Missing someone who is still here.

I miss my son. I miss that Oliver who ran all over the house with his little steps and shouted “ma ma” all day. I miss seeing him sleep on his belly on the baby monitor. I miss watching him play with his brothers and being terrified that they might hurt him, even though in the end he almost always turned out to be the victor. I miss the Oliver from before the accident.

Do I feel guilty for missing that version of him while at the same time feeling grateful and lucky that I didn’t lose him that day? Yes. Both feelings coexist, and they do not exclude each other. This Oliver is not less than the one before. I don’t love him less and I don’t like him less. He is different. My task and my blessing as a mother remain the same: to love him and care for him above all else.

My family is still whole. And many times I think about where we would be today if Oliver had died in one of those many moments when he was closer to death than to life. Or where they would be if I had died that day: only recently have I understood how close I was to death too, and how ignorant I was about the severity of my own injuries.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if not only Oliver had been hurt, but also Julián, Sebastián, or Stefan. Or if I had been the only survivor. It’s impossible not to think about those scenarios.

But just as impossible is seeing Oliver smile and not feeling all those thoughts ripped away in an instant, carrying me straight to heaven, with rainbows and birds singing. Oliver has that power: the power to truly see you. And then to smile. There is nothing his smile cannot heal.

I invite you to look at his photo and not feel immediately better.

And yet, I miss him.

Oliver sucked his thumb until he was eight months old, and then he stopped. Without pressure, without me intervening: one day he just didn’t do it anymore. He replaced it by taking my finger or his dad’s, always the thumb. He would grab it with his whole little hand, and in that way he calmed his anxieties (and honestly mine too), healed bumps, and fell asleep peacefully. His last phrase before closing his eyes was: “ma ma mano (hand).”

Today he still says the same thing: “ma ma (hand).” But now it means something else. He can no longer take my hand as before, but he can feel it caressing his golden hair or tracing the outline of his face. And so, every night, he falls asleep. There are things that change, things that remain the same, and things that simply adapt.

Ma ma mano (hand). Mommy, I want to feel your hand so I can fall asleep.

This feeling of missing someone who is still here is sadly familiar to me. For years now, my mom, my source of inspiration, has lived with Alzheimer’s. Little by little, I’ve been losing her, until today only a faint shadow of who she was remains.

I miss her even though she is still here. I miss her calls, our code words, her restless hugs, her gaze that recognized my face. I miss the strength of her embrace and, above all, hearing from her lips the words I need so much today: “everything will be okay.” I wish she had seen me becoming a mom. It is because of her that every day I try to do my very best.

1. The day Oliver met his grandma “Tita.”

2. The memory of the heart is never lost.

3. Oliver comforting Tita with his finger because that day he saw her cry.

She taught me to say goodnight by “shaking me around” in bed, and now my children love it. They know her and love her in their own way. She loves them even if she may not know who they are, and I know it because every time she sees them she hugs them, calls them beautiful, and lights up. And every time she sees me, for an instant, I could swear that we are face to face again ten years ago, when this sorrow did not exist.

And it is also true that for the first time in my life, I am grateful that she does not know my pain. I know it would be even worse for her to see me suffering for my son.

Missing someone who is still here may sound contradictory, but it is real. And I have learned to accept that it is not wrong. I am not crazy (at least, not too much).

Oliver is here. He has had so many opportunities to leave, and he has not. On the contrary: every day he shows us that his purpose is greater than what our eyes can see.

This Oliver I can call “born again.” He is a child with the strength of a giant. I always knew my son was special, but I never imagined having to see him in these circumstances. That boy who used to run to open the fridge to eat tomatoes in bites is now a boy who has matured 45 years in five months, who has learned to communicate beyond words, who leaves doctors and scientists astonished.

He is my Oliver

The same, but different.

The one from before, but a new one.