Dearest Hazel,

It's been a while since I last wrote to you, but really, it's all your fault.  You've certainly been keeping your mother and me extra busy.  It's hard to believe that it's been one year since you went in for open-heart surgery at 3-1/2 months old.  The only visible reminders are a few scars that remain on your precious skin.  I hope you will wear those scars proudly because they show just how much strength you have inside.  Of course, it wasn't an easy road to get here…

The doctors had told us that your surgery was quite routine.  Ventricular Septal Defects (VSDs) account for the vast majority of congenital heart defects.  Success rates with minimal-to-no complications are over 99% for this surgery.  Hazel will be back to normal in a few months.  It's not as scary as it seems.  Statistics are statistics, but you sure do like to be the outlier.  When we dropped you off that morning, we were told that you'd be out of surgery by 6PM.  I remember kissing your chest, knowing that it would be the last time I'd do so without seeing a scar.  At the time, that was our main concern – how you'd deal with it when you got older.  Would you be ashamed?  Would you be embarrassed?  I thought of all the things we'd say to you to get you through those tough moments.  That you should own those scars; wear them proudly, for you'd earned everything they represent.

Your mother and I walked to the row of restaurants on Irving Street, just down from the UCSF Parnassus campus.  I don't remember what we ate for lunch, but I distinctly remember the way we anxiously tried to talk about anything but how scared we were.  I think I had a beer.  We tried to window shop, to do anything "normal", but we quickly ran out of distractions and headed back.

When we returned to the waiting room, there were other families quietly sitting there.  I felt bad for them because I figured that the child they were waiting for was there for a much more serious reason.  I chose not to talk to them.  Your mother and I roamed the halls, looking at every notice, every staff photo, every handmade thank you note.  By 5PM, your mother and I were alone in the waiting room and we were getting antsy.  I remember every gut-wrenching moment.  5:30.  6:00.  6:30.  By 7PM, I knew deep down that something was wrong.  You were supposed to be out an hour ago.  From 6:30 on, I stood in the doorway, frozen half-way between your mother – who I so desperatedly wanted the strength to be able to comfort – and the hallway that I knew would bring us information, good or bad.

At 7:30, I heard the doctors talking before they came around the corner.  I'll go talk to her parents I heard Dr. Karamlou say to Dr. Peyvandi.  My heart sank.  I motioned to your mother and then watched as Dr. Karamlou approached.  The look on her face nearly broke me.  Something had clearly gone wrong.  I thought we'd lost you.  I braced myself for the news no parent wants to hear, determined to keep it together for your mother.  I think back to that moment, unable to sit, and for the first time in my life, I had nothing to say.  All I could do was listen.  I realized that no matter what the doctors told us, I couldn't bargain for something better.

Suffice it to say that we did not lose you during surgery (although this fact wasn't clarified for several tense minutes), but as the doctors explained the complications they'd encountered, we quickly realized that you were not in the 99%.  The VSD that was deemed large at 10mm prior to surgery was discovered to be 20mm – a development that caused phones to ring across the country as doctors in the operating room called every colleague they knew to determine how to proceed.  Complicating matters further, the hole was adjacent to your aortic valve, meaning that they could not close it entirely.  They explained that 45 minutes on the bypass machine is about as long as they want an infant to go through during open-heart surgery.  You were on bypass for a total of 75 minutes.  The doctors braced us by saying that when we saw you, you would look bad.  They opted not to close your chest because they were convinced that another surgery would be necessary, probably in a few days.

When the doctors returned to the operating room, your mother and I were left alone to wait for you to be moved to the pediatric cardiac intensive care unit (PCICU).  I was afraid to look at her because I knew I'd start to cry.  I wondered what all of this meant.  For as reassuring as the doctors were, there was nothing that could stop that voice in the back of my head thinking nothing but the worst.  We waited for another half hour before you finally came rolling down the hallway on your gurney.  You were heavily sedated, and despite the tubes the seemed to be swallowing you whole, you looked peaceful.  To be honest, I'd expected you to look much worse.  That was probably my first bit of relief.  We followed you to the door of the ICU where we were forced to wait for another hour until you were stabilized.  Eventually we were allowed in and I immediately kissed you.  Your skin was cold.  We sat with you for hours, asking questions, listening to everything the doctors and nurses said.  I watched the ECG constantly.  Alarms went off every few minutes and your mother and I would instinctively find a corner to get out of the way.  This is normal, she's doing great.

