Thanks for being alive

I want to be happy. There was a time when I desperately wished for happiness at the hospital one morning. The farthest place in the world from happiness seems to be a hospital. When you come to the hospital, all kinds of negative emotions, such as misgivings, worries, and unhappiness balloon, forcing you to feel as if happiness is an elusive luxury you cannot afford. This is when I was waiting for my child’s surgery to be over.

When my youngest child was three years old, he needed a procedure. The doctor said it was not a complex procedure, but it involved administering general anesthesia to his tiny body and putting a small hole in his stomach. I stayed with him as a caregiver right up to the operating room. At that time, I was wearing a sterile suit and holding him in my arms, who collapsed as soon as the anesthetic was administered, like a paper doll. His doctor said, "Don't worry, he's asleep. Now, I will take him to the operating room.” I responded. “Please, take good care of him.” I was choked with emotion. But there was nothing I could do. When I sent my baby to the operating room and walked out, I was left alone in an empty hallway. Then, tears rolled down my cheeks. Unable to sit still, I stood in the hallway and waited for the procedure to end.

Time passed slowly, probably because I was nervous. I was so scared of that moment I tried to think of happy times with my children. An ordinary day where nothing happened. The mornings I overslept and leisurely laid around with the kids. Memories of having fun with my kids while eating ice cream on the way home along the back alleys. The memory of Mother's Day when I received the gift of my face he drew with crayons. The nights I looked at my sleeping children and kissed them on the cheeks. It wasn't until after the happy moments had passed or felt distant that it became clear that I was truly happy then. I found happiness in the farthest place from happiness. I decided to hug my son when he came out of the operation. At that time, the closest and most desperate happiness to me was hugging my baby. My son's surgery went well. Upon finding me, my son burst into tears and I gave him a long, big hug.

I watched my son sleep in the middle of the night. I suddenly feared that my child might be dead because he slept so soundly. I put my hand over his nose and examined and touched his body. I felt the soft breath in my knuckles, his heartbeat, and his warm skin. My son was alive. What is this state of mind of a mother who is relieved only by touching her sleeping child? Being alive may be too precarious and fragile. I did not take it as a given that the little human was breathing and growing. It is like a miracle.

It dawned on me that I love this life I birthed who cries, grows, falls ill, and goes to sleep before opening eyes. I realize it is possible to love someone without asking for anything in return. I quietly brushed my child's hair, which became the reason for all my worries, sadness, pain, and happiness. Thank you for being alive and there for me. The night my child is not well, the night I feel relieved by touching my breathing child will be left a secret to all parents in the world.