I've heard lots of people describe the phantom feeling that you're still holding your baby in your arms, long after he is dead. I didn't have quite this experience. My arms felt achingly empty, instead. I remember trying to describe that feeling to Leslie immediately after Max died. I wrote in my
speech for Max's funeral about wanting to 'chop them off' in order to make the physical aching stop.
I have experienced, though, the phantom feeling of still being pregnant, a number of times. Sometimes when I am lying still at night (it most often happens when I am sleeping over at work, for some reason) I feel the flutters in my tummy of Max's tiny tumblings. He's not there, of course, but at the same time it feels like he is
always there. Six months after his death I still feel that he is a part of me, bodily. Whatever changes he has made to my body, none of which are visible to the human eye, have profoundly affected the way I carry myself and the way I feel about my own flesh.
The biggest change I've felt on a physical level is that my nervous system is not on high alert so much of the time anymore. Consequently, I feel anxious and agitated far less often than I used to even though I arguably have more reason to be anxious and agitated than I ever did before. It is as though the memory of Max has curled up like a warm, purring kitten on the complicated synapses that once fired out signals of fear, soothing and caressing them, and whispering to them that the worst has come; there's nothing more left of which to be afraid.
I feel that this part of Max's legacy. He has given me freedom from fear. He has anointed me with the essence of the brave; like an invisible sign of the cross planted on my forehead in something much like holy oil, that says 'I can bear it'.
And I can.
And I am.
And I will.
Yet I wonder if anyone can see the gifts Max brought me, or if I am their only witness? Who can see that I have changed? Do they like what they see, or do they shy away from me now as if I am a fraction of the person they once knew?
Freedom and fortitude Max immediately unlocked within me. Who can tell what other seeds he has planted inside to bloom on future days?
On the day of Max's six-month anniversary, a flower bloomed. On a cold, but sunny late-Autumn day, the
Camelia we planted in honour of our baby produced it's first delicate petal, as soft as silk. The Camelia plant, you might remember, is said to express the sentiment of longing. And how I've longed for him this week, especially alongside the news of another baby boy born safely to a close friend.
I don't believe in heavenly signs. But how I wanted to when I saw that bloom! On
that day! For a little while I rested with the image of my little boy sending his mummy a flower to assure me that there was beauty to come, on the coldest wintry days, when I least expected to find it.
Oh Max, was it you? Could it be you? A mother should always know where her baby is but I have no way of tracking your journey through the universe. You've evolved so far beyond my reach. I don't know how to get to you. But perhaps you know where I am. Perhaps you come, as some people might believe, and leave me pink, blushing kisses on the lily white petals of your special flowers.
Perhaps you will come again? And then again, perhaps you never did come at all. But that's OK, because your daddy and I know that you were once
really here, on our plane, your heart vibrating with earthly energy alongside ours. We know that you stayed as long as you could, and now we want you to be free.
Just know your mummy will always be watching for you, as long as she lives. No one will know it, but when I am old and shuffling along the street on my way to the shops, I'll still be paying special attention to the flowers and trees here and there, searching for the very essence of you in every living thing I see or touch.
