“May I brag a little about Jeong-won?

He was transferred to Asan Medical Center with stage 4 neuroblastoma (a pediatric cancer) when he was just a month old. The tumor had already spread to his liver, and he was hovering between life and death.

We started chemotherapy as soon as he arrived, and he fought for his life in the ICU. That same boy was eventually discharged safely—and even had his first-birthday party. It’s truly wonderful news. Haha.”

Professor Kyung-Nam Koh of the Division of Pediatric Hematology and Oncology at Asan Medical Center smiled as he heard the news about Jeong-won. Children who quickly outgrow yesterday’s pain are, to him, always a joy to see.

Hello, Professor.

Jeong-won is the child we yearned for over five long years. Looking back, our longing was great, but we had no idea what it meant to become parents or how a child grows. When we first noticed our baby’s slightly protruding belly button, we didn’t think much of it. At a routine checkup we were told we needed to go to a larger hospital, and we were stunned. I sent my husband and the baby to the emergency room at a nearby university hospital, planning to follow after my own OB appointment. But my husband kept calling, asking when I would get there. As you know, it was because of the illness Jeong-won had. At first I thought I must have misheard. How could a baby be diagnosed with cancer just 34 days after coming into the world?

As I walked out of the clinic, do you know what filled my head? That for two days I hadn’t been able to hold him because I had mastitis. I sobbed uncontrollably and kept holding him, not letting even his father take him. Leaving him in the ICU didn’t feel real at all. On the fourth day, the decision was made to transfer him to Asan Medical Center in Seoul, and in that short time his slightly rounded belly had swollen as if it would burst. All the way in the ambulance, tensions between the medical community and the government were running high, and I was terribly anxious. “What if there’s no medical team to take our child?”

Fortunately, we met you, Professor, and chemotherapy began right away. His tiny body was covered with machines—dialysis, a ventilator, and more. Every morning, we drove two hours from Incheon for a 30-minute visit with him. Several times we got calls saying his condition had worsened and we should come quickly. Whenever a call came from a number starting with 02, my heart dropped and I couldn’t breathe. At one point I wondered if this was a dream—if I might wake from a nightmare to find the baby lying next to me. “Honey, is this how a person loses their mind?” We had to take care of each other’s hearts, too—watching for any sign that one of us was crying alone somewhere, or had started smoking again. “Maybe our baby is an angel, and heaven wants to take him back early.” We braced ourselves for the worst more than once.

We were told his liver was so compromised that normal cells and cancer cells were barely distinguishable. His skin color changed, and that soft, gentle suppleness disappeared. When a rash erupted all over his body, even the medical staff were startled. When the chemotherapy stopped working, we paused treatment and decided to wait. Each time you explained how difficult things were, you still promised to do everything you could. With a new crisis every day despite everyone’s efforts, I couldn’t stop crying. One day I saw his hands lightly bound to the bed with thin gauze so he wouldn’t move. In that little hand he clutched a wad of gauze as tightly as he could. Seeing that, I realized he, too, was struggling with all his might to live. “My brave child. We must not fall apart,” I told myself.

I prayed to every god I could think of dozens of times a day. I even achieved the impossible, what you might call a “grand union of religions.” My constant refrain—“If only we could get him off the ventilator, I’d have no other wish”—finally came true, and the tumor kept shrinking. When he moved from the ICU to a general ward, the staff were apologetic. I think there was an even more critical patient, so since Jeong-won was relatively better, he was moved out. But just hearing that his condition was the best among them made me happy all day. I felt a proud little thrill, as if he’d won first place. Perhaps that’s simply what happens to you once you become a parent.

*

In the ward, I kept him in my arms, vowing never to put him down again. I couldn’t even get to the bathroom on time, and I made a habit of letting him sleep on my arm as a pillow. But my wish to hold him as much as I wanted was fulfilled. We started with fasting and then increased his formula by 5 ml at a time, but often he would bring it back up. Like a newborn again, he fed every two hours, and in a six-bed room it was no small task to sterilize the bottle nipples and feed him on schedule. One day, a nurse stopped by after her shift, saying she had a little time to spare. She nudged me out the door, saying she would watch him so I should go eat and catch my breath. The moment I stepped out, bewildered, I slipped out of the role of “Jeong-won’s mom” and looked at myself for just a moment. I felt hot tears welling up inside. You even came to see him on Sundays, Professor. Do you remember when I asked, “Professor, when do you even rest?” Even with fatigue written all over your face, you never forgot a kind word. They say it takes a village to raise a child; in Jeong-won’s case, it took an entire ward. Time may polish hard memories, but I don’t think I can ever fully express the gratitude I felt then.

*

On June 21 last year, Jeong-won was discharged safely. The cancer hasn’t disappeared completely, but he’s at home with us now, and we celebrated his first birthday. I used to think a first-birthday party wasn’t such a big deal these days, but because he had such a hard first year, we invited about a hundred people. To be honest, it felt more like a celebration than our wedding. My husband, whose heart has grown rich with emotion through parenting, read a letter aloud and moved everyone to tears. Thankfully, they were tears of joy. We tried our best to have him pick up the thread (a symbol of long life) at his first-birthday table, but he grabbed the microphone instead. We joked that we shouldn’t have prepared such a fancy microphone, but at the community center he always goes straight to the middle of the stage to grab the mic, so perhaps it’s the path he’s already choosing. I’m a little moved and excited for the future, when we’ll get to watch all the choices he makes and the dreams he grows into. How else will he surprise us?

It feels like such a blessing that you were the one who stood with us through our family’s hardest moments, Professor. Even now, you must be in the clinic, striving to help families like ours find a steadier kind of happiness. We will pray for the health and happiness of all the medical staff. Then we’ll see you in the clinic again, with our child even healthier than before.