I’ve been thinking for a long time whether to write all of this down or not, but still decided to keep it as a memento. The other day I became a mother for the second time.
Many of my acquaintances knew about my pregnancy and supported us in every way. Thank you very much, friends! It helped a lot and kept me warm. I hug you tight.
I gave birth to a record number of sirens a day: 15 per day, it seems, for more than 9 hours in total. Yes, I had more important things to care about. Yes, I would not have been able to run to the shelter from the delivery room. The doctors and nurses would not have abandoned me. But the open window and this constant howling made everyone very nervous and was sapping away their mood and strength.
The first sounds my daughter heard were the signals of some umpteenth accursed siren and my words: «I love you! You are the best!»
On the day of my discharge, the missiles flew right over the roof of the maternity hospital, where we were on the top floor. It was the first time I heard them that close and loud. They fell further on, did not aim at the hospital, we’ve also heard the explosions. We ran to the basement. Huge, frightened eyes of the new mothers, carrying their precious parcels down the stairs to the shelter, despite the pain from the stitches and dizziness. That basement, cold as a cellar. Fear sending shivers down the skin, hair standing on end.
You see, a few days ago we gave birth to the most precious, most valuable things that can only exist in one’s life. And now there are missiles flying over us, and there is no guarantee that in a minute another missile would not arrive and miss its target, or alternatively — aim at the hospital. It is an unspeakable horror and an awareness of your utter helplessness, the endless absurdity and the exceeding cruelty of what is happening. And a wild fear that you may never see your son, your sister again, because the missiles are flying in their direction. You phone on the go, and the seconds of waiting are like years.
What are the children guilty of? What have they done that now they have to be called the «children of war»? My grandmother was born in 1941 and was also a «child of war.» I failed to understand the meaning of those words until this February. These are the children who know the worst terror from birth. Yet children are born to live happy lives, and they are like light in the dark — they give hope and strength to survive through it all. Everything will be Ukraine!