Physical Grief

Originally Posted January 8, 2023

My arms are so empty.  So in need of your physical presence.  For four years I carried you.  Lifted you, snuggled you, bounced you, repositioned you, held you close every single day.  I bathed you, dressed you, changed you, sang to you, comforted you and played with you.  I fed you every four hours.  Gave medicine even more frequently around the clock.  I watched you sleep, kissed your eyes and hands.  I knew your heart rate, your oxygen levels, knew every type of seizure.  I could feel changes in your muscle tone by touching you.  I knew every noise, every facial expression -- knew how you liked to sleep and how to position you.  I am so intimately knowledgeable of you and so lost without you here.

I want to feel your weight in my arms.  To wrap you up close to me and put my face in your hair.  I remember the way your hair felt as I kissed your head for the last time when Daddy carried you out to the van.  I'm holding the Sesame Street blanket I wrapped you in that day.  Anything to try and trick my physical body into believing it has you close.  Anything to bring relief from the anxiety and pain.  The muscle aches, the migraines, the exhaustion and nausea.  

Your suffering was horrible and my heart would never, ever wish you back to that existence.  I'm so grateful for your rest and release.  But I often ask God "Where is my baby?"  My heart longs to know if you're having a spiritual experience, or a physical existence, or if you simply sleep unaware.  If you do exist somewhere right now, I wonder if you would know me, if you have memory of your earthly life.  If families matter in what comes after death, do you still belong to us, to our ancestors?  Or does blood and biology overrule the bonds created on earth? (Daddy thinks this one is crazy, he says God honors your adoption in Heaven and on earth.)  I know our Creator is good.  I know you are okay, and I know you do not need me anymore.  I don't worry about you, I just physically miss you.  My body longs for yours in a way only mothers would understand.

Daddy says one day at a time.  Or one night at a time.  We love you so much, buddy.  You were so worth it.