When my son, let’s call him Mr. Cuddlebug (because he really is the snuggliest little love muffin), was just 7 weeks old, he encountered a series of alarming cardiac arrests that left him on life support and ultimately reliant on a Berlin Heart pump. The doctors told us his heart would likely never function on its own again, and he would need a transplant to survive. As first-time parents, my partner and I were already navigating the wild ride of new parenthood—hormones, sleepless nights, and all. On top of that, we faced the terrifying thought of possibly losing our precious newborn for reasons no one could explain.
The months that followed were a tumultuous sea of sorrow. Grief crashed over me in relentless waves, leaving me gasping for air as I struggled to keep my head above water. Each setback felt like a gut punch; just when we dared to hope, another infection or complication would take us by surprise. Our brief moments of calm were often shattered, and I felt the weight of despair pulling me down.
Yet through it all, Mr. Cuddlebug remained a little warrior. The doctors claimed his kidneys wouldn’t function well for months, yet he surprised everyone by peeing on several nurses. They said his lungs were filled with fluid, and within days, he was breathing over his ventilator. It was like he was determined to defy the odds, making small victories every day. But with each triumph came a setback, and I found it increasingly difficult to focus on the light when darkness loomed all around. I felt myself slipping away, while Mr. Cuddlebug held steady in his fight.
Just as I was losing hope, a lifeline appeared: the call that a donor had been found for Mr. Cuddlebug. That lifeline was tied to a nameless, faceless hand—yours—pulling me from the depths of my despair. In the midst of your own grief, you reached out and saved me in a way I can’t fully express.
When I received that call, I wept uncontrollably. I was overcome with relief that my son would be given a second chance, but that joy was tinged with sorrow—the profound understanding that a sweet, innocent baby, just like mine, had been lost too soon. You bore that burden for me, and I can’t fathom the pain you must feel. You will never hear your child’s laughter or feel their warmth again, and I wish I could share in your grief. I wish I could tell you that it will get easier, but I know it hasn’t for me, and I still have my baby.
I often think of you, a thousand times a day. Every smile, every milestone, every beat of his new heart reminds me of your sacrifice. And with every thought of you, I’m overshadowed by guilt—my happiness is your heartbreak. I cry for you, I pray for you, and I cherish you in my heart.
The truth is, I may never know who you are. For all I know, you may have lost your own child. My hope is that if this letter somehow finds its way to you, it brings you some comfort in knowing that your angel is loved deeply. Every milestone Mr. Cuddlebug achieves is a shared moment between us, and we honor your sweet child in everything we do.
Saying “thank you” feels inadequate, but it’s all I have. From the very depths of my soul, I thank you. You saved us both.