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Ep 4: I Got a Name · The Starter

• I Got a Name Time gets lost in the NICU. The dim-lit, warm atmosphere suggests a constant dusk. A steady chirping of machines lulls you into a dream. The cry of a newborn pulls you right back to the cold linoleum floor and sterile air of the hospital. We were headed for a hot summer that June. Outside the sun beat down. We only caught a brief glimpse of the change in seasons on our short walk from car to hospital, hospital to car. Back and forth through night and day and in and out of weeks, with our baby in the NICU. Teddy was hooked up to a mess of wires, with a feeding tube going up his nose, and a tiny pulse ox glowing red, clamped over his foot. Every so often a wire would get caught on our clothing or on the chair, and the beeping would intensify, signaling a NICU nurse to rush over and reaffix a displaced monitor. The name card on the clear plastic bassinet read “Baby Hollowell.” He didn’t have his name yet. Better to let him breathe in the outside world for a while, so he could tell us who he is. He would have to carry that name through life. This wasn’t the first time I had been there; holding a nameless baby boy in the labor and delivery ward of St Joe’s Hospital. It wouldn’t be the last either. Fourteen years before, my oldest son Henry was born, at that same hospital, under the same glowing fluorescent lights. Most new parents will tell you that the day their first child was born was the best day of their lives. I don’t know if I would grant the title of Best Day Ever, I have never been one to choose favorites, but holding my son for the first time changed me. I was no longer just Steve, or Stephen. I was a Dad. As I cradled him in my arms, moments after he entered the world, Henry gazed up at me with dark newborn eyes, and I saw myself. Not so much a reflection, or a likeness, but a part of me. It was me holding me. “Stephen?” I thought. No. He deserves his own name. Jesse wanted to name him Jack, but I refused. It was too rough, too abrupt. I wanted my son to have a name that sounded significant - like he was destined for greatness. After two days of sitting in the recovery room, staring up at the whiteboard that read “Baby Hollowell,” she finally gave in. “Fine,” she said. “Name him whatever you want.” It was a sour win, but I was confident in his name. Henry Jameson Hollowell. It sounded regal. A name I hoped he would grow into. The middle name, Jameson, came from Jesse’s brother. He died the same night she told me she was pregnant. I called her the next day to let her know that I would be there, that I would man up, and be a father. She was sobbing. Her older brother Jamie, as they called him, was gone. He was 30 years old. I had only met him once. Robyn entrusted me with delivering a eulogy at her son’s funeral. I choked my way through it, and gave the best speech I could, reading aloud notes that his brothers and sisters had written, celebrating his life. After the service, I played a song on my guitar as guests trickled out of the funeral parlor. “Dead Flowers,” by the Rolling Stones, or Townes Van Zandt if you prefer the Big Lebowski version. A simple, three chord arrangement. I played it for Robyn the day before the service, and she said yes, that will do - but please no words, just strum the chords. Later that night, after the reception, we rode home in a limo. The song “Harder Better Faster Stronger,” the Kanye version that samples Daft Punk, had just come out, and it was playing on the radio. “Turn it up,” I told the limo driver. He blasted it. I stood up in my seat, and stuck my head out the sunroof, feeling the cool night air on my face as Kanye West carried on. That that don’t kill me Can only make me stronger I need you to hurry up now Cause I can’t wait much longer Eight months later, Henry was born. I did what I thought fathers were supposed to do; I grew a beard. My facial hair has never been much, and at 25, I was still pretty babyfaced. I thought it would help. My mom loved the name. We hadn’t been talking much then. She wasn’t crazy about the idea of me becoming a father with a woman she had never met, but the birth of her new grandson helped her come around. She has always been deep into names, and it meant something to me that she approved. I could see her scribbling it down in her notebook - as sure as she did with me, and Brian, and Greg. We grew up around those notebooks - journals of scattered thoughts and names and numbers. I could picture Henry Jameson written down on spiral bound pages in her neat, traditional hand. The name Henry had been in my head for a long time. When Teddy was born, we didn’t have a crib set up, let alone a name picked out. He was a month early, and caught us off guard. One night in June, Lizzie got up to use the bathroom, and when she fell back in bed, her water broke - or burst, into a puddle. We left soaked towels on the bedroom floor, and drove to the hospital in the middle of the night. After hours of labor and blood, sweat and tears, our son entered the world. Another Baby Boy Hollowell, back at St. Joe’s. After the doctors examined him, cleaned him up, and exited the room, the delivery nurse placed him on Lizzie’s chest. The first skin to skin with mother and baby. It was calm, and