Over the last few months, I’ve become acutely aware of both the comforting properties of physical touch and how inadequate it can be at the same time. I’ve learned that when people are confronted with a grieving person, especially when it’s a sudden, unexpected loss, they want to do something, anything, and probably don’t know what to do, so they will hug you.

I’ve always been a non-hugger. The pandemic was a relief for me in that respect. I didn’t have to worry about the hug or handshake conundrum, or the “how long should this hug last,” or the dreaded “do I cheek kiss or not.”

Not to sound unappreciative, but all the hugs in the world won’t bring Steve back, so while I understand the thought and effort behind them, I’m about all hugged out.

The kids have bounced between just wanting to be left alone and wanting all the hugs. I’ve come to realize how a hug can go on and on forever, and at the end, still not be able to come close to providing any suitable level of comfort. Long gone are the days when I can kiss a boo-boo away, and whatever relief I can provide now is temporary at best.

So, I was quite surprised the other night when Henson, who wasn’t feeling very well after his trip to the vet for his annual checkup and vaccinations came over to me and put his head in my lap.

Shortly after that, I felt his whole entire body slump against my leg with a whimper, which sounded a lot like, “Mommy, hold.”

Maybe that’s just what I wanted, or needed, to hear. I can’t remember which kid employed that phrase, but one of them did, and it was the most gratifying phrase of motherhood.

After a quick head-to-toe check, and a message exchange with the vet, to be sure it wasn’t something else, I gave in to his request, and just put my arms around him, and hoped it was making him feel better.

We sat like that until Duncan got nosy, or maybe jealous, and tried to get in the middle of our hug. At that point, Hens curled up in his crate, voluntarily, which also never happens, and I returned to the kitchen to finish up dinner.

When it became clear that no one was going to engage in our usual pre-bedtime play, Dunc decided to turn in early. Since we brought them home, the pups have slept in their crates in our bedroom, and when it’s bedtime, Dunc will stand at the bottom of the stairs and wait for someone to take him up and tuck him in. I figured I’d either let Hens sleep in his downstairs crate, or I’d end up having to carry him up.

I was quite surprised to see that, although he was obviously hurting, he dragged himself up the stairs behind us. There was a method to his madness: as I was settling Dunc for the night, Hens went right past his own crate and pulled himself up into my bed and settled right down with his head on my pillow. The dogs have never been allowed to sleep in bed with us; although one night recently, Dunc managed to slip out of his crate and helped himself to a corner of the bed, which I didn’t realize until I rolled over the next morning and landed on him. He has been smart enough not to try that trick again.

I was tempted to shoo Hens into his crate, but I made the mistake of sitting down on the bed to judge how much pain he was in and if I ran the risk of getting snapped at if I tried to relocate him. He immediately slid his head over to me and let out the biggest sigh, and I knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

As I sat there petting him, I thought about all the times I’d held the kids in similar situations over the years. How I wish I still had that magical mom ability to make things all better for them, simply by holding them or giving them a hug.

I realized that it has been years since one of them has been sick enough to warrant any sort of snuggling, and the two high school boys would probably rather suffer through the indignity of any illness stoically than ever again ask for a “mommy hold.”

Pretty soon, I could smell dinner burning, and hoped that one of the kids would smell it, too, because I didn’t want to do anything to disturb Henson or steal away from this nostalgic mom moment. I was also acutely aware of Steve’s absence, as navigating the sick kids was always a tag team effort, one of us taking care of the sickie while the other one dealt with the healthy ones.

For the first time ever, someone might have been lucky Steve wasn’t there, as I am absolutely positive resting comfortably in Mom and Dad’s bed would not have been permitted if he was.

I was also gratified that Hens trusted me enough to make me his “feel better” person. I can’t say that I actually did that, but he was able to fall asleep, and after a few hours, I felt him get up, stretch, hop down from the bed and head to his crate for the rest of the night. I guess my work was done.

It felt so good to be able to actually provide someone with the comfort that they needed, even if only for a short time. It was also amazing to realize that Henson trusted me enough to turn to me when he was at his most vulnerable.

I don’t think this experience was enough to turn me into someone who welcomes hugs, but it does make me realize that the right hug at the right time and place can mean all the difference in the world, and it makes me realize how grateful I am for those people who have reached out, both physically and in other ways over the last few months.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.