A Letter to Nata on this Day of Remembering Phoenix
July 23, 2017
Dearest son,
I’m writing this to you and hoping you can read it when you’re old enough to understand that there is more to life than chocolate milk, toy soldiers, and kisses from mommy and daddy. I think one day you will search for answers; perhaps out of curiosity or in response to life-changing events, or perhaps you carry the unfortunate gene of what Winston Churchill described as “the black dog,” which I have found to come hand-in-hand with a perpetual thirst for answers. I’m writing this now, thumbing words on what we call an iPhone as you sit on my lap watching something on T.V. and snacking on Trix cereal. Dear son, what I want to say isn’t simple and will not be completely understood by this single letter alone, but I hope it gives you a glimpse into a terrible thing called loss.
You see, one year ago from today, July 23rd of 2016, I underwent a painful event where doctors had put me under anesthesia and removed the lifeless body of your brother whom I called Phoenix. This name came to me the night before when I was told that he has given up on a fight we faced together. Under more what might have been a dozen medication and in a weird state in between unconsciousness and being awake, I told my doctor that his name is Phoenix. Perhaps I thought of it when dad and I had to decide right away whether to cremate his body or to bring him home to Palau which would have meant staying longer in P.I. and working through legal papers; which ultimately meant more time away from you. I also wanted to immortalize your little brother in my heart and mind by associating him with the mythical red bird that rose from the ashes. Interestingly, the little guy was red as can be when I saw and held him for a precious hour.
I want you to know something about Phoenix, not so you would guilt trip over it but rather for you to understand and appreciate life and all its complexities and mysteries. The day before the emergency surgery, I had come to the edge of my illness where my body began to let go of life. After a screaming session of pain and hours of silent suffering as I moved around on my bed, looking for a comfortable position for I felt like I was literally drowning as my lungs were squeezed by the massive amount of water that had invaded my organs, I finally fell asleep with the help of sedation. I think it was around 7 or 8pm (I kept watching the wall clock the entire month of this ordeal, it became something constant and comforting to me) when I first felt the cold. I asked your dad for an extra blanket and fell back to sleep. The next thing I knew, my body was shaking violently like never before and nurses were running in and out of my room. I only remember thinking that I’ve never felt coldness like that before. They brought doctors, more medicine, and a special blanket with a device attached to it. As it turns out, my body was experiencing shock, and basically, it was giving up after two weeks of fighting to live.
I don’t remember much after that because I was floating in and out of consciousness, however, the next thing I remember were the staff circling around me, almost all of them again plus others from another team. They hauled in their ultrasound equipment and spent even more time pressing around my stomach. For the next hour and a half, they desperately searched for your brother’s heartbeat without success. The perinatal doctor then declared him dead. Tears streamed down my face as I was being told this. Time seemed to have froze. At the same time of being given the news, I was overwhelmed with guilt for something I had asked from Phoenix. Right before or after the shock event, it’s hard to remember, I had whispered to him as I pressed my hand gently on my swelled belly, to “let mommy go.”
I had learned from the latest ultrasound that he was on self-preserving mode and that only his brain and heart were working as blood no longer circulated his limbs and other parts of his tiny body. This had devastated me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to survive and live a life of suffering, albeit a short life as his doctor predicted, or whether I wished him to let go.
At some point I must have thought that keeping him alive inside of me raised the stakes by the hour, and that a stubborn effort to do so meant we were risking both our lives. Son, I chose life, at least in my head at the time, because I didn’t want to leave you behind. I had asked baby Phoenix to let me go so that I could come back to you. Like I said, this is not to make you feel guilty, but rather to appreciate the other mysterious things in life and life itself. It was hard to even think for a second that I would leave you at three years of age when we had worked so hard together. You were a miracle baby at 2lbs 3oz and life didn’t start easy for you as well.
Since that day, I haven’t been the same. I have lived each day for you and cried most nights for him. I’m broken. I don’t know if I can be fixed, but I try and I try hard. I like to think that I live a productive life, doing good work and engaging with society; but the reality is, I have this hole in my heart and it can’t seem to go away. I want you to understand and to expect that life is hard and complex and that things take time to happen. Most importantly, I want you to try to understand the painful and mysterious thing that is loss. Loss is an illusive matter, it both drives us to live with vigor while all the same time pinning us down to that dark place in our soul where nothing makes sense and where pain reigns. I have learned to live with both and I hope you would do too when it comes for you.
I want to end this letter with a quote from a thinker whom I consider a giant in my book, Viktor Frankl:
“For people who think there’s nothing to live for, nothing more to expect from life … the question is getting these people to realise that life is still expecting something from them.”
I love you so much,
Mom