Around 1AM, the intensivist Dr. Tabbutt told us to go home.  She's sedated, she's stable, and you're probably not going to get another chance to get a good night's sleep in the next few days.  As badly as we wanted to stay, I think we agreed because it was all so overwhelming and we needed a chance to take a break.  We walked out into the crisp San Francisco night and drove home.  After an hour of whatever the hell we did, your mother and I laid down.  We set our phones to full volume and finally fell asleep.

Sometime around 6AM, my phone rang.  It was a PCICU nurse, and she asked me to hold.  Dr. Tabbutt, who we'd noticed was so incredibly calm in the few hours we'd spent with her, picked up the call and immediately I knew something was wrong.  She sounded agitated as she explained that you were having post-surgery complications and she need us to authorize them to use EKMO.  Throughout the many hospital visits leading up to surgery, I'd learned to ask questions.  What does this mean?  What are the alternatives?  What complications might there be if we pursue such-and-such course of action?  As I tried to ask a question, Dr. Tabbutt cut me off.  We don't have time for this.  I just need you to say yes.  The seriousness of her voice scared me.  I said yes and immediately the nurse took over the call and said that we should get back there as soon as possible.  I hung up and talked with your mother.  We both started getting ready.

And there was that word.  EKMO.  What the hell is EKMO?  Did I even hear that right?  I searched Google quickly.  EKMO.  Nothing.  EKMO HEART.  Did you mean: ECMO heart?  Ahh, yes.  And then I saw it: extracorporeal membrane oxygenation.  Life support.  We were at home, and you were on life support in a hospital across the bay.  I told your mother and we ran to the car.  We arrived at the hospital exactly 31 minutes later – a miracle and/or the product of the type of driving I hope you never do.  In its then location, UCSF Children's Hospital was serviced by an elevator bank of four cars that were ungodly slow.  Even in the middle of the night you could wind up waiting 5 minutes.  I don't remember how long we waited, but it felt like forever.  OPEN. THE. FUCKING. DOOR.  When we finally got to 7 North we couldn't go in to your room.  They were still operating on you, right there in the PCICU, and the room needed to be sterile.  We were directed to the waiting room, but people were still sleeping.  (Parents that stayed overnight were not allowed to sleep in the PCICU and regularly slept in the waiting room.)  We opted not to wake anyone and instead went to the kitchen.  Someone found us around 8AM and took us to your room.  As much as I thought you didn't look that bad when we'd seen you after the first surgery, this time you looked…rough.  Again I kissed your forehead and again your skin felt cold.  Colder, even.  Or maybe it was my imagination.

Early that morning, your heart had trouble healing.  Dr. Tabbutt explained that shortly after we left, you started suffering from junctional ectopic tachychardia (JET).  Basically, your heart was racing to 200-300BPM, for increasing lengths of time.  Eventually your blood pressure started dropping.  They had tried everything they could to stop it, but nothing was working.  By the time they called me, your diastolic pressure was almost down to single digits.  A few more minutes, Dr. Tabbutt explained, and your heart likely would have arrested and they wouldn't have been able to save you.  In a lucky twist, the earlier complications had later likely saved your life.  Because they thought further surgery might be necessary and had left your chest open, covered only by a medical patch, they were able to get you connected to the ECMO machine in under 15 minutes.  The 5 minutes that were saved by not having to re-open you was probably the difference that saved you.  And us.

Over the course of the next few weeks, you proved to be a fighter.  Your heart recovered as well as anyone could have hoped.  There were definitely some additional scares – every course-of-action has its complications – but you grew stronger every day.  There were seizures resulting from the medicine that was used to neutralize the blood thinner necessary for ECMO.  There were period of JETing that seemed to come from nowhere.  But then there was the day you opened your beautiful eyes again.  And the day we were allowed to hold you for the first time in a week.  Those memories may not push out the tougher memories, but I wouldn't have it any other way.  I want to always remember just how strong you were, through the good days and the bad, so that I can hopefully, someday, teach you what you've taught me – that even the smallest of us can be a giant.

Today, one year later, your heart is doing great.  As each checkup visit comes and goes, we're further encouraged that you won't need additional surgery.  However, you're still struggling with eating, a problem that developed as the congestive heart failure quickly set in months before we begged the doctors to operate.  It may take years to resolve, but your mother and I are so incredibly thankful to even have those years to spend with you.  Some days are harder than others, that's for sure, but even the worst days don't compare to the day we got that phone call.  I took this picture that day so I'd never forget not just the scare of losing you, but also your courage.  And while you'll never remember it, I hope we never let you forget.

