I am not digging this being away from my son thing. I know that we're not that far, but as far as my feelings go, we may as well be in Siberia. I was actually okay until we got back in the room tonight and I started processing orders, and replying to people who purchased Malkolm's story today. I'm not feeling strong at all right now. For the first time, I broke down thinking about the process Malkolm will go through.
We'll be right there with him when he goes to sleep, his chest the same as it always has been, and then we'll be there when he wakes up. To hold his little hand as he sleeps in that healing sleep with the fingernails that are just a little too long with small hints of remnants of dirt from the playground he hasn't been able to play on for a while. To run my fingers through his mohawk as it outgrows it's original style, looking more like a mullet. To watch his chest with a new line down the middle of it rise and fall as the machine breathes for him for two days. To see the tubes, drains, IVs ...
I don't know why I allowed myself to start thinking about this -- in a way, it felt good to let myself go there, but just like giving in to anger -- it tastes good for a bit and then after a few bites, I realize it's rancid. There are so many doubts I feel like I want to voice, but I don't want to give it life; I can't give it life. I don't want to sign for that package -- it needs to go.
I have to remind myself that the only difference between worry and meditation is the subject matter. It seems I am not listening to my own advice.
I must say it is much harder here, without the kids, without my husband. We go back tomorrow night. At this point I wish I could plug in like Neo in "The Matrix" and just get it all at once and then go home. Sometimes a momma just needs kid hugs and wet, sloppy baby kisses -- or to just to sit quietly with her husband on the couch, her head on his shoulder, feeling his strength seeping into her.
Sweet dreams my little prince.