This morning, after the temp was taken, the cup peed in, monitor used and cat shooed away. I slept again, dreaming. So odd. It shifted and changed. At first he was girl, a daughter that was more like a plastic baby doll than alive. But I knew him. I was sad because I'd forgotten him and no one had fed him. And shift, and he was a boy I called Christopher, but I compared his face to his picture and it was him. And I knew. And he knew me. No longer a stiff doll-baby, he reached for me. I was ashamed for having thought he'd died, when he was just taken away to NICU. I dressed him again and again and laid him down for a nap and watched him sleep. I was angry I'd missed the first nine months of his life, but I pushed the anger away every time I held him. All I could think then was I'd wanted so badly to hold you again; I have to remember this, how it felt. He was squirmy sometimes, he patted my face, he reached up for me to lift him, settled his head in the crook of my neck and slept, sweetly, and just clung to him. I woke up when we were making plans to move back home so that we could spend all our time with him, jobs be hanged. I was listening to him babble baby-talk, holding him on my lap thinking, I have to remember this and how it felt. I have to remember this.
And then I was awake and remembering and it was Gabe and it wasn't, and I don't know whether to be grateful because I held him again or angry because he's gone again. So I'll just feel sad for a bit.