I remember the first time I held you.
So tiny, so fragile. Your eyes were wide with unshakable curiosity as you explored your new home for the very first time.
You were everything I could’ve ever asked for. I could deal with all the gross things to come, but if that was the price of loving you then I could live with that. I wouldn’t have changed a thing.
You were so much responsibility, but I was willing to take on it all just so I could be the person you needed me to be.
I remember the day the doctor told us that your little body was not as it should be. That it would eventually hurt you just to move, that your vision wasn’t great, that your hearing should’ve been better. I remember how saddened I was that you had been brought into the world with a body that might not be able to weather it.
But it was okay. You looked at me with those big, hopeful eyes, and I knew you’d be okay. You saw this challenge and you were willing to take it on as longs as you weren’t alone.
And I was never gonna leave you alone. There were times I had to leave you, and those were so hard, but I knew you were safe with your grandma and when I returned, you always were so excited to see me.
I watched you grow up, I watched your body slowly deteriorate on you. You couldn’t stand as tall as you once did, your body more comfortable in a more hunched state. But that didn’t stop you from moving, if anything, I watched it give you motivation. When the occasion called for it, you sprinted like a cheetah after its prey.
There were days where I forgot how much your little body was failing you. It was hard, seeing the bad days where you didn’t want to move because your body was in too much pain after having so many good days. We tried different therapies and all sorts of treatments, and you hated every single one. It wasn’t worth seeing you get upset just for a few moments of reprieve. It wasn’t worth it if we could just make you comfortable.
And we did. You were absolutely spoiled rotten by those who loved you, always making sure you had way more than you needed or could ever want.
We made sure you were loved and happy and in an amount of pain that was manageable. And, since we come from a family where pain management was a genetic need, we were good at it.
It was always a good day when I heard your footsteps echo throughout the house, moving on your own with no assistance from me, even as you got older. You were doing so well, despite what the doctors had prepared us for, I had completely forgotten that he had warned that one day, we might lose you.
Loss is natural, it’s simply the next step in life, but it didn’t make it any easier.
And so, when everything began to go wrong, I began to worry, as I finally remembered what the doctors had warned about for years.
I had never been religious, but I began to pray every night, not caring which of the Gods listened, just that you would last a little longer because I wasn’t ready to accept it.
But you were.
And sometimes I think you had been for a long time.
I remember holding you for the last time.
Your wide eyes no longer held the curiosity I once knew. They were tired and worn down and you had accepted it all so much quicker than I did.
The room wasn’t as sterile as I thought it would be. I had been in a room just like it before, but yet the picture that I had in my head before heading in had been totally different. You didn’t even fight it when it came. You took your last breath in my arms, and I held on longer than what I should’ve because I knew this was the last time I ever would.
Sometimes I wish I could just go back to that first time. Just so I could hold you again.
By Lou Turnball
*This was originally published in the ‘Tertangala: Heartbreak Issue’ (2024)