Logan woke up screaming tonight … he was pissed! Doug took a turn and almost got him to sleep before passing him off to me. I rocked him and he dozed into a restless sleep. He had the sup sups. He was asleep … but not very peacefully. I rocked him some more, hoping to help him settle down before laying him back in his crib.
It wasn’t long before I was having flashbacks of holding Owen after his surgery. The dim-lit room, rocking in a chair. The weight of his head on the crook of my elbow. His naked feet. Logan’s steady breaths were like when Owen was on the respiratory. I remembered laying my head on his shoulder, just praying and hoping with every atom of my body that he would stir. Willing him to move, to flinch. I nuzzled my nose into Logan’s shoulder and he shuttered before settling back in. Pain. Flashbacks of the emptiness of Owen’s body. To the machines rhythmic sounds. To my hand on his chest, memorizing what it felt like, knowing it would soon be over.
Logan’s head was hanging over my elbow, his mouth slightly open. I pictured Owen’s head in my elbow, with the breathing tube still there. Capped off. His lips parted slightly. The corner of his mouth had formed around the tube. The dryness of his lips and putting cherry flavored carmex on them.
Logan’s hair was sweaty from snuggling. Owen was cold and clammy. After his surgery it felt like we had taken a walk in the crisp autumn air. His skin was cool to the touch. Logan was flushed from snuggling.
I cried because I wanted Logan’s reactions to be Owen’s. I cried because I was wishing one son to be another. I cried remembering the emptiness and heavy prayers I said for five short days. I held Owen’s hand just waiting … hoping … willing to do anything to feel his little fingers close around my own again.
I rocked Logan … I cried for Owen.