Books are his favorites. He likes watching Mickey and Bubble Guppies and Baby TV. He points for things he wants, and smiles and nods when someone understands. He crawls over and pulls himself up to be loved. And he has a special preference for his Momma.
There are so many possibilities in the next few days, and each possibility lends itself to a different set of worries. For awhile those worries included, "will he ever walk? will he be able to have a job, or live on his own?" Recently they changed drastically to, "how do I walk out of this hospital without that baby in my arms? how do I go into my house and walk over his toys, brush my teeth and not notice his toothbrush hanging in it's holder on my bathroom mirror? what do I do with his clothing, his diapers, his food? how do I create a life that isn't centered around measuring, cooking, therapy, snuggling?" I don't know the answers to any of those questions, but I do know that the need to answer them is still a very real possibility every second of every day.
I have no idea why this child is still here. Nothing in my scientific, medical background can make any sense of it. But, for whatever reason, he's still fighting. If he gets to come back, who will he be? Will he remember Mickey? Will he eventually know that he was once able to crawl and can he get back to that place? If I close my eyes and listen very carefully, I can still hear him saying, "Momma, Momma". I'm so very grateful that I had a few months of hearing that beautiful sound. It's one that I'm incapable of forgetting. And I'll hold onto that because I don't know that the child who wakes will remember my face. I know the little boy who left me last week thought that I hung the moon, but I've been here before and I know that it's possible that he won't remember me. I remember him, and I'll love enough for both of us.