10.10am. “I’m calling from the bereavement suite, your baby is ready”.
It’s a sentence I never thought I would hear. I had imagined “your baby has your eyes” or “your baby is feeding well” or “your baby has long legs doesn’t he”. But this phone call is one that is so surreal I wondered if it was just an echo in my head. The irony being that the reception on my phone was for once adequate enough for me to answer it downstairs without having to stretch out of the attic window.
Our little boy is ready. I’m not sure we are anywhere near ready. I am more than ready to bring him home and spend a night in our bed. Just so I can feel I brought him home. I’m just not ready to bury him, to let go of him physically. Neither of us are ready for that next step. We’ve not settled on a burial or cremation yet. What feels right one day doesn’t the next. I cannot bear to let go of him physically yet. He is 2 weeks old, he should be at home with us and still growing. I don’t want to let go and leave him where I think he might be alone or cold. I want to take him everywhere I go. I can’t stand the thought of going away this weekend because I will be far away from him. I feel like I’m deserting him. He has been safe and warm with me and now he is all alone. It torments me at night when I can’t sleep.
Even with that said, we are not ready to collect him yet and move into the next stage. It feels so final. That I will have to begin to let go of him physically even though I am desperate to have him back with us. It’s a conflict I am struggling to uncover any resolve in. But our baby is ready.