Their stories were all congruent.
(For those who had lost a child in a hospital bed and still searching for their lost hope)
In expectation, they have waited for their first born.
They were once the typical parents who adorned their babies’ small hands and feet or their velvety skin and round eyes—minutes after an arduous childbirth experience. With gentle whispers, they once assured their first born that the world is not a scary place to live even though they themselves arbitrarily believed that the world is indeed atrocious. That life, if ideal, is filled with shallow contentment but if realistic is nothing but everything.
They celebrated each night they were wide awake by their firsts’ hungry whimpers and wails or instances of his distinct chuckling on dancing lights. In the child’s eyes, they felt that for once all their flaws and mistakes were bygones. But the world is indeed harsh for those who believed that life should only be rainbows, laughter and merriment and not about bills, provision and inconsistencies. Hers was the soreness and discomfort of providing for the milk if he was not able to make the ends meet. They compromised…they sacrificed-- after all they have waited for ten years and so.
On the third month, they had not anticipated their child’s limpness and poor sucking. They miscalculated their aspirations; he wanted to teach his son how to ride a cheap second-hand bicycle on his eight and she dreamt of becoming her son’s tutor on fractions on his ten. But they only had thirty days- according to a doctor’s intelligent articulation about their son’s rare cardiac condition.
As soon as the disclosure was given, they went through the grieving process. They denied that their child’s skin was abnormally an ash grey. They were hoping for years instead of days. They kept their dreams alive but in every moment they saw their child’s closed eyes—their dreams waivered and were shattered into silhouettes. They designated their short term plans to fit into their child’s thirty days; he just wanted to be strong and man enough to stop all the tears from falling while she stopped blaming herself. In meager, they provided for all the things required from them. They were unselfish and unconditional— they sacrificed their meal for their child’s anti-pyretics and they made him secured by ignoring their own fatigue.
Not once they had faltered; they waited for their son’s recovery. Softly in his ear, they told him that together they will make fireworks last, sunsets will be paused in between the hues of orange and red, falling stars will populate every night sky and there will be no rain on happy days (if there is, it would be skipped until the rainbow part).
People around them were counting the days. They did not want them to count. They only begged for answers from them and not numbers. They counted: “twenty nine…thirty” and provided no answers.
In despair, they have grieved their first (probably their last).
They stopped hoping…they stopped living.
(For those who had lost a child in a hospital bed and still searching for their lost hope)
In expectation, they have waited for their first born.
They were once the typical parents who adorned their babies’ small hands and feet or their velvety skin and round eyes—minutes after an arduous childbirth experience. With gentle whispers, they once assured their first born that the world is not a scary place to live even though they themselves arbitrarily believed that the world is indeed atrocious. That life, if ideal, is filled with shallow contentment but if realistic is nothing but everything.
They celebrated each night they were wide awake by their firsts’ hungry whimpers and wails or instances of his distinct chuckling on dancing lights. In the child’s eyes, they felt that for once all their flaws and mistakes were bygones. But the world is indeed harsh for those who believed that life should only be rainbows, laughter and merriment and not about bills, provision and inconsistencies. Hers was the soreness and discomfort of providing for the milk if he was not able to make the ends meet. They compromised…they sacrificed-- after all they have waited for ten years and so.
On the third month, they had not anticipated their child’s limpness and poor sucking. They miscalculated their aspirations; he wanted to teach his son how to ride a cheap second-hand bicycle on his eight and she dreamt of becoming her son’s tutor on fractions on his ten. But they only had thirty days- according to a doctor’s intelligent articulation about their son’s rare cardiac condition.
As soon as the disclosure was given, they went through the grieving process. They denied that their child’s skin was abnormally an ash grey. They were hoping for years instead of days. They kept their dreams alive but in every moment they saw their child’s closed eyes—their dreams waivered and were shattered into silhouettes. They designated their short term plans to fit into their child’s thirty days; he just wanted to be strong and man enough to stop all the tears from falling while she stopped blaming herself. In meager, they provided for all the things required from them. They were unselfish and unconditional— they sacrificed their meal for their child’s anti-pyretics and they made him secured by ignoring their own fatigue.
Not once they had faltered; they waited for their son’s recovery. Softly in his ear, they told him that together they will make fireworks last, sunsets will be paused in between the hues of orange and red, falling stars will populate every night sky and there will be no rain on happy days (if there is, it would be skipped until the rainbow part).
People around them were counting the days. They did not want them to count. They only begged for answers from them and not numbers. They counted: “twenty nine…thirty” and provided no answers.
In despair, they have grieved their first (probably their last).
They stopped hoping…they stopped living.