Love Always, Dad (Dada)

Dearest Hazel,

Someday you may wonder why I chose to make this blog; why I made so many personal stories public. I'm not sure I know the answer to that myself, but I know what it is that nags at me from the back of my head, urging me to write everything I can. You see, 10 years ago, my mother – your grandmother – got sick. It wasn't the first time, but it was the worst. Grandma and I had struggled to get along for so long and were finally in a good place. I lost a lot of time getting to know her and understanding her story. Some years later, I wrote a paper for a writing class. Every so often, I dust it off and clean it up a little. I suppose that a part of me hopes that someday I'll be able to write an addendum to it. Here is today's version…

The Strength of a Mother’s Love

How do you forget the voice that, for so long, guided you, pushed you, punished you? When I close my eyes and think of my mother’s voice, I hear nothing.  I no longer remember the nuances that made her voice unique. I no longer hear her telling me to strive for something greater. I no longer hear her telling me to be proud of who I am. I no longer hear her consoling me when things go wrong. And I no longer hear her yelling Jungshin Charyo! telling me in Korean to get my act together. What once was so vivid has now faded into a blur – a rough sketch cruelly drawn with disappearing ink.

It’s been years since my mother suffered her fifth aneurysm. The rare disease that sat inside her in wait had proven especially devastating this time. Perhaps it was merciful that she quickly slipped into a coma, but nothing feels merciful when you learn that your mother is very ill in a hospital six thousand miles away. I remember the very moment that I got the message – where I was and what I was doing just before. Earlier that day I had learned that I was getting a promotion. As I was driving home that evening, I excitedly called my girlfriend – now your mother!-  to tell her the good news. I remember hearing the clicking of another call, but I was not going to be bothered as I shared this proud moment. It was not until afterwards when I checked my voicemail while idling at a red light that I heard my father’s shaky voice. And before he explained what had happened, I already knew my mother had suffered another aneurysm.

This was not the first time I had gotten this call from my father. When I left home eight years prior, she had already been in the hospital twice. Each time, the doctors told us that only a very strong person could have survived. Strong. It was the word from which everyone began when describing her. I couldn't help but smile each time a doctor would say this, as I knew that they had no idea just how strong she truly was. She will recover, I remember thinking after each incident, and this will be the last time she’ll get sick. On that morning, however, she would get sick again, just after my father had dropped her off at work. Given the severity of her previous aneurysms, she had taken a job in the same organization as my father. He kept an eye out for her, and I think that in turn made her feel safer. That day, like every other, they had arrived at work early. My father left her at her building and walked over to his office in another. About an hour later, a coworker found her lying unconscious in a back office. She was rushed to the hospital, and it was from there that my father called me.

My mother and I used to fight endlessly before she first got sick. She was very traditional and strict; I was the troublesome child. We fought for years – two stubborn Koreans who had only our blood in common when we argued. We fought and then we hugged, even when it was so much easier to do the former. “It’s because you two are so much alike,” my father would say. “You get your passion and stubbornness from her.” I was sixteen when she had her first aneurysm, and it was then that I saw just how similar we really were. I was strong, forged by my mother’s will, taught to fight for every last inch, and then to prepare for life's next battle. But like my mother, although I was strong on the outside, I was weak with health problems. Perhaps it was because of this that she fought with me – to make me stronger in every way that she could, because she couldn't make me stronger on the inside.

I wasn't the only one she fought with. She was never afraid to argue with anyone, and she never showed vulnerability. I remember a time when I was about ten – my mother was driving us home across the Han River that divides Seoul in half. We were almost off the bridge when a policeman pulled us over. His intention was obvious – in Korea, policemen pull drivers over to make a little extra cash in payouts, a practice that everyone who drives in Korea is familiar with. My mother, however, had no intention of paying. Sitting in the car with a big grin on my face, I watched as my mother scolded the young policeman and demanded to see his radar gun. When she finally wrestled it out of the police car and saw that the policeman hadn't even used it, my mother went off in a fit worthy of a viral YouTube video. It took a second policeman and the threat of arrest before she was finally coaxed back into our car. Although still visibly upset, she immediately smiled and drove us home after she saw that I was amused.

