Being in the NICU has been like traveling on a futuristic starship. Your mother and I haven’t left the hospital for a long time and I can’t help but to wonder if this is what it feels like to take a long, confined trip to Mars. The emotions are all there, too. Fear of the dangers mingling with the anticipation of something incredible and new.
The staff in the NICU remind me vaguely of the ship’s crew on the Starship Enterprise. Everyone bustles around purposefully and deliberately, occasionally spouting technical jargon to one another that isn’t necessarily important for us, the spectators, to follow. Even the uniforms are somewhat color coded so you always know what level of the pecking order you are talking to.
Occasionally, you see a red alarm flash somewhere and everyone goes to battle stations. You haven’t had a red alert yet, Ellie, but a few yellows maybe. The Romulans have de-cloaked here and there but they haven’t fired their distruptors.
In a way, when I look at you, I feel as though you are floating through space. The outside world is cold and dangerous, but your atmosphere is kept at warm, humid conditions and the air that goes into your lungs is meticulously controlled. Like an astronaut in the frigid void, you would swiftly perish without them.