Tuesday, February 6, 2007


My dearest E.,

You had a terrible bout of the viral flu last week. That worried me tremendously, and I missed a day of work to ensure that I was constantly at your side, reassuring you that I would be there no matter what the circumstances, and if you were in pain, hopefully, that my presence would soothe you into some form of comfort.

Your grandparents told me yesterday that you had a fever again during the day. When your father picked you up and brought you home (I had to work late last night), he told me over the phone that you were tired and listless, but still obliged to play about and smile. When I saw you upon reaching home, my heart almost broke when I saw you standing in your play pen, your arms outstretched towards me, you saying "Mama, ooh...". I dropped my bag and keys, ran to you and lifted you up into my arms, folding you close to me, kissing your head and cheeks, never wanting to let you go.

My sweet brave little girl. You laugh even in the face of adversity. Your body was warm to the touch, your eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness: but yet, the light of joy at seeing your mother after a long day being apart, still shone brightly in your big round eyes. I felt my soul being cleansed of all the day's happenings, the insecurities and unpleasantries, and revelled in your beautific smile.

You have that effect on me, cupcake.

When you fell asleep, I watched you sleeping as I stroked your hair, quietly singing "Twinkle twinkle little star".

You awoke this morning with a mournful cry, with a strange low moan in your throat, and then you began to cough a hacking, phlegmy cough. It broke my heart. I carried you out of your cot, into the warm bed beside me, and you snuggled close to me, faintly calling out in your delirious sleep, your small hands reaching for me. Your body was hot and looked so tiny beside me. I mixed you a batch of formula, which you drowsily guzzled, and then had to do the cruel thing of forcing you to take the sweet, pink baby Paracetamol down your throat. You certainly didn't like that, and screamed at me, tears running down your face.

My sweet E. Please get well soon. I can't bear for you to be enduring this suffering and discomfort. If I could, I wish I could simply hold you and all your sicknesses would melt away. If only God had given all mothers that ability to heal their sick children. But then again, I should be grateful that He had given you to me in the first place.