After my morning routine, I drifted into a short nap and dreamt of my father. He appeared younger, wearing a purple and white striped shirt, in an outdoor setting. He looked happy and conveyed his love, a sentiment he rarely expressed so directly in life. His love was always shown through his unwavering support of my decisions, most of which were made with his guidance, though I occasionally followed my heart over his advice.
The nap was brief, but perhaps my subconscious is preoccupied with him as his birthday approaches. The past few years have been difficult; I became seriously ill shortly after his passing, and now, as his birthday nears again, I find myself in dream with him I'm unsure what the future holds.
A recent incident in my community, where a couple is desperately trying to raise funds for their seven-month-old daughter's rare disease, sparked a difficult conversation with a friend. She, ever practical, expressed a harsh truth: sometimes, letting go is necessary. While it's a sentiment no parent wants to hear, it raises a valid point. If saving a child means depleting all your resources for a potentially incurable disease, what future remains? It's not just about saving a life, but also planning for the future that follows.
This brings up an agonizing question: as a parent, where is the line between fighting to save your child and accepting the possibility of letting go? It's a decision beyond grief, a choice between unimaginable difficulties.
I recall a former teammate who lost his two-month-old baby. He kept a picture of the infant in his cubicle, and I passed it daily, feeling immense sorrow for him and his family. I often thought of suggesting he remove the picture, that perhaps it was time to let his child find peace, but I never found the courage to say it.
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