Day Two

Entry #2

This morning, I woke up and the first thing I did was run to you. Washing up and changing didn’t even enter my mind; I just wanted to see you. I was scared that you already went back to Him. But there you were, still small and frail. Still hooked up to these colossal machines. I could barely see you underneath all of the wires. I wanted to hold you and kiss you and lull you back to sleep if I woke you up. The only thing between us was your heart.

How did you feel? Did you want me to hold you, kiss you, and lull you back to sleep? Did you want to go back to your mother? Did you want to get away from the machines? Did you want to escape from the incubator? Or did you want the pain and suffering to end? Did you want to go back to Him?

Your mother wanted you back in her arms. She wanted to hold you and never let go like she had for the past nine months. She wanted to cry. She wanted to be sick instead of you. She wanted to sacrifice her life if it meant that you lived. She was willing to do anything just to have you happy and healthy.

Today was the worst day of our lives. They took you away for surgery. I never knew that newborns could go into surgery until today. They said they needed to do it. They needed to help your little heart beat. They rolled you away after I got to say good morning. Then, I went back to your mother’s room. She was pale and, I’m sorry to say this but, she was a mess. Tissues filled up her bed and she couldn’t stop shaking. She asked me to take her to the operation room. She wanted to wait outside. She wanted to be the first one to greet you after your surgery.

The doctors wouldn’t allow it. But your mother insisted so we walked all the way to the operation room. Of course, we couldn’t go in but we waited in the hallway. Your mother wouldn’t let go of my hand. She kept her eyes closed and prayed. She begged God to heal you. She begged Him to let you stay with us. She begged Him to make her sick and make you healthy. She tried to bargain with Him. I couldn’t do anything to make her stop. I just held her.

After 17 long hours, the doctors came out. We almost died when we saw your blood on their clothes. They told us that we should prepare to say goodbye. They told us that there was nothing they could do anymore. Your mother exploded. She fell to the ground and I fell with her. I held her and we cried together. But her tears didn’t last long. She demanded to see you.

We saw you in your incubator, covered in bandages and wires. Your mother couldn’t stand by herself, so as I held her, we watched your little chest rise and fall. You looked broken and I hated it. The world was cruel, I knew that, but I didn’t know it was this cruel. My Younghae, did it hurt a lot? Did you want us to take away the pain? Did you want to cry into my chest? Did you want to grasp onto your mother and wail?

We couldn’t stay for long. We didn’t say goodbye. We told you that we would see you later. Did you hear us? I hope you did. We forced ourselves to walk back to your mother’s room. It’s late.  The moon’s not even in the sky. Your mother asked me to sleep with her. I’m writing this entry as I hold her. She’s not sleeping yet. She’s just staring at my white shirt. She’s crying. She’s calling your name. Can you hear her cries? They told me that a mother and her baby share a deep connection that no one else can have. She’s telling me that you’ll survive. It’s like a chant.

Younghae, I need you to make it through the night. I need you to grow up and tell your mother that it’ll be okay. I need you to tell her that you’re fine. You need to tell her. If I tell her, she won’t like it. She needs to hear it from your pretty little mouth.

Good night, baby.

Good night, my little Younghae.