quiet, after the frenzy. There are certain moments in life when a woman looks her most radiant. Her wedding day, perhaps; all dolled up, and everything perfect. But nothing shines brighter than a woman who has just given birth to her first child. After months - years, of working to get our baby, he was finally here. As we relished those first moments of life, the delivery nurse noticed something. Baby was struggling to breathe. She could see his chest pulling, as he labored with each breath. The nurse called the doctors back in, and the tests began. Complications followed. One kidney, hearing loss, hematoma, jaundice, and a tiny hole in his heart. The longer he was out in the world, the more they uncovered; the more medical terms they threw around and expected us to understand. Doctors kept pushing for more and more tests. We just wanted to be with our baby. They hooked him up to oxygen, and a feeding tube. He went under UV lights to treat the jaundice. “Baby’s First Tan,” I called it. They kept him in the NICU, and we stayed in our recovery room. We spent as much time with him as we could. The hospital was still deep in COVID protocols, and masks were required. We were permitted to take them off when holding our baby - it was important that he could see our faces. We went back and forth from our room in the mother-baby unit to the NICU, between meetings with doctors, conversations with attending nurses, and tutorials on proper feeding techniques; all behind masks, relying on subtle expressions from the eyes for context. Our newborn was being cared for by strangers wearing face masks. At times I felt like a bystander, just watching it all unfold. Back in our room, the whiteboard stared at us blankly under the glare of the overhead fluorescents. Colored markers sat on the shelf, waiting for us to fill in the name. We made a list, and deliberated. Out in the hall, I took calls from clients. The nice ones wished me congratulations, and told me to get back to my family. A new season of Stranger Things had just come out, and I pulled it up on my laptop. Across the third floor, way off in the NICU, our baby slept in his plastic bassinet. Theodore. We said it out loud, and we knew it was right. We always knew he was a Teddy. “I want his middle name to be George,” Lizzie said. “After my uncle.” I had never met her Uncle George. He passed away right after we started dating. By all accounts, he was a sweet and kind man, married to Lizzie’s Aunt Sharon, who was, by my account, one of the nicest people you’d ever meet. Sharon knew that Teddy was on the way, but she never got to meet him. She passed away earlier that year. Theodore George Hollowell. We wrote it up on the whiteboard in blue EXPO marker. Carrying on the memory of an uncle, with a distinguished title. The sun was shining that day, and I went out for a walk. Stepping out of the mother-baby unit and into the elevator, I put on my headphones, and pulled up a song I had been hearing in my head for days. Like the pine trees lining the winding road I got a name I got a name I turned up the volume as loud as it would go, and stepped off the elevator into the lobby. Past the cafeteria, and out into the blinding sun and warm early summer air. Jim Croce sang on. Like the singin’ bird and the croakin’ toad I got a name I got a name I had been saving this song. Our boy had a name. The next day, we met with Teddy’s team of physicians. There were doctors we liked, and ones we didn’t. One of them pulled us aside. A mask covered her face, but her eyes smiled. “I just wanted to tell you,” she said. “My father’s name was Theodore George, and he was the kindest and gentlest man.” We graciously accepted her blessing. At home, my mom scribbled down the name in her notebook. We held our little Teddy close. He was tiny, just over five pounds, with little birdlike limbs. We were careful not to upset the wires, and trigger the chirping of machines, waiting patiently until the day we could finally take him home. Two years later, we find ourselves back at St Joe’s. Many of Teddy’s complications have been checked off the list, one by one, and we are able to drop some of the doctor visits. He is healthy, and happy, and excited to be a big brother. This baby is ready to be here. Lizzie has a procedure to help keep him in the womb. A cerclage. The French term sounds so fancy. It’s a c-section this time, and I had been there before. Suited up in white hospital duds and gloves, waiting out in the hall by myself as mother is prepped for surgery. Waiting for them to call me in. I stand with gloved hands raised in front of me, careful not to touch anything. I had been there with Henry. The moment the doctor suggests a c-section, you think no, it’s too early. We need to keep trying. They seem too eager to go into surgery, and wrap things up. You keep pushing. But the baby doesn’t come. At a certain point, you know they were right. They’ve done this a thousand times. So mom is wheeled back into surgery, and dad waits. One thing about c-section babies - they look perfect when they come out. Their heads did not have to squish through that narrow passage; they are carefully pulled by doctors’ hands from the open womb. Faces bright and round and ready for the world. Back in the recovery room, we write a list of names on the whiteboard. I throw