A letter to Conor

 

Dearest Conor,

What a wild ride these past six weeks have been for both of us, but especially for you! 

We're probably just at the halfway point with your time at the hospital and it's felt hard lately.

And yesterday felt really hard as I just sunk into the reality that is our life right now.

And as I asked permission to hold you, I just thought this isn't how it should be. You shouldn't be here outside of my body, and I shouldn't have to ask permission to hold you.

And as I picked you up from your bed and held you to my chest while all the cords and things dangled from your body, I just thought this is so hard.

Yet, this is our life and our reality right now.

And I just thought, lean into it, let those tears stream down your face, let your heart ache as you ask to hold the baby God grew inside you for 28 weeks and 4 days.

And just breathe him in.

And I found myself doing that, just breathing you in - inhaling gratefulness and thankfulness for your own breath, and exhaling the weight of the pain that comes at the end of the day with my empty arms. 

And those few hours I have to just breathe you in, to care for you, to hold you, to sing to you, to smell you are such treasured moments.

And it never feels like enough time.

But when I'm with you, I'm so present.

I can smell breast milk on your body. I can feel your breath on my chest as you breathe in and breathe out. I can see your little face and the way you love having your hands up by your face. I can feel your body underneath the weight of my hands. I can see your eyelashes and the light color of your eyebrows.

And I just sit there, with you on my chest, and I breathe you in - inhaling gratefulness, exhaling the pain.

And before I know it, it's time for me to hit the call button, and the door to your room opens, and the nurse graciously assists me in putting you back in your bed. I place my hand on you and tell you how much I love you, how proud I am of you, and that I'll see you soon!

And then I walk out of your room, down the long hallway, through the doors, to the elevator, eventually making my way to my car. 

All the while inhaling gratefulness, exhaling the pain.

And I drive home without you. 

My arms are empty, yet my breasts are full.

Inhaling gratefulness, exhaling the pain. 

And I just can't wait to have you home with us. 

I can't wait to wake up to you in our home, knowing how you slept the night before rather than having to call the hospital to check on you!

I can't wait to be able to walk into the other room to see your sweet face rather than having to drive to the hospital to see it!

I can't wait for the day when I don't feel the divide and the pull so much, the day when things are as they should be.

And I know the day will come when we’re buckling you into your carseat, walking out of your room and down the long hallway, through the doors, to the elevator, eventually making our way to the car…with you.

And as I wait for that day to come, I’ll just be over here breathing – inhaling gratefulness to the Lord for medical intervention, for your beating heart, for your working lungs, for your growing body, and exhaling the trauma and pain of your early arrival.

Love you,

Mama