When seeing your own child becomes a luxury

They say NICUs are the quietest corners of a hospital—places where only the steady hum of machines, the hushed voices of nurses, and the breathless prayers of parents occupy the air. But in their silence, the loudest stories unfold—ones no camera can capture, no logbook can record.

This is the story of Imran and Sana. It is a story of waiting. Of aching. Of loving in the distance.

Imran stood near the entrance of NICU-A every single day. Always in the same spot. One hand gripping his phone, the other tucked nervously into his pocket. His eyes, fixed unblinking at the heavy glass doors and his ears focused on the loudspeaker announcements, told a story of sleepless nights and relentless hope. His child—his firstborn—had come into this world not with cries, but with silence. Born too soon. Too frail. A life dependent on tubes and ventilators, nestled inside a crib of blinking lights and plastic walls.

“He’s not stable. He’s on full ventilator support,” they had said.

Imran didn’t ask questions. He didn’t argue policy. He only nodded and waited.

What choice did he have?

He had already watched his wife, Sana, endure eight months of struggle—of swollen feet, daily injections, blood pressure pills, endless hospital visits. She was diabetic and hypertensive, and each day of her pregnancy was a borrowed day. She had developed Bell’s palsy in her last trimester. Half her face had gone stiff. Even eating and smiling had become labors of love. But she carried on—for the child, for the future.

And then, when the moment of birth came, it wasn’t relief that followed. It was another round of fear. Her baby was taken away to the NICU almost instantly—barely breathing, his chest struggling under the strain of life.

While the child was rushed to one hospital, Sana remained 60 kilometers away, recovering from her surgery, the stitches across her belly still raw. She lay in a modest bed, clutching her phone like a lifeline, waiting for updates from Imran. Every ring of the phone jolted her heart. Every silence between them hurt more than the scar she bore.

And Imran—what could he say to her?

That he hadn’t even seen their child properly?

That he hadn’t been allowed to enter the NICU even once?

That his only glimpses came through others—paramedics, aides, strangers—offering him secret snapshots for a few rupees?

The first time, he was shown only his son’s legs.

“That’s all you get for fifty rupees,” someone muttered casually.

But Imran did not flinch. He just stared at the image as if it was a picture from God, his breath catching at the sight of two tiny legs wrapped in sterile white. He kept that photo tucked as a mobile wallpaper like a sacred relic. Because when you have not held your child, have not whispered to him, have not kissed his skin—pixels become priceless.

And so, he waited.

For twenty-three days and twenty-three nights.

He waited through thunderstorms and restless nights, through sunrises that didn’t warm him and sunsets that felt like endings. He watched other parents come and go. Some left smiling. Some left in silence. Some left wrapping their lifeless kids inside blankets. And every night, Imran kept waiting in the waiting area of the NICU-A and texted Sana:

“No change today. He’s still on support. But he’s fighting.”

And she would reply, “Tell him I’m waiting too.”

But how do you tell a newborn anything? Especially when you’re not even allowed to see him?

This wasn’t a story of medical negligence. It wasn’t about blame or bureaucracy. It was about something deeper—something far more invisible and harder to fix. It was about the heartbreak of modern parenthood in crisis. About rules that are made for the benefit of the neonates, but broke hearts in real life. About a father who was made to feel like a stranger to his own son. About a mother who fought for months only to be separated at the very beginning.

People often speak of maternal pain—the strength of mothers, the courage of childbirth—and rightly so. But there are fathers too. Fathers like Imran who carry their pain in silence, in clenched fists and sleepless nights. Fathers who are expected to stay strong when they are crumbling inside. Fathers who wait behind glass doors, eyes fixed, heart aching.

And in another town, in another small room, there was Sana. Her face still drooped on one side from the palsy, her body still sore from surgery. But her pain was not from the physical wounds. It was the distance. The helplessness. The inability to hold the child she had fought so hard to bring into the world.

She too waited—for the sound of a ringtone, for a text from her husband that would say, “He’s better now.”

But that message didn’t come.

Only the machines kept beeping. The baby kept breathing. And Imran kept waiting.

This is not just a story. This is a mirror—held up to every system that forgets the human behind the patient. To every parent who has stood outside a NICU door, whispering their love through glass.

Ask yourself:

What would you give to hold your child?

What does it mean when seeing your own baby becomes a luxury?

And somewhere tonight, in some corridor, a father still stands—not holding his son, but holding on. For one moment. One heartbeat. One hope.

He’s not asking for much. Just a chance to be a father.

— A Story for All Who Wait Behind ICU Doors

— A Story for All Who Wait in Love and Silence

Author is a father of a NICU neonate