How Do I Let You Go?

So, this is where it all ends; where I am supposed to let you go; where WE are supposed to let you go. But it seems like just another day. So regular, so ordinary. I have come to the end of the rope, I want to hold on but I can feel it slipping out of my grasp. My fingers tingle as I struggle to hold on tighter, I cannot let you go, I am not ready yet.

I watch the machine beep behind you; the rhythmic pulsations sending a spike every few seconds. I watch your chest rise and fall, proof that you’re alive. But then, you’re not, are you?

The insurance company refused to pay for life support; they say our policy does not cover it. I want you to wake up so I can curse you for choosing such a shoddy life insurance. I want you to wake up so I can hand over the reins to you and rest a little, I am so exhausted. But then it’s selfish of me to say that when you’re struggling so hard to live. I want you to wake up so you can witness the miracle we created, the one that now sleeps fitfully in my arms, blissfully unaware of the mental agony I go through.

Medical science has endured miracles. Sadly, none of those seem to work for us. And nothing moves you anymore. Not our family, not our friends, not people from work. And certainly not me. I read you stories and recollected memories. I ranted and raved, cried and screamed, cursed and abhorred. I even tried to hate you for putting me in this position and failed at that. Miserably.

I am down to the end of the rope. Because I am down to the last shred of our savings. They say I should let you go so I can provide for our baby. I want you to wake up so I do not have to choose between you and her. And so, in a last ditch attempt of desperation, I place her dainty little form on you. I watch as she quivers a bit and places her tiny fist under your chin, settling down neatly into the nook of your neck. Like it was sculpted for her. Laying there like that, you both look like a picture of normalcy. And yet I know, it is anything but that.

I watch for signs of recognition, awareness, anything. But there is none. Maybe I imagine the flutter of your lashes, or I desperately will you to awake. Do you see her at all, this seven pound mixture of awe and delight? We have waited forever. You and me. And we have waited thirteen days. Me and her. Feels like forever. Please wake up.

The monitor behind you continues to write out spikes, the machine continuing to breathe for you as I realize I have been holding my breath. How do I do this? I am not ready. I don’t think I will ever be. How do I let you go?

Image Copyright: Pexels
The above post is post 1 of 7 in a series of posts written as part of a 7-day, 'Write Tribe Festival of Words June 2018' challenge and based on the image prompt for the day! For more on the same, click on the link.


  1. What a tragic tale. To choose between putting off life support or not is the hardest. And to deal with a new born at the same time? Tough indeed

    1. Regret runs deep, whichever choice one makes in this case.

  2. I strongly believe in miracles.The touch of the baby,its breath wafting along under the nostrils and the warmth of its tiny palms do the much awaited magic to the inert man as his lips suddenly quiver,eye lashes mildly flutter and the finger twitches.There is no need to let go the man but only the fear.A beautiful post that is touching.

    1. Indeed. Am as much a believer in miracles. Hope lives on!

  3. heartbreaking, letting go will never be easy with lifelong "what ifs?" Good story Deepa!!

  4. The part about the baby lying under the father's chin..Is so sweet and yet so tragic..


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