Beautiful Boy

Reflections on the brief but boundless life of our son, Logan

It was the summer of 2015, just a couple of months into our marriage. We were standing in the bathroom, staring at the little blue “+” sign in disbelief. I’d always wanted to be a father, and the reality of it hit me like a cannonball. I remember driving to work later that evening and realizing, if anyone hurt my child, jail would be a real possibility.

I’d give my life for this baby if I had to. But never in my darkest dreams did I think that, a few months later, that very instinct would face a different kind of test. A test that no parent could prepare for, one that would change everything.

When Logan arrived early, I was unprepared. I had so many daydreams of what that “first child” moment would be like—how it’s full of joy and awe. But he was barely 26 weeks, arriving over three months too soon. My wife had gotten violently ill that the only chance for them both was to deliver him early.

Logan Ryu Boston

It felt like a cruel joke. Nothing about this felt real, yet here we were.

I remember the nurses preparing her for a delivery she wouldn’t be awake for, and one I wouldn’t witness at her side. A close friend was with me in the hospital, and the look on her face was one of panic—fear he might not make it, or worse, that she might not either. I remember frowning at her, telling her to stay strong, that everything would be okay. In that moment, I needed to believe my own words.

When they finally brought him out, I didn’t know what to feel. He was so small, with skin almost translucent and so red that he looked unreal. He looked like my father. In the waiting room, my father, my wife’s sister, and my boss sat waiting for news.

My boss grinned and said, “Congratulations, Dad!” But I was in a haze. There was no golden hour, no shared moment with my bride as we held him together, marveling at the life she brought into the world. Instead, we were left with empty arms and endless waiting.

The next few days were a blur. We spent most of our time in the NICU, splitting our attention between my wife’s recovery and his incubator. Every visit, we scrubbed our hands thoroughly with soap and hot water, making sure not to bring any germs that could invade his body.

We’d take turns slipping a finger through the access doors in the incubator so he could clasp on. It became our silent ritual, the only connection we could offer him. His tiny hand wrapped around our index fingers, and effectively, us being wrapped around his. It felt like the single thread holding us together.

I remember singing to him, soft and low:

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know dear
Just how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Each day in the NICU was a fragile milestone, though we never felt like celebrating. I’d watch the monitors, holding my breath as each dip in his oxygen or heart rate sent my heart careening down a cliff. We couldn’t even hold him—since we didn’t want to cause more stress to his tiny body. It was a truth that haunted me.

We sat beside him, day after day, with the constant hum of the machines and the sounds of nurses’ soft voices in the background, but they were never loud enough to quiet the one thought in my mind: Why is this happening to us? And yet, every morning, we’d brace ourselves for the call from the NICU director.

There’s a certain kind of dread that only grows when you go to bed not knowing if your child will make it through the night. And still, each morning, after those calls, we would get ready, drive to the hospital, and sit beside him. If there was ever a time I felt hopeful, it was on that drive, between the call and the NICU, clinging to the idea that maybe, just maybe, he’d be stronger that day.

The weight of it all was heavy, but I had to see him. There was one night when I went to visit alone while my wife rested. I took my motorcycle and didn’t map the directions to the hospital. I had done the drive many times by that point and felt like I didn’t need them.

But lo and behold, when your mind is everywhere, it’s easy to get lost, and I did. What should’ve taken only 20 minutes stretched to an hour. But going back home was never an option. Once I finally arrived, I apologized to him for being late.

The nurses would tell us how he’d kick his little blanket off or tug at an oxygen tube in defiance. That stubbornness was a sliver of his spirit shining through. I’d smile because that was a small glimpse of his spirit and a piece of his mother and me. I was a notorious blanket-kicker-offer as a baby, and his sisters do the same thing even now.

After he survived his heart surgery, I finally began to imagine him getting stronger, gaining weight, and reaching a point where we could hold him. That small success filled me with reckless optimism.

Deep down, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I wasn’t spending enough time with him. Sitting there, feeling helpless, was its own kind of agony.

Then came the day when I couldn’t see him in the morning. I’d gone back to work. My wife sent me a picture of him lying on his stomach, something I hadn’t seen before, and I couldn’t wait to swipe out and get to the hospital and see him myself. But as soon as I arrived, I knew something was wrong.

I pressed the doorbell, expecting to be buzzed in, but instead, I was directed to a small room just outside the NICU, staring at the diamond patterns on the floor. The seconds dragged, and a slow dread built inside me. My leg bounced relentlessly, feeling as if something had shifted in the air. I felt so alone, and I hated it.

When they finally let me in, I saw it right away—the cluster of doctors around him, their expressions grim and focused. I was forced to stand off to the side, watching, waiting, as they worked on him, my heart sinking.

Eventually, I went home to collect my wife, and my father returned to the same waiting room where he became a grandpa for the first time just 19 days before. The staff asked us if we wanted to unhook him from the machines so we could hold him, but we couldn’t. We would put off holding him if it gave even the slightest chance to survive. I’ve never questioned if that was the right thing to do until now. No parent should have to make a decision like that.

I walked to the waiting room to give my father updates, but to be honest, I was searching for strength—a crutch to keep me from crumbling. For my father to comfort me because I couldn’t comfort my own son. With arms wrapped around me, he recited Ecclesiastes 12:13:

“Now this is the end of the matter; all hath been heard: Fear God, and keep his commandments; for this is the whole duty of man.”

I didn’t know what he meant by telling me this scripture, I didn’t ask. It didn’t matter. When I went back to the NICU, there were no doctors now, just the same nurses that had felt like distant family, removing the sensors and tubes from Logan, preparing to hand him over to us for the very first time.

My wife sobbed, and I kneeled down to the diamond-patterned floor once again, trying to punch my way through it.

Our beautiful boy, the child of our dreams, the culmination of love between two weary souls, had departed……