out a couple oddball picks like Roger and Leroy. Lizzie declines. We had never discussed the name Phillip, but somehow it made it onto both of our short lists. We throw it out there, and it sticks. “Phillip Thomas,” I tell Lizzie. I want to give him my middle name. “Because he is the youngest of three boys, just like me.” There is a tradition among the Hollowell boys, that the oldest son gets the middle name Russell. My dad has it, and so does my oldest brother Brian. Since I’m the youngest, I start my own tradition. Legend has it that when the nine Hollowell brothers sailed to America from England in the 1500s, Thomas was the leader of the pack. His name has been passed down over many generations. Our family tree is rife with Thomases. I bring Teddy up to the hospital so he can see his baby brother for the first time. He is tired, and curls up in the hospital chair to take a nap. While Phillip was being born, Teddy stayed overnight with cousins - Uncle George and Aunt Sharon’s daughter, and her son. They played hard, and he is worn out. Later that night, I’m at home with Teddy, giving him a bath. I tell him about his baby brother, Phillip. He sits in the bathtub full of bubbles, and looks up at me with big bright eyes. “Baby brudder?” Teddy asks in his tiny not-quite-two-year-old voice. “Phillib. Phillub.” He tries the name out. I’m sure he’ll catch on quick. I get the whole exchange on video, and I know it’s one we will cherish, and watch when we are old and grey. My mom comes to visit at the hospital. We are finally past COVID measures. No more masks. I meet her in the parking lot - another sunny day. “Three boys,” my mom muses as we walk into the hospital together. “Wow, Steve.” Wow indeed. Later, my mom shows me the Phillip Thomas she has scribbled down in her notebook. “One L or two L’s?” she asks. “Two, of course,” I tell her. “To complement the Hollowell. He’s got a lot of L’s to keep track of.” I think of my two brothers, and how we grew up together, with Brian as our leader, and each other to lean on. We laughed, we fought, and we saw each other through. We did what brothers do best. Last month, we drove down to Florida for spring break, in Lizzie’s white Chrysler Pacifica. She bought the minivan right before Phillip was born, with future family road trips in mind. Henry climbs in the back, and Teddy and Phillip are strapped into their car seats. Henry’s last spring break with the family. Next month, he graduates from high school, and then he’s off to college. Off to make his way in the world, and to play music. I remind myself to cherish every moment we have with him. We leave at dusk so we can drive through the night, and the boys can sleep. As we drive through Ohio and Kentucky, I periodically look back to see our three boys, sleeping peacefully in the van, lulled by the whirring sound of tires and the ocean drone of highway. Lights from passing cars cut through the dark. The house in Port St Joe comes with a golf cart, and we cruise around the little town, and check out the beach. I bring a bluetooth speaker, the Wonderboom, and blast the song “Sailing,” by Christopher Cross. This yacht rock gem makes for the perfect soundtrack as we ride along in the golf cart, the ocean breeze blowing through our hair. I show the boys the tiny lizards running around outside. They chase the little green and brown anoles, and try to catch them. Just like Henry used to do when he was little, half a lifetime ago when we lived out past the orange groves north of Orlando. “Phillip, do you like the ocean?” I ask him, one night as we sit around the dinner table. He stops, and thinks for a moment, sitting in his high chair dressed in red and white Santa Claus pajamas. “I like the pool,” he says, in his little not-quite-two-year-old voice. “Do you like the ocean?” I ask him again. He looks at me. “I like the pool,” he says, deadpan. That settles it. I capture the exchange on video - another classic that we will watch when we are old and grey and the boys are grown. We go to the beach, and Henry digs a big hole in the sand. Teddy and Phillip jump in and out of the hole, and throw in sea shells and fistfuls of wet sand. I watch as Henry plays with Teddy and Phillip. They follow his every move. Lizzie comes over and puts her arm around me. “Lookit, babe,” she says. “Our three boys, all together.” We stand with our arms around each other, and take it all in. When Henry was born, I handled it like I did most other things in life. I took it in stride, and played it cool - like it was no big deal. Just another thing you do, like paying the bills or cutting the grass. Seventeen years later, and I’m singing a different tune. Experience has taught me how precious it all is. Movin’ me down the highway Rollin’ me down the highway Movin’ ahead so life won’t pass me by The other day on the way to drop the boys off at daycare, I threw on some Jim Croce. “You gotta ease ‘em into the Croce.” I told Greg later. “Start ‘em on the bangers like “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” and “Don’t Mess Around with Jim.” Then you can slowly work in the soft, sentimental jams, and pretty soon, they’ll be singing along to “Operator,” and “I Got a Name.”” “You’re a good dad,” said Greg. “Thanks.” If only I could grow a decent beard, or a nice full Jim Croce mustache…