The very last time...

About a week ago, I was talking to the owner of our company about how Ian likes to rub my ear when he gets tired. He's usually rubbing his ear with his other hand. My boss said that was just so sweet and that one day I will realize he’s stopped and I'll never know, at the time, that I was getting my very last ear rub. I told her, sheesh, way to make me cry!
It was until later that I realized that this had already happened in another way. About 2 weeks ago, Ian stopped wanting to nurse. I had been offering to him and he kept refusing, so I followed author Elizabeth Pantley's method, "Don't offer, don't refuse". But Ian never asked again, so that was that. I stopped offering and Ian didn't make any more requests, and so he was weaned. He stopped and I never knew, at the time, that I was nursing him for the very last time.
I miss it, those midnight requests, when he would pull at my nightshirt. He would nurse for a bit, and then quietly drift back off. Since he's still not sleeping through the night, we still have those snuggles in the dark, when everyone else is sleeping. But now, it's just the comfort of my arms that helps him fall back asleep.
I still find myself thinking that I'm connected in that way to him. "I can't take that medicine, because I'm nursing", or "I'd better not drink any more caffeine today or it might affect Ian." He's his own person now, no longer taking in what I take. For 9 months, every thing I had, went into his body. And we extended that connection for another 15 months. No longer a baby, I must admit, that my son has become a toddler. So, I look forward to the next step, a new way of connecting, trying not to remember all of those "last moments".

Losing Trevor

Last week we lost a family member. I never met him and I never will, although we were all anxiously awaiting our first meeting. My dear cousin Marianne lost her first child a week ago today. It's the only true fact that I have: he died. I don't know any other details other than that she was induced, the cord was around his neck at delivery, he breathed, the doctor handed him to Marianne to nurse, and she noticed that her baby was unresponsive. So far, there have been no more answers. My aunt isn't ready to talk about it. She told my mom that she's "all talked out". I yearn to know more, but it's a waiting game. My mom told my aunt that we would all wait until she was ready to discuss it. If it was 5 years before she ever heard the story, that would be fine with her.
My heart literally aches for Marianne, a sore spot burning in my chest everytime I think about her, which is all the time. Marianne, still bleeding from the delivery, with her milk coming in, leaving the hospital without her child. Marianne, walking into her empty house with her husband, going upstairs to bed, passing the nursery where the baby should be. Marianne, thinking of the future, her brother's wedding next month, her friend Sara's baby who is due this summer. She and her husband don't want to talk to anyone. They sent everyone away and they just want to be alone. That makes me so sad, as we are all a very close-knit family. That Marianne would send her mother away, makes me hurt for both of them.
It has just hit me how much one single day, a few minutes in time can affect your life forever. The vision of what happened, burned forever on your memory. Every single second, etched in your mind. I kept thinking about that day, that I'm sure she kept thinking, "This is not the way this was supposed to go. This was not what was supposed to happen. I just want to go back and start this day again, do it all over the right way".
I think of Rachel, my sister-in-law, when she lost her son Dustin. He was nearly 3. Only now, with the birth of her new son, has the curtain of depression really lifted. I didn't see it before, but I can now. It's as if an invisible fog has cleared; Rachel laughs, she responds, her personality has returned. It has taken her nearly 4 years to come back to us. I know that Marianne will be there again someday.
Rachel had a dream last year. Her sister in the Phillipines was holding the hand of Rachel's mother who'd passed over 15 years ago and Dustin's hand in the other. Rachel's mom was telling her not to worry about Dustin, that he was really okay. A week later, Rachel's sister died of an asthma attack. This week, after Trevor died, Rachel had another dream. Dustin was walking down the street and stopped by a man selling stuffed animals on the street. He picked up a teddy bear and handed it to a little boy standing next to him. He introduced the boy as "his friend Trevor". It just gives me chills because I know it's true; they are both going to be okay. The boys are walking together, safe from harm, forever.