Far Away Home

Yesterday we said goodbye to Zion and left the hospital.  Jim brought his mother up to meet the baby, and then we spent about an hour just he and I in our room, in a comfortable but emotion filled silence.  Zion slept throughout most of it.  I got to feed him for the last time, and Jim changed his diaper.  Then our adoption agent arrived and the end began.

The three of us talked for a few minutes about our scheduled counseling appointments and court dates (in our state, to terminate parental rights, you actually have to stand before a judge and testify, etc).  The adoptive parents came in shortly after that and bags were double-checked, final pictures were taken, the nurse was called to remove our security bracelets and check Zion's car seat.  As the nurses inspected his car seat and made arrangements regarding his hospital name bracelet, I realized I had to go before them.  I had Jim grab my bag, I hurriedly hugged the mom and dad, said goodbye to Zion and rushed out into the hall before I dissolved into sobs in front of everyone.  I wish I'd had the courage and strength to stay and say the things I wanted to say.  Like, "Please take good care of him for us." and "Thank you for watching over him" and "I know you'll be great."  But all I got out was "Have a safe trip," like they were just leaving on vacation, instead of taking a gift from God and a piece of my soul.

Jim drove me to my aunt's in silence.  I managed to shed only a few tears in the car.  Once at my aunt's we unloaded my belongings and loaded up our other two children into his car.  They'll be staying with him while I recuperate from the c-section.  They drove off and left me here to start the healing.

I slept through most of day one.  Today is day two, and it has been decidedly more difficult.  I miss him so much.  My brain keeps playing scenes of Zion in my head.  I dream wild dreams, like a pastor telling Jim and I that parents who give away their children have no place in heaven; or my older sister coming over with a new baby boy and asking me to babysit him for her.  Sometimes, I think I smell his newborn baby smell on my shirt, but then when I try to smell it, it's gone.  Still I'm afraid to wash my shirt, I don't want to lose that phantom scent.  Even my painfully engorged breasts seem to serve as a way for my brain to remind me that these days are supposed to be spent differently.  

I leave the t.v. on all the time.  It's in the silence that I think of him the most and then I can't stop crying.  I sleep a lot too, but that may be in large part due to the painkillers I'm on for the c-section.
I don't know how long this will go on, but I'm just living to get to next week.  Monday night my aunt will bring me back to my apartment and Tuesday I have my first counseling session and it's weird to look forward to that, but I do. 

I have no doubt that we've done the right thing for Zion, and chosen the perfect parents for him.  But it does little to ease the ache that fills every bone, every muscle in my body, little to dissolve the huge knot of tears that lives in my throat, little to clear the fog that surrounds my brain.  I miss my baby.