What dreams may come...

 
Ever since the day Alex died, I've been on Ambien every night to help me sleep.  Nights are the worst time for me.  Nights are the special time I had with Alex.  Emma would be in bed, Jeff would be in bed.  I'd wake Alex around 10pm and change him, bring him downstairs and feed him his bottle in the darkened living room while watching something on Netflix or dvr'd. After his bottle, we'd go upstairs to his room and sit in the glider snuggling.  Alexander was a serious cuddler.  That boy loved cuddle time with his mama.  He'd snuggle his face into my neck until he couldn't get any closer and then he'd scrunch his little legs up under him while I patted his butt lightly.  I'd rock him far longer than I needed to. I just enjoyed the feel of his soft breath against my neck, his sighs of contentment, feeling him snuggle in even closer.  Knowing that little miracle was all mine.  That I had fought and persevered and I had won.  I had beaten infertility.  I had beaten pre-eclampsia.  I was going to get to snuggle with the most amazing boy on the planet.   My son. 

Nights are when I feel the emptiest.  The loneliest.  His absence is huge at night.  I stay up extremely late, keeping the same hours I did when he was alive.  Most of the time, I go in his room and sit and rock in the glider, holding one of his blankets.  Every now and then if I smell it just right, I find his smell.  And it's heaven.  But then I open my eyes and all I have left is an empty blanket.  Empty arms.  Broken heart.

Since I stopped the Ambien, I started dreaming again.  I haven't dreamed since the night before he died.  My dreams aren't very meaningful right now.  Hodge podge of inconsequential things that I can't even remember. But I do remember having dreams where my father had come to see me after he died.  And I've been so upset that I haven't had any of those with Alex.  Now I fear that the Ambien has been blocking my dreams and therefore, blocking him from getting through to me.  What if I missed my chance?  What if he gave up on trying to see me in my dreams? 

Nights mean that I made it through another day without losing my mind, letting my grief swallow me up.  That I survived one more day.  But mornings.... mornings aren't much better.  Mornings are when I wake up every morning and immediately have a tiny glimmer of hope that it was all a bad dream.  I open my eyes and look at the nightstand and the monitor isn't there and that's when I know it isn't a dream.  It's real.  It's my new reality.  My son is gone.  I will never hold him again.  Never feel his soft breath again. Never hear him sigh again.  Never see his beautiful smile again.  Never hear him laugh again.