@17 Days: Gone Too Soon, Loved Forever

My friends buried Baby David on May 20, 2025.

He struggled through an emergency caesarean section. Born on April 30 @2pm. Blue and breathless. Doctors resuscitated him back to life.

Honestly, parenting doesn’t come with a manual. If it did, nowhere would it say, “In the event that your child only lives 17 days, turn to page 94 for guidance on surviving the unthinkable.”

There’s no chapter for that. No checklist. No roadmap. Just a raw, relentless ache that reshapes every corner of your life.

David was on oxygen support in the neonatal intensive care unit at the Hospital. He didn’t go home. He went home to be with God on May 16.

Such a young and potential life was snuffed out. Listening to the speeches by family, friends, colleagues and church one couldn’t help but wonder, WHY?

17 days. Not long enough to master the art of diaper changing or memorize their coos. But, enough time to fall hopelessly, eternally in love.

David’s life was short. Did he leave a legacy—a small, wrinkled, and perfect soul? He turned his mum’s and dad’s hearts inside out in the best and hardest way possible.

An eulogy not decorated with photos or sub titles of birth, education, work, marriage etc. How much can be packed in 17 days of infancy?

Fighting apnea from birth. He was subjected to oxygen support for 17 days. Add to that, a hole in the heart. Any limb or muscle movement was with much effort.

Is it true? The Lord gave and has taken away. Blessed be His name?

How do you comfort a mother, with fresh caesarian wounds? What do you tell his siblings, who looked forward to a small brother, they never met?

Their wishes? A playmate. Carrying him with pride. Beholding the precious family addition. Witnessing life’s magical moments as they grew up together.

Will they meet again, in heaven? Who will recognize the other? If all they have is an image of David fastened onto an oxygen machine. Eyes closed.

David’s funeral took me back to 1992.

We buried Muruga, our last born brother at the same cemetery. Aged 6 months. We loved to carry him.

But as fate would have it, he choked in smoke. My mum suffered depression. In one of her maniac episodes, she hallucinated and fought with ghosts.

She torched our house, for the umpteenth time. The smell of smoke has never left me. Neighbors flocked to put out the fire. Thick, black smoke billowed out of our home.

Children see and archive these things. Belatedly, a neighbor recalled that there was a baby in our house. The mattress was doused in paraffin.

That’s me on the foreground standing next to Muruga’s coffin. Grief had literally turned around my trousers. Besides me are my siblings, aunts and dad.

The smallest coffins are the heaviest. Especially when its mum is missing.

Buried in less than a week. We resumed school. Our walls and ceilings were lined with dark markings. Constant reminders of the fire that razed our house.

Our intense sorrow was temporarily alleviated as we devoured his Cerelac (baby food). A child whose potential we will never know.

Losing a child leads to unimaginable pain. In the natural order of things, children should bury their parents. Not the other way round.

Anguish, as it turns out, is an unpredictable guest. One day it’s quietly lurking in the background. The next, it’s flipping over furniture. Raiding the fridge. It demands all your attention.

And yet, even here, somehow grace finds you. In a kind text. A warm meal. A shared tear. A memory that makes you laugh before it makes you cry.

We say, God sees sorrow. He is near to the brokenhearted. The child you momentarily held is now safely cradled in the eternal arms of a loving Father.

Empty words. Gibberish to a grieving and growling heart.

Let the tears freely flow. Such loss(es) are more than one can bear. Allow the mourning and pain to roll. But, not take the toll. These too shall cease.

I miss Muruga fiercely. At times, I see glimpses of him. I love deeper and hold people longer. I also appreciate the miracle of each breath.

This is not the journey we would have chosen. But, we walk it with courage and faith. On the hard days, we even use a little holy sarcasm.

In the midst of grief, we find relief. Knowing every child, including David and Muruga has a divine purpose. Their spirit lives on in the presence of the Lord.

To anyone on this road: you are not alone. Your loss is real. Your love is stronger. Your story is marked with pain. It is also filled with beauty and hope.

You have the kind of strength that deserves a standing ovation.

Joseph Ngaara is inspired by people’s life experiences. Do you have an intriguing life story and need to share your triumph or tragedy? Email: j.mungai@hotmail.co.uk