Strong. It was her toughness that set her apart from all the other women I would know in my life. Long before she got sick, before she took on corrupt policemen, and before she met my father, she watched her own mother pass away in their farming village near the southern tip of Korea. When my mother was a young teenager, her father would remarry, but this new woman did not like his children. Even at a young age, my mother was too strong, too proud, and too stubborn. She fought this new woman, this replacement mother. Then, not long after her high school graduation, my mother packed up her things and headed north until she hit Seoul. It was there that she would make friends and work various jobs to support herself. It was there where she would meet my father, the young American Army engineer who happened into the same party and fell in love. And it was there that she raised me to be just like her – strong, proud and stubborn, able to handle the tough world outside her arms.

When the light turned green that day, I drove home and slowly walked to my apartment. Before calling my father back, I listened to his message again, hoping that I had dreamed it, finding that I had not. My mother was in the hospital again, and this time her strength would not be enough. Like a piece of metal bent too many times, she had finally broken. The hemorrhaging had gone on for too long in that lonely back office and there was too much damage.

I close my eyes each day and try to listen for her voice, hoping to find it in some dark corner. I know it’s inside me, just as surely as I know that I will likely never hear it again. I listen for her voice to tell me what to do and how to be strong. I listen in vain and I curse the genetic thief that took away my mother. I will never again hear her voice telling me to work hard, to marry a good Korean girl, or to keep pushing forward, especially when times get rough. But even if I can’t find her voice, I know that she will always be a part of me, making me stronger.

I see now that my mother was not strong enough that day only because she had given her strength to me.

###

Hazel, I am writing to you because I am afraid to lose the past because if that happens, you will lose something too. I promise to do my best to tell you stories of our family and the things that have shaped who we are.

And I promise to try and keep them a little more upbeat…

Love Always, Dad

Dearest Hazel,

It’s strange to think about picking up writing to you again because part of me thought that this might be another project that I was destined to abandon. I came up with lots of excuses for why it would be okay to stop. You see, I’ve never been good at finishing the things I’ve started in life, whether they be money-making get-rich-quick schemes, household repairs, or sometimes even friendships. (I guess I could blame the fact that I grew up in an overseas military environment where people came and went, but that’s just a cop-out.) I think I’ve always had the talent to excel, but very rarely have I shown the courage to take the necessary risks to go the final mile. Those are the tough days – the ones that ultimately define you – and I only hope that I haven’t been so cowardly in the past that I cannot change my legacy going forward. I thought of this recently when I told grandpa my favorite quote – never let the person you are today stop you from being the person you can be tomorrow.

For years, I focused on work. I was good at it and I felt that the tangible results of my efforts were a suitable way to define me. People would remember the things I’d accomplished, I rationalized. But now I see that those things are fleeting. Family and friendship are the things that matter most, and these will linger when we inevitably return to the earth. And so I embark on a new journey to do right by the people who matter most and to face the things that have always been barriers to my own success.

Recently, I spent a lot of time trying to avoid the reality that you were born with a heart defect. The day we brought you home from the hospital was the day that we learned you have VSD.  That was definitely a tough day for your mother and me. For a while, we had known that the tests pointed to something being wrong, but it wasn’t until the cardiologists came into the room with a photocopied crude drawing of a heart that we knew it was serious. So many times in my life I’ve focused on the artifacts produced when something is Xeroxed repeatedly, allowing these imperfections to dull the original message. I found it strangely comforting to hone in on the random noise and distortions, as if there was some important message to be deciphered by me alone – so much so that I often missed the point altogether. But that day, as hard as I tried to take my mind elsewhere, I could not focus on anything but the next words to come out of the doctor’s mouth.

You were the one born with a hole in your heart, but it feels like mine is the one that is broken. As we wait to see what happens next, I know that there will be tough days ahead, but I promise you that we will face them as a family.

Love Always, Dad

Dearest Daughter,

By the time you read this, you will have developed an appreciation for the insanity that is your father watching sports on TV.  Whether it’s UCLA, the Yankees, or US and South Korean national teams, it really doesn’t matter.  That crazy guy yelling in the spectator section at your soccer/softball/golf match/game – yeah, you can pretty much assume that’s me, too.  Often times, I think your mother is legitimately embarrassed to be around me when I get (admittedly) way too excited about something that should have little to no impact on my life.  Daddy yells because that was clearly a holding penalty and that ref is a bum.

