The Light That Fought to Stay: A Letter to a Little Warrior

I remember standing outside the NICU, my forehead almost touching the glass, just staring at you. There were so many machines around you, so many tubes. You were so small in the middle of all that cold, sterile equipment. I had traveled five hours just to see you. Five long hours hoping I would get to see you fight, and live, and come home.

The hospital in Tacloban was overwhelming. I barely noticed anything except you. I stood there for what felt like forever, wishing I could break through the glass, hold you in my arms, and tell you how much you were loved.

You looked so fragile. So impossibly tiny. But you were also strong in a way that broke my heart. Every small breath you managed to take felt like a miracle.

I never got to hold you. I never got to whisper your name or kiss your forehead. The closest I came was standing there, sending you every ounce of love I had, hoping somehow you could feel it through the walls and wires.

The last time I saw you up close was when they wheeled you out of the NICU to put you into the ambulance. You were being transported to Manila on Black Saturday, chasing bigger help and bigger hope. I remember watching as they placed you so gently inside, almost as if they were afraid you might disappear.

I thought I would see you again. I thought the doctors in Manila would find a way. I thought you would fight and win. I had no idea that was goodbye.

You arrived in Manila Sunday evening. We waited for updates, holding our breath, trying to believe that hope was still stronger than fear. But it was not enough.

Around three in the morning on Thursday, the call came. My brother’s voice on the other end of the line was broken, shaking. He could barely speak. I could hear his wife crying in the background, a raw, heart-shattering sound that said everything words never could.

You were gone.

Gone before I ever got to tell you how proud I was. Gone before I ever got to sing you a lullaby or see you smile.

People think a life that short could slip by unnoticed. They have no idea. You left everything behind. You left love, endless and fierce. You left memories that hurt and heal at the same time. You left an ache that lives inside of all of us now.

I still see you sometimes when I close my eyes. I see the way the light touched your skin. I see the way your tiny chest rose and fell with such stubborn will. I see the ambulance doors closing, and I feel that same helplessness all over again.

I wonder sometimes about the life you could have had. Would you have loved the ocean like we do? Would you have been loud and wild, or quiet and thoughtful? I will never know. But what I do know is this. You were enough, just as you were. You mattered, even without the years we wanted with you.

I believe you are somewhere now where no machines are needed. Somewhere the pain is gone, and the fight is over. I believe you are free.

And one day, when the waiting and hurting are over, I will get to hold you the way I always wanted to. Until then, I carry you with me. I carry you in every breath, every prayer, every quiet moment when the missing feels too heavy.

I could not say all of this out loud. But here, through these words, I can finally tell you everything my heart has been holding.

Rest well, little warrior. You are not forgotten. You never were. You never will be.

About this story:

I wrote this letter for my nephew Zeke, a little warrior who fought so bravely. I am sharing it here because I needed a space to express my grief without causing more pain to my brother and his wife, who are already hurting so much.