You can mention a word, even one that seemingly would have nothing to do with Liam’s life, and I can be instantly transported back to a specific moment, a specific place, a specific interaction, a specific feeling. You wanna talk pulse oximetry? Bam, right back to room 55. You wanna talk humidity? Bam, right back to the shared showers. You wanna talk photography? Bam, right back to looking at Liam through the camera’s lens.
The emotion that comes with that trip back in time is still so raw and unyielding, that it becomes all-consuming at times. If I were to close my eyes, it would be just like we were sitting in the room. And despite the vividness of those experiences, the one thing that doesn’t happen? Remembering what it was like to hold Liam. It’s depressing, confusing, and saddening to think that as each day goes by, it becomes harder and harder to feel that feeling. I wish that there was a way to understand why that was, but I don’t think that we can know that kind of answer.
While sitting in the hospital room, I remember reading something that was given to us. It was about a similar situation to the one that we were in, and the parent wrote: ‘It doesn’t matter how much you hold him, it will never be enough.’ What I failed to understand about that statement was that no matter how much I held him, that would be the hardest thing to feel again.