There is something in the air that won’t go away. That probably never will go away. I see it every time I close my eyes. I see her small face. I see her face looking at every small, screaming, smiling creature that passes by. I imagine what her face would look like at that age, I can’t seem to make an image of her.
You have to be strong people say. What else can I be? Sometimes life doesn’t give you a choice, like it didn’t give to her.
I hate going to the same hospital where I left her. I hate seeing the same faces. I hate waiting there. I waited too long.
I hate waiting for my scar to heal so I could run. I wanna run so badly. I have so much to run..
it’s strange how sometimes we are able to create tragedy out of nothing and sometimes surviving tragedies we are not even allowing ourselves to call it that way. It’s strange how my brain shut down all the pain receptors, distorted all my memory. When I was on the operation table I was so scared from many things. One was of operation itself, I never had one. After they woke me up to tell me that my baby was not breathing I felt no pain, for the first time I was scared for my life. I don’t remember much of the first day since I was under anaesthesia. I remember one lady that took care of me during the night. First couple times she would come to check me, to hold my hand and say to stay strong. As the night was ending so was her strength to pretend, so she started crying with me. She didn’t even manage to say goodbye at the end of her shift. It seemed like was harder for her than for me.
When I saw her first time, I didn’t feel what you should feel when you see your child for the first time. I was dreaming of those moments of holding your baby for the first time. The only thing I could do from my wheelchair was putting my hand through small opening in the incubator and touching her as carefully as if I was touching the most precious thing in the world, because that’s what she was. And that’s when it all started going out. My soul, my heart, my mind poured out. They wanted to escape through the tears, but they were locked inside with a view fixated on her. On all the tubes. I tried to clear my view. To see her only, how she looked like. I was looking at her small lips, cheeks, closed eyes. She had the cutest lips I ever saw in my life. I was touching her small body which was shaking. I was calming her down. I was calling her, but the only thing we heard was the sound of her breathing through the respiratory tubes. I would break and cry almost every time I would enter that room.
After intensive care I was put in shared room when one lady came next my bed. She didn’t speak English, so we tried to speak in Slovak. She gave birth to a dead baby. Everything was supposed to be okay, there was no sign for such thing. I was silent and didn’t try to give her any comfort as there was no such and I knew it. As she was discussing how they will find money to transport the dead body, I was eating my soup. Probably at that moment I realised how bizarre and tough was everything. I remembered one book from Viktor Frankl while eating the soup. He was saying that in an abnormal situation abnormal reaction is normal. And there was similar moment in a book where he was describing himself or someone eating the soup they served in concentration camp while watching dying body. I couldn’t feel more related.
All the nurses and stuff around would barely hold their tears. They’ve tried to do their work. All of them had full eyes of tears as they would come to check her up or to change her. She changed so much in those 8 days. She became so fluffier and incredibly cute and irresistible. It made my heart crack even more. Sometimes we would manage to enter the room with the smile, finding the last bit of strength to show her joy that she is there. We would tell jokes. After all the torture she was going through we made agreement not to cry around her but to smile. Tuesday was the news day. Our doctor was himself crushed after telling us the news. He was barely staying calm and focused, almost falling down to cry with us because he couldn’t do anything. The night we got a separated room to stay with Aurora, we found out he was going through difficulties with his two year old.
We have a saying in my language that it is harder for to the one who takes care of dying, than for dying one. Can you measure it who had it harder? Was it harder for the nurse that run out of words of comfort? Was it harder for that lady that did not manage to see her baby alive? Was it harder for nurses that saw us coming back every few hours to stay and sit next her, to sing to her and cry and smile? Was it harder for doctors who had to tell me/us all the news they had and couldn’t do anything about it? Was it harder for her to come to the world in such condition that the only recognisable working function was breathing and pooping? Was it harder for my parents that were here all the time praying to their God never to get an answer? Was it harder for my mom watching me cold and distant because I couldn’t stand anyone except Mario nearby? Was it harder for us to watch our first baby like that and not being able to save her? I have concluded that it was the hardest for her, but was and is hard and tough for all of us. The doctor was telling us they never had Aurora, and they will always remember her. She was a special baby and we were special parents. Most of parents couldn’t stand seeing their baby at all. My mother broke in the end I was comforting her. All the nurses that hid their teary eyes from us. It was toughest for her. She was the one fighting, and she did good.
Sometimes life doesn’t give us a choice. It straps us even from our will and holds us just on the tip of its finger making us recognisably alive. For us alive and breathing on our own without any tubes down our throats, it does give a choice. It gives a choice of making it a tragedy or surviving a tragedy. It gives a choice of calling it a reason why not to live anymore or trying to breathe at your fullest because it’s a onetime gift. It gives a choice of hating the life and everything about it or embracing the life again and keeping the sweetest memories you could with all the love you could. It gives us a choice and we should appreciate it because we are not amongst those who are not given any.
And for the love of them, we should choose wisely.