Happy Heartiversary, Kiddo!
Seven years ago, my baby's heart was untouched, her skin scar-free. Then came the day that changed everything. A fight for life, a battle she never chose. Every year, I wonder how to feel about it. Joy? Grief? This is the story of her second first birthday.
Three weeks after celebrating Emanuela's birthday, the calendar flips to February 7. Every year, I catch myself looking at that date, unsure how to feel about it.
It can be a sad day. In 2018, that was the last morning my baby's heart was untouched, and my girl was scar-free. It was the day she left us. Doctors fought for a quarter of an hour to bring her back. Unsure of what the consequences would be if they succeeded. It was a day no one should ever have to live through, let alone a three-week-old baby. That tiny human who just wanted to be cuddled, loved, fed, and cared for. Not taken away, placed on the cold surface of a surgical bed, lit under blinding hospital lights, and cut with the sharpest of steels for a stranger to poke around in her walnut-sized heart.
It can be a happy day, too. We were lucky to be prepared, and privileged to choose where and by whom she would be treated. It was the day she was given back to us. She endured life support and came out of it a warrior. That is the day we celebrate medicine, stand in awe of what human hands can achieve, and feel profound gratitude for the life she was given.
In a way, it's my choice - how I feel about it. And while I would like to lean towards joy, the truth is, it is both. It's a day where joy meets grief, hand in hand. I celebrate my firstborn's second first birthday, with the sting of sorrow that she ever had to go through it all.
Scar Number One
It was Wednesday. Day 20 since her birth.
She hadn't seen her home yet. Her crib was covered to keep the dust away. Her onesies and tiny baby clothes were washed and stored. There was not much - just a few essentials in the room. Just in case. And if it were possible, baby things were kept out of sight - tucked in boxes inside drawers. Easy to take out, should the need arise. But mostly, I was trying to prepare myself (if that's even possible) for the reality that our baby girl might never come home at all.
Compared to the rest of our 204 hospital days, my diary entry for this one is almost empty.
I remember the heavy snow my husband and I had to drive through to get to the hospital. We were out before the snowplows. It was still dark. The city had yet to wake. My husband and I rose, without truly waking, around 5 AM. I remember the silence. The mechanics of doing what had to be done. Routine movements of the body - dressing, brushing hair, zipping boots. It had to be done, yet none of it mattered. Not against the weight of what was ahead.
How do I say goodbye? How do I let go? How do I keep breathing? I had months to prepare, yet I was not ready. Nowhere near ready. But she had to go.
We said goodbye and walked her to surgery around 7 AM, accompanied by a snowstorm. We entrusted her to God's hands and those of the surgeon.
That is all I managed to write that morning of February 7, 2018.
When we arrived at the hospital, she was ready. Prepared by nurses ending their night shift. Cables, tubes, and wires neatly untangled and folded around her tiny body. Washed, dressed, and snuggled beneath a blanket. A little ladybug hat warming her head. Me, hoping it would bring her luck. Her, sleeping - calm. Clueless.
I stood there, frozen. We came to say goodbye, but I didn't know how. As we waited for the call, for the surgical team to come, I hesitated to touch her. I didn't want to wake her. It's better if she doesn't see, I thought. Then she won't know.
Mid-thought, a nurse appeared. "It's time," she said.
We followed her bed through the hospital's hallways, all the way to the red line that separates the general ward from the sterile operating area. That was as far as we were allowed to go. I kissed her. I told her I loved her. I whispered in her ear to be brave. To fight. I swallowed the sob rising in my throat. I didn't want her to feel me falling apart. Then, I feared, she might fall apart too.
Then, they took her.
And I cried.
Sixteen Scars (and Counting)
The hours that followed were a whirl. Waiting for news at first. Then waiting for the tide to turn as doctors fought to keep her alive.
From my diary that evening:
The surgery went well, but there are post-operative complications. Time stopped. Our Ema is fighting for her life. We are with you as of 5 PM, more or less. We are in the Intensive Care Unit.
We spent our days by her side, doing what little we could in her sedated state. We spent our nights trying to nourish ourselves, knowing we had to stay strong for her. It became clear this would be a long run.
The situation is bad, but not hopeless. We're with you. We talk to you, we sing, we massage your tiny hands.
I kept journaling. On post-op day four, she was off ECMO - the last-resort life-support machine helping to avoid what we feared most.
"Welcome back!" I wrote on February 12.
I wish I could end our story here. But... we kept fighting. For years.
At first, the emergencies came in relentless waves. Barely days to catch our breath before a new crisis hit. But over time, we found longer pauses. Days that felt almost normal. While doctors kept saving her life, we focused on creating a life worth living. We tended to her physical, and our emotional scars with gentle care. Scars that became our normal - though they might seem insurmountable to others. I never saw them as marks of suffering, but as a testament to life. So much life!
Eventually, out of her sixteen scars (and counting), the ECMO scar became my favourite. A few small lines behind her ear, where the tubes that carried her blood in and out of the life-saving machine had been stitched in place. Truly, the scar of life.
She won.
And every year, on her second first birthday, I will kiss that scar and say a little - Thank You.
Katarina Stano