Sure, maybe I get a bit animated, but you have to understand that competition has been a driving force in my life.  Without sports, I would never have developed the courage and discipline to repeatedly brush the dirt off my ass and find the strength to get back on my feet.  I’ve been knocked down many times.  You will be, too, because the fact is that life is rarely easy.  The saying goes that what you do afterwards is what defines you.  This is one cliche I believe in wholeheartedly, but I was not able to embrace this until I started playing sports.  Saved by the ball, I guess.

Another reason I am so fanatic at times is that growing up overseas for most of my pre-college life meant I had a bit of an identity crisis.  I was American, but I never really felt American.  I was Korean, but most Koreans treated me as an outsider American.  To this day, I still cheer for Korea in soccer, but feel guilty that I don’t have the same passion for America.  (Spoiler alert: Both teams will break your heart.)

When I got to UCLA, however, it didn’t matter who I was before.  From that moment on, I was a Bruin.  It was one identity that nobody would ever question.  I finally belonged to a team – one that I truly felt a part of.  I was an insider.  So, yes, I got a bit crazy about UCLA football and basketball.  Over the years, the faces on these teams have changed, but the competition remains.  Call me crazy, but there’s something comforting in that.

I guess, all I’m really saying, is as much as I love my sports teams and all the lessons I’ve learned both playing and watching, I hope I don’t forget that the most important team is our family.  Don’t worry – the Clancy 8-Clap is in the works…

Love Always, Dad

Dearest Daughter,

We are 9 weeks away from the day that you are supposed to join us in this crazy world.  Your mother and I have been making all kinds of changes to get ready for that day – changes that include an incredibly stressful home renovation, lots of studying, and lots of purchasing of baby clothes/toys/gear.  These changes are nothing, however, compared to the physical changes that your mother has been undergoing over the past few months.

Lately, there is absolutely no mistaking that she is pregnant.  And in spite of the chilly nighttime temperatures, she has been wearing tanktops.  This is incredibly odd behavior for her when you realize that her typical night wear is something with long sleeves and/or the skin of a Tauntaun*.  The reality is that most of her clothes don’t fit her at the moment.  Of course, the hilarious part is that neither do the tanktops, as they only seem to cover an inch past her belly button.  But I digress…

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I fully understand the monumental, amazing, almost primal experience that she is going through and I appreciate it more than I will ever be able to express.

…having said that, she is now snoring.  A lot.  Loudly.

Love Always, Dad

*Your mother won’t get that last reference BUT BY GOD YOU WILL…

Dearest Daughter,

I have to be honest – I wasn’t sure how to write this letter.  It’s been almost a month now since your mother and I had to make one of the most painful decisions of our lives. It has been an especially difficult time for me. Saying goodbye to a beloved, furry friend is never easy, but it is much harder when it was your shaky signature that sealed their fate.

There are so many things I want to tell you about Maya, the older “sister” that you never got to meet. She ate with the voracity of a lion. When she needed a bath, she smelled strangely like Doritos. She loved to sleep, especially if fluffy pillows, soft rugs, or baskets of laundry were involved. As a puppy, she was fearless, with a knack for taking on all dangers, whether it be a long fall from a tall bed or a frisky lab ten times her size. She took up an impossibly large portion of the bed. Most importantly, she was the best secret keeper.

In 1999, I was lost, struggling to adapt to college and living in America. And although I was surrounded by many good people, I kept my distance. In two short years, I found myself flunking out of school and life. Now, I have a history of making poor choices, so it is with mixed emotions that I think back to when I decided that getting a dog was the answer. It was less than two days later that I picked up Maya from a family in the San Fernando valley. In retrospect, it was completely irresponsible of me – I was barely capable of taking care of myself, let alone a puppy. Sometimes, however, the wrong decision can turn out to be the right one. Maya was the best mistake I ever made. Without her, your mother and I might never have gotten together, and you wouldn’t be here.

Maya was by my side for most of my adult life. She taught me responsibility. She started my education on what it meant to actually be a father. I cared for her, I confided in her, I cried with her, I protected her. And sometimes, I failed her. But I know that anything I do right raising you will be because of some lesson she taught me, and for that I will be forever thankful.

Some day you will ask for a puppy. Maybe your mother and I will say yes or maybe we won’t. Just know that if I have a sad look in my face, it will be because I know that sometimes the wrong decision can make your life so much better.

Love Always, Dad