My baby lies in his isolette with a little oxygen tube and feeding tube coming out of his nose. He sleeps, not the sleep of a newborn, but the sleep of a weakened life that doesn’t have the energy even to eat. Three months we watch, worry, and wait.
Awake, my sweet boy. Come join your family.
And he does. Aidan comes home from the hospital where we hold him, play with him, and learn to love him. Still, he works so hard to hold his head up and cannot move around.
Awake, little muscles. Find your strength and grant Aidan mobility and independence.
And they do. Aidan eventually learns to bear weight, then put one foot in front of the other while leaning on me for balance. But walking only takes him so far. He still needs wheels to be part of our everyday life. At first, the wheels are ones that are pushed by someone else and Aidan still lacks control.
Awake, smart brain. Figure out what it means to crash or not crash, to turn, to follow, to drive.
Oh, and Aidan figures it out and is unstoppable. He has independence with his power chair. I love the moments I glance behind me in the store and Aidan is not there. He takes a detour because he wants to and he can. Go, break the rules, be a little wild and crazy. But still there are the seizures, the times my heart stops to watch my boy so scared and my body grips his to prevent a fall.
Awake, my sweet boy. Let me hold you, comfort you, love you in your pain.
As much as I know it’s not my breath, my words, my love that speaks life into his being, I will keep calling him to me.
Awake, precious Aidan, for I want more for you. Awake, because you are the beat of my mother heart.