preemies often have a hard time accepting it really wasn't their fault." Joan, the named nurse for Emmy, patted her arm. "Now, isn't she beautiful? She's already got your smile and her daddy's eyes. "

Ali looked down, suddenly feeling a rush of love so overwhelming. She knew she would do anything for this bundle of love. She would be strong for Emmy AND for Tom. They would come through this. Somehow.

Tom reappeared about an hour later.  Looking red eyed and sheepish. He came and sat down, kissing her chastely on the cheek. "I'm sorry." He whispered. Ali looked at him and smiled.  Joan left the room.

"It's going to be ok, Tom. Thanks to you? It's all going to be ok. You did this." She passed Emmy to him, and he looked at Ali, eyes bright with tears. "You saved your little girl. You did what I could not. You gave me my child back when I had lost her."