Two Mornings a Week

Cedar Valley News
Fictorial Number 430 · October 3, 2026
Two Mornings a Week
By Aisha Khalid

I have spent my working life learning the body as a problem to be solved. A chart, a number out of range, a shadowed scan. We are trained to find what went wrong and correct it, and it is good work. But it teaches you to see the body chiefly as a machine capable of failing. When I read about a man in Richmond, Virginia, I had to sit with it: for eight years he has used his body for the opposite purpose. He gives it away, two mornings a week, to the smallest patients in the hospital.

His name is Dave Whitlow. He is 73, a retired local government manager, a father of two and a grandfather of three. Every Tuesday and Thursday he comes to the neonatal intensive care unit at Children’s Hospital of Richmond at VCU, and he holds babies. Not his own, not his family’s. Infants he has never met, some weighing less than two pounds, born too early or too sick to go home. He gowns, he gloves, he leaves his phone outside the unit, he asks the nurses about each child before he lifts one. Then he sits, and he holds. Five or six in a morning, sometimes eight.

He is a volunteer, not a nurse, and I want to be careful about what he is doing. He is not administering a cure. He is giving comfort, the plain human kind a frightened newborn needs and cannot ask for. Around him stands some of the most advanced machinery medicine has built. A monitor can count every breath. An incubator can hold a body at the right warmth. A line can deliver oxygen by the milliliter. It’s all a marvel, and I lean on it every day. And none of it can hold a child.

Whitlow calls it the best gig he has ever had. “It just feels right,” he says. “I pretty much just want to be with them.” He admitted he was frightened the first time, and I believe him; the fear is the simplest kind: they are so small. And yet he came back, and kept coming back, for children who will never remember his face, whose parents in the hardest hours cannot be at the bedside. He is standing in for arms unable to be there.

Before he sets each baby down, he whispers the same three words: “grow strong, grow smart, grow kind.” Listen to the third one. Strong and smart we can measure, and the whole apparatus of medicine bends toward them. Kind we cannot measure at all. It is the one wish he makes with no instrument behind it, and nothing in the room can help him keep it.

I think often of the body as a ledger. Mine records every illness, every repair, the small daily thefts of age, most of it written without my consent. But here is the rare page a person gets to author on purpose. Whitlow is 73. His body is doing to him what all our bodies do, and he knows it better than I could tell him. He has simply decided to spend what it can still give on infants who give him nothing back, not a name, not a memory. He has turned the plain fact of a warm body into a gift.

We talk about aging almost entirely as loss, the things a body can no longer do. Whitlow’s cannot do everything it once did either. But it can still be warm. It can still hold. To a two-pound child who knows nothing of years, a heartbeat is only a heartbeat, steady and close, and his still keeps good time.

I will not tell you what to do with your own body. Whitlow has shown it better than any instruction of mine could. Tuesday he will go back. Thursday he will go again. He will gown and glove and leave his phone at the door, lift a child who cannot thank him, and hold the small weight of a life just beginning; before he sets it down, he will wish it the only three things worth wishing. Grow strong. Grow smart. And grow kind.

Cedar Valley News is free, and it comes to your inbox every morning, six days a week. If this morning’s fictorial was worth your time, please forward it to someone who would value it. And if someone forwarded it to you and you’d like your own each morning, you can subscribe here.

Cedar Valley News has a Letters to the Editor page, and I would be glad to hear from you. Who, in your life, has given you the plain gift of their presence when nothing else could be done? Write and tell us. And if we have gotten a fact wrong, write and tell us, and we will run the correction.

This fictorial is part of the fictional Cedar Valley News series, written by Evan Swensen, Publisher, and Claude Marshall, AI Developmental Editor. While Aisha Khalid and the town of Cedar Valley are fictional, Dave Whitlow and Children’s Hospital of Richmond at VCU are real. As reported by WTVR (CBS 6, Richmond) on April 30, 2026, Whitlow, 73, a retired local government manager, father of two and grandfather of three, has volunteered for eight years as a cuddler in the hospital’s neonatal intensive care unit, coming every Tuesday and Thursday to hold premature and sick newborns, some weighing less than two pounds. He gowns and gloves, leaves his phone outside the unit, and consults the nurses about each child before holding five or six babies in a morning, sometimes eight. He said, “It’s the best gig I’ve ever had. It just feels right,” and “I pretty much just want to be with them,” and before setting each baby down he whispers, “grow strong, grow smart, grow kind.” It is a reflection, not medical advice. Source: WTVR (CBS 6, Richmond), April 30, 2026.

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