Sydney, 2022
Liverpool Street in downtown Sydney had never looked this gloomy when Mom suddenly called. "He won't survive," she told me over the phone, her voice trembling. At that moment, I knew something bad was happening to my brother's unborn baby. A wave of desperation washed over me as I listened to her through the phone.
This was the moment I learned the harsh truth about my nephew, the child we had eagerly waited for a decade. His life was destined to be heartbreakingly short due to trisomy 13 – a rare condition where an extra chromosome 13 brings a host of health challenges, often leading to heart defects or spinal cord abnormalities. Most infants with this condition don't survive past their first week.
Sitting on the steps of a Commonwealth Bank branch, I grappled with the news. It was an ordinary Wednesday for the bustling city, but for me, the world felt shattered. Roles and titles that once defined me in Sydney – a student, an educator, a casual employee – now felt distant. At that moment, I was simply an aunt torn up by grief, mourning a tiny soul I had never met, thousands of kilometer away from where his life supposedly began.
When my brother and his wife shared their joyous news of expecting their first child after a decade-long journey, I held a secret hope. I yearned for this little life to bridge the emotional gaps within our family, to draw us closer together. He could even be the reason for my more frequent visits back home.
I booked my flight back to Indonesia, setting it for two weeks from that heart-wrenching call. I aimed to be there a month before my sister-in-law's due date. In a time of profound sorrow, this was the only decision that mattered. The rest of the world could wait; my family needed me now.
My brother texted me on Monday, 9 October 2022 when I was packing my bags in my room in Surry Hills. "My son is finally here, but he's still in NICU. His name is Yusuf".
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Love letters to Yusuf
10 October 2022
Dear Yusuf,
Welcome to the world. We've been waiting for you. Especially your Mom and Dad, they have been counting down the days until they could finally hold you in their arms. Your father once asked me if he would be ready to be a father. I assured him that he was born for this role and that he'd be an incredible dad, better than your grandfather, I bet. And you will be the luckiest kid in the world.
I'm in Kuala Lumpur airport right now, waiting for my next flight to see you. I want to know you better. I want to hold your tiny hand and tell you stories about the first snowfall in a cold December in Pennsylvania, a warm sunny day at Belmore Park in Sydney, or even beautiful waterfalls in North Bali. You see, I've got a promise to make: I'll take you to all these beautiful places one day.
Your dad might tell you that I won't be around much, but I will be the one who teaches you how to ride your first bike and pick you up when you fall. I promise I will help you solve your math problems even though I'm not good with numbers. I will be there for you when a girl breaks your heart for the first time.
Yusuf, you were born two days after your grandmother lost her sister, my aunty. She was a remarkable soul, known for her kindness. Everyone texted me that God took one person from our family and gave another one. They asked me what they should buy for you. And I still haven't answered them. How could I tell them that you are still fighting for your life? That they still hook you to a ventilator that's keeping you breathing?
Dearest Yusuf, are you in pain? Is this what it means to be an aunt, to worry and wonder about the fate of her first and only nephew?
Dear Yusuf, if I could give you my life, I would do it in a heartbeat.
With all my love,
Aunty.
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Sydney was still under the grasp of a chilly spring when I left this city. As soon as I arrived in Jakarta, the heat and the pain came rushing through my body. Mom and my brother were there to meet me at the airport. We had late lunch together and a couple of minutes of easy small talk. All an attempt to carry on as though everything was okay. As we drove back to my brother's home, I felt an ache in my heart. I heard the sounds of three hearts breaking in the middle of silent void.
Stepping into the hospital hallway to meet Yusuf for the first, and ultimately the last time, I had mentally prepared myself not to shed tears. Through a glass window, my eyes could only capture fleeting glimpses of him. He resided in a quiet room alongside two other premature babies, where only the nurses possessed the privilege of cradling him in their arms. He was a chubby baby with thick hair and his father's fair complexion. So small, so delicate, so innocent.
The joy I felt watching my nephew wiggling his feet and reaching his hand to cover his face was indescribable. I couldn't stop looking at him. If only I could be close enough to whisper to his tiny ears: "Hi Yusuf, hi baby, your aunty's here to see you."
His mother was crying next to me when the doctor urged her to find strength for Yusuf. I, on the other hand, was stiff like a ghost. Watching my nephew fighting for his life, attached to life supports in an incubator.
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The doctor's words weighed heavily on us, predicting a tough road ahead for Yusuf. Despite the challenges, there was a glimmer of hope – a potential year, but it will be filled with countless surgeries.
The decision weighed on my brother and his wife, and they chose a compassionate path, letting Yusuf find comfort until his journey's end. Plans were laid for him to find his final resting place alongside our grandparents in our hometown.
Days passed with a mix of hope and concern.
October 22, 2022, the call came.
Yusuf had experienced difficulty breathing. Doctors advised he spend his last moments at home, surrounded by family. It was a clear signal – the ending was near.
Before I could even secure a ticket to Jakarta from my hometown, a cruel twist of fate snatched Yusuf away from us. My brother's voice on the other end of the line revealed that Yusuf had passed away the following morning. My world crumbled. The pain was unlike any I had felt before, an ache that cut deep into my heart and left an indescribable emptiness.
Though Yusuf's time was short, his impact was immense. He taught us love, strength, and life's fragility. Amid grief, we found comfort in knowing his suffering was over.
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23 October 2022.
Dear Yusuf,
Today, you returned to heaven. I wish I could have asked for a little more time, wished that you could stay a bit longer with us, but I know I can't. And I know I shouldn't. It's God who decides when we come and when we go.
