Nothing profound to write tonight, but I just wanted to check in. It's a fairly miserable, rainy Wednesday night and I have a couple of hours or work still ahead of me and plenty of distraction to keep my mind occupied. Still, as always, it seems as if I'm constantly thinking about Will. This weekend I made prints of a couple of my favorite photos of Will so I could keep him with me. Mary had been out at the time, and as I was slipping the pictures into my wallet for safekeeping, she came home. She asked what I had been doing, and I realized that I'd been talking with Will. I find myself doing that a lot, actually. I don't have extended conversations with him, but I do let him know that I miss him, let him know about things I wish he was going to be around for us to do together. He's such a strong presence in my life (and in Mary's life, too, I know, as well as in the lives of so many others), nearly as strong in his absence as when he was with us.
I ran into an acquaintance the other night that I hadn't seen in several months, and he asked how we've been doing given the fact that 2005 has certainly not been our year. I found in talking about it that the experience of being in the NICU every day has faded a bit; I no longer have dreams filled with the beeps of monitors and my stories about that time no longer revolve around treatments and medical equipment. It doesn't seem like such an immediate part of my life. But my time with Will is still very much with me. It's as if I've been able to focus, much as we did when we were at the hospital each day; all of the surrounding distraction has fallen away and left what is important. I think that's the way it ought to be. Slowly, all of that baggage is receding, and I'm left with the memories and feelings and joy and sorrow of having been with Will. Those photos in my wallet are just a token, of course; I don't need them to think about him or remember what it felt like to hold his hand or read him a story. But sometimes, when I'm talking with him, it helps to be able to look into those cute little eyes and let him know that I miss him, that I'm hanging in there.
I ran into an acquaintance the other night that I hadn't seen in several months, and he asked how we've been doing given the fact that 2005 has certainly not been our year. I found in talking about it that the experience of being in the NICU every day has faded a bit; I no longer have dreams filled with the beeps of monitors and my stories about that time no longer revolve around treatments and medical equipment. It doesn't seem like such an immediate part of my life. But my time with Will is still very much with me. It's as if I've been able to focus, much as we did when we were at the hospital each day; all of the surrounding distraction has fallen away and left what is important. I think that's the way it ought to be. Slowly, all of that baggage is receding, and I'm left with the memories and feelings and joy and sorrow of having been with Will. Those photos in my wallet are just a token, of course; I don't need them to think about him or remember what it felt like to hold his hand or read him a story. But sometimes, when I'm talking with him, it helps to be able to look into those cute little eyes and let him know that I miss him, that I'm hanging in there.
posted by John Kenyon at 9:40 PM
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