Separation Anxiety

I learned somewhere that babies don't differentiate from their mothers for quite some time.  A year, perhaps?  They shared a body initially, and psychologically, the baby is still fundamentally connected with his mother.  But at about a year (am I making this up?) the child starts to recognize differences between his wants and needs and his mother's.  He realizes that they are not one, and psychologically he responds by gaining a sense of self and other.

At the hospital for Isaac's surgery last Thursday, he was his normal, active, sociable self.  He babbled at the receptionist and waved to the nurses.  When we headed into his waiting/recovery room, with all its medical accoutrements that look ever so familiar to me now, though, he balked.  He twisted back towards the door with unmistakable energy.  "Can he possibly remember?" I thought.  He must have.

When it was time for him to go to the OR, he allowed the nurse to take him from me with minimal resistance.  It was a simple thing, her taking him back, but in retrospect, it feels like the end of his first innocence.

When he was finished and awake, we went back to get him and bring him to the recovery room.  He clung to us, Sam and me in turn, and wouldn't let go.  It was unsurprising considering the situation, I suppose, but significant for him.  Isaac has been snuggly, but not clingy, and his ferocity was distinct.

Within a few days of the surgery, Isaac seemed back to his normal self.  He crawled around, giggled with his siblings, pulled up to toys (though post-op instructions are no weight-baring on his feet, I can't get him to cooperate) and seemed generally content.  When it was time for Mother's Day Out, where Isaac has always leapt from my arms to get to the toys, the new people and the children, Isaac clung to me and bawled.  The caregivers commented that he must not be feeling well yet, but I'd seen him content for a couple of days.

That night, as I was rocking him to sleep, I gave Isaac my breast, hoping to reassure him and reestablish whatever connection, trust or oneness had been lost.  Isaac has been weaned for several weeks now, because I can't produce a 40 calorie/ounce milk, and that is what he needs in order to regain and maintain his weight.  He took the breast gladly and suckled hopefully, eyes closed, ready for sweetness and rest.  But there was nothing there.  After several minutes he got frustrated, looked at me with pain, and turned away. I rocked and sang, but he couldn't get comfortable on my shoulder or in my arms.  At last I put him down in his crib, where he promptly rolled over and slept.

 I sat in the dark and rocked myself, remembering how utterly content he once was in my arms and at my breast.  That time of sweet oneness is over, and the thought made me sad and anxious.

Separation anxiety will affect us both.  My heart yearns for the connection. It is hard to let him go, even this little step.  Or perhaps it is a big step, this psychological differentiation, this sense of self and other.  It is second only to the physical separation of birth.  Now, like then, I think we both feel a little lost and lonely.

(Will this ache be healed someday?  When we are all gathered into one, when we become Zion, of one heart and one mind, will we regain the sense of unity we lost at birth?  Will we no longer see each other as self and other, but as part of one living body, a whole community?  Will that sense of complete belonging return? When I first learned to love selflessly, as a young adult, I began to see that possibility.  I sensed the beauty of inclusion in defining the self, of seeing others as part of me, their strengths and weaknesses affecting me almost as intimately as my own.  It was a wonderful feeling, that sense of unity and love.)

Lately, though, I've found it necessary to define boundaries.  To become lost in caring for Isaac--to lose track of myself and spiral downward into oblivion--does not serve the purpose.  And so I let Isaac cry sometimes at night, that I may have a time for my own sleep.  I separate us, at MDO, so I can have time to define and strengthen myself.  These boundaries feel right, and necessary, now.  Even in the pain of no longer being one with my son, I know it is right.

Truly this must be one of the mysteries of God--this need for separation that we may be blessed in unity--because I don't understand how it all works out.  I feel my heart yearning for unity, and also yearning for separation, for boundaries.  It is all part of life and love, and inevitable as the passing of time.