
Ironically enough, ever since I had Mika, I kept on thinking about his death. Or deaths. It has nothing to do with postpartum depression or anything. I had a rough time feeding him since he was rooming in with us in our lovely ward 6H-7. He was always sleepy, and I had a hard time waking him up for feeding. I had milk, but I knew he wasn't drinking in as much as he should be.
My ultimate fear became reality - Mika had a tad of jaundice as his birilium (spell?) level was nearing the 200 danger mark. He spent a full 24 hours inside the nursery where lil' babies were put under the blue-ray light (ok it isn't blue-ray duh). Mothers had to go to the nursery to feed the babies. Mika always gave me a heart attack cause he was so frail and small and I had trouble waking him up...which lead me to think of him dying at such a young age.
His skin would softly slide from under his chin due to the gravity. His nostrils were like millimeter marks on a ruler. I even went to the extreme of wiping his face with water to wake him up. In the end I had to resort to pumping and having the nurses feed him.
***
On the opposite side of the age scale, it saddens me to see my mama aging so. I know its a foolish thought to think otherwise, that a women of her caliber would never age, would always stay so vibrant and energetic. I am digging a pit-less hole of sorrow by doing this, I know.

Now I've got to go enjoy the young, with the help of the old. I love you Mama.