Dear Yusuf, this day has been the hardest I've ever faced. Yet, I realize it's even tougher for your Mom and Dad. I tried to find strength, I did, but it was a struggle. Losing you was painful beyond words. No amount of preparation could have readied us for this moment. Each of us broke down in tears when your Dad gave us the news.
I was at Aunt Mang's house when your Dad told me he was bringing you home. Your aunty Dika who was pregnant, and Uncle Dimas were also there. The room was suddenly cold, and nobody was sure of what to say. My uncle, Nano, your grandfather, who was heavily sick, called us and screamed and cried. "It should have been me. He should have had a full life. He's my grandson. I should be there for him."
When you left, it felt as if my soul had departed with you. I did not know what to do until Aunt Mang held my hand and reminded me to take care of your funeral. A place next to your great-grandparents was ready, we will make sure that you will never feel alone.
At 6 p.m., sirens wailed as the ambulance carrying you arrived from Jakarta. Raindrops matched the heaviness in my heart as I walked toward the sound. Your cousin, Vanya, held my hand, our steps slow but steady as we walked to you.
I watched your grandmother holding you for the first time while stroking your tiny forehead. No longer separated by the barrier of a hospital window, we could finally see you up close. I was both sad and relieved. Beside your grandfather, your mother sat, her voice trembling repeatedly calling out your name. Yusuf, look around. All of us were there for you, saying our last goodbye to you. The four of us found a way to be together in one room, and you had no idea how much that means for me, it all because of you.
You looked so calm and peaceful. I swear that we met somewhere before. I had dreamt of you months before you even arrived in this world. It was like I had known you for a long while.
Dear Yusuf, I know that you are not in pain anymore. I know you are happy now in the life God had prepared for you there. A better world where nobody could hurt you.
Dear Yusuf,
Thank you for the 14 days you were here. Thank you for fighting. For coming home. Even though it was a brief meeting, you have brightened our lives, even though just for a minute.
Until we meet again, Yusuf,
Aunty.
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Yusuf was the hero of my grand return to the homeland. Before my mom's call informing me of his diagnosis, I was wrestling with the Australia vs. Indonesia dilemma. Sydney felt odd, yet I hesitated. But my mental state had been compromised.
The day Mom told me about Yusuf's condition. I knew that I should run to my brother's side, to assure him that no matter what, I'd be there. I dropped everything and packed my whole bag and I was en route to Indonesia.
At Yusuf's funeral, suddenly, I saw my mom and dad in the same room, weeping and battling with their own grief. Both were buried in sadness. They looked older than I remembered the last time I saw them. That day, they no longer look like a couple who walked away from each other a decade ago. They stood as two vulnerable human beings, living in two different worlds, who had just lost their grandson. It was as if the universe orchestrated a reunion, and there were all of us, out of breath and out of tears, but undeniably connected.
I used to think that my desire to be always away from home stemmed from my inability to witness my parents hurting each other with their words when they were in the same room. However, something shifted within me that day, and I found peace in being present with them. Despite the pain and turmoil in the old days, I felt a sense of gratitude that I could be there for them during the most challenging period in my brother's life. It was a bittersweet realization, but it brought me a profound happiness knowing that I could offer support to my parents in their time of need.
Could it be? Did I entertain the idea of wanting to stick around, closer to them, and perhaps, just perhaps, release my long wound and resentment?
After Yusuf's funeral, we all gathered for lunch – my brother, his wife, my mom, and my stepdad. My mother and her husband has been married for eight years now, and I've always seen my stepdad as a perfect match for my mom. He's like her soulmate – caring, loving and understanding. No one adores my mom quite like my stepdad does.
At the restaurant, my stepdad sat right next to my mom. It was like watching a rare scene – my mom laughing wholeheartedly, her big smile lighting up the room, all beside a man who wasn't my biological father. They were like two lovebirds. He gently patted her back as she cracked jokes about him, and it was at that moment that my decades-old anger seemed to lift.
Once, my mom carried a deep resentment towards my dad, holding onto the difficult experiences they had endured together. Even years after she remarried, she would occasionally dwell on the past, the hardships between them. However, something has changed in recent days. I vividly recall the moment we gathered at my brother's house to meet Yusuf. While tidying up the room, unexpectedly, my mom expressed her genuine desire for nothing but good things for my dad. She uttered, "It's all in the past now, and I have finally let it go."
A few days later, as if my dad could hear what she said, he expressed a heartfelt sentiment.
He opened up to me, his voice filled with sincerity, and said, "I genuinely wish your mom nothing but profound happiness alongside your stepdad. Truly, I do. Everything that happened between us, it's in the past, and we're okay now, we're good now"
Once, I used to perceive relationships as a blend of pain and struggle, all thanks to the ongoing drama within our family. However, as time passed, my perspective began to shift. I started to see a different kind of love – the kind that doesn't come with a side of toxicity. Love can hurt when you love the wrong person. It's heartbreaking when we cling to the past and perpetuate the same cycle of trauma.
My own wounds began to heal when I saw my parents finding happiness with their new partners and treating each other with respect again. That strong urge to escape home, to be anywhere but here, started to fade into the background, like fog gently lifting, revealing a newfound clarity.
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'Cause they say home is where your heart is set in stone It's where you go when you're alone
It's where you go to rest your bones
It's not just where you lay your head
It's not just where you make your bed
As long as we're together, does it matter where we go?
-Home, Garbielle Alpin-
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