by
Nov 06. 2024
My daughter, my partner!
preeclampsia
As people age, it seems that everyone can’t help but miss the warmth of their homeland, the place they’ve lived.
Every time I enter the airport, I’m enveloped by a cozy, unique scent that stabilizes my emotions. Is this feeling only sensed by my nose? Or is it my brain, filled with longing for home, that brings it to life?
After fifteen hours of crying and sleeping on the plane, my face and legs were swollen. And here I was, waiting to pass immigration and collect my luggage, noticing people curiously glancing at me—a heavily pregnant woman wearing a Pakistani shalwar kameez. But I wasn’t intimidated by their stares.
This is my country, Korea!
Finally, as I walked out with my luggage, the first person I saw with my swollen eyes was my husband in his military uniform.
We approached each other with joy, though a bit shy, only managing to hold hands as he hurriedly took my bags and walked ahead of me like a porter, his eyes brimming with tears.
"Have you been well?"
"Yes! I’m fine. How about you?"
"I’ve managed well and came back strong."
"Your health doesn’t seem great right now."
"Doctor said it’s pregnancy preeclampsia, I’ll have to check in at the hospital soon!"
With this brief exchange, we quietly boarded a bus to Yosu, where he was stationed, as our initial awkwardness slowly faded.
Finally, on the train, we held each other’s hands tightly, lowering our heads and crying without looking into each other's eyes. Wiping away each other’s tears, we wept in silence.
It was such a welcome reunion.
I had been waiting for this moment for so long.
Although I loved God deeply, there was an immense space in my heart filled by the presence of my husband.
"Nobody forced me to go,
I went willingly to the path of love.
But why is every step so hard?"
Our small, newlywed home was just as it had been.
A tiny room where, if we turned around, it felt full.
There was a small closet covered by a cloth, a small kitchen stacked with charcoal briquettes, and a narrow entryway that could barely fit two pairs of shoes.
Everything was neatly arranged, just as my orderly husband would keep it.
We spent the night sharing stories that had accumulated in our hearts, expressing gratitude for each other’s survival and giving thanks to God for protecting me amid the dangers in Pakistan.
The next day, I went to the OB-GYN clinic. Just being with my husband gave me a deep sense of comfort; everything felt perfect.
I wanted to wear the beautiful maternity clothes that Korean women wore. Sensing this, my husband brought back some clothes from the market. Wearing the lovely outfits, I relished little treats each day, and soon, labor pains began.
After eight hours in the delivery room, the doctor became concerned as my heart rate spiked due to preeclampsia. He advised an emergency C-section and asked my husband to sign the consent form.
Not fully grasping the situation, or maybe just terrified, my husband asked if he could fast and pray for a day before deciding. My father, who was nearby, intervened.
“Son, sign it quickly; the baby’s at risk.”
Reluctantly, my husband signed, then turned to me with a resolute expression.
“When you come out, let’s eat together. Hang in there, I’ll be praying for you. Stay strong.”
While pregnant, I had been called “Chini, Chini”—a term meaning Chinese and referring to “slant-eyed people”—by children who followed and teased me on the streets.
Once, while on my way back with an American missionary woman who was also pregnant, mischievous kids threw stones at us, and we had to hold our bellies and run for cover.
Each day, I clutched my belly tightly while riding in dusty, rickety rickshaws on unpaved roads.
One day, I was grabbed by two men in the market and dragged into a storage shed full of broken wooden crates. But when they saw my pregnant belly, they argued in words I couldn’t understand, and one of them finally let me go.
Pakistan is a challenging country for a lone Korean woman to live.
