Hi Sonny,

My heart hurts right now. It will always be painful that you were born silent. Life just goes on painfully without you, LJ. You’re supposed to be in my arms right now, being cuddled, kissed and receiving tons of love.

You were too special to exist in this realm, my son, but I will meet you one day. I don’t know if you can look down from wherever you are, and see me crying right now, because you changed my life in so many ways.

It will always be strange not having you physically here with us, in the world I wanted you to see, still healing in my post partum period.

I am grateful you allowed me to experience a little piece of motherhood, during the time we shared together. I already miss your little movements and hiccups. You will forever be a part of my world.

I love you.
Mom

Today is Friday, five days since you left us. I woke up at 5am because there was still a lot left to do. Going back to the hospital, where we last saw you, was not going to be easy.

While I waited outside the registrar’s office, I realized that we were not far from the children’s clinic. There were children running around and doing things that children would normally do… that you could have done one day. Your Mom held my hand and I knew we felt the same, even though we could only see each other’s eyes behind our masks. When the time came, we were given a piece of paper allowing you to finally leave the hospital. What followed was a frantic effort to fill out even more forms and get things signed by the correct people. But we did it anyway because we were doing it for you.

At the start of the day I did not want to interact with or be recognized by anyone; just get in and get out! This approach has worked when I felt stressed about other things in life, but I came to realize that I could not let that continue. Even with my “dad hat” and mask on, people still recognized and waved hello, not having a clue as to what had happened to you. However, who could blame them? They did not know because I hadn’t told them anything as yet.

By the time your aunt arrived, I felt better. She has always been the energy of the family and your uncle compliments her well. Spending some time with them and your grandparents reminded us how important family really is and how much your life affects ours. We actually smiled and laughed for a little while.

I know that your departure from us is still fresh and painful to think about, and look forward to the day when I can say your name without feeling this pain. It likely won’t come now or a year from now. But, like most wounds that leave a scar when they heal some day, they’re there as a constant reminder that we endured pain.

Good night, Lucas.

Love, Dad

Today is Thursday, only four days since you left us. I woke up at 4am again, unable to sleep and unsure of what I had dreamt. It also happens to be the day that the doctors will examine you to determine why all of this happened.

I decided to do the laundry since I was up already. So I fed kitty and started, only to notice that the skies were overcast and the day looked like it would be a gloomy one. Normally, this would make me upset because I had failed to check the weather forecast before doing laundry, but I felt sad instead. Something was about to happen to you that I never thought you would have to experience.

At the hospital, I delivered some tests which the doctors had requested. I wanted to get out of there quickly, though, because everything reminded me of that day. However, your Mom and I were reminded of a certain piece of paper we would have to obtain from the registrar’s office – a piece of paper that, under different circumstances, would have been your first achievement award for coming into this world! Obstacles delayed the process for today, so will have to return tomorrow.

On returning home, the day grew darker with a light drizzle. Your Mom, predicting the oncoming sadness, started talking about what features you would have inherited from us: her nose, my lips, her unique hand crease patterns, my lanky legs… You never opened your eyes, but we knew they were beautiful, too.

And like a small light in the darkness, this gloomy day was not so gloomy anymore. Some of the people who teach Dad how to do his work properly (yes, Dad is still a student at his age!) showed up at our doorstep to express their sympathy. There were few words and a small orchid, but that visit made a world of a difference. Do you know what an orchid is? I will show you when we meet again. It is another one of God’s beautiful creations, just like you.

I write this as I get ready to pick up your grandparents (Dad’s parents) from the airport. When they heard about what happened to you, they wanted to be here. I am sorry you never got to meet them. Your aunt (Dad’s smart sister) will be coming to join us tomorrow as well.

We will talk again soon.

Love, Dad

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