Beloved Dead.

May 7, 2013 at 6:13 pm | Posted in Moving On. | Comments Off on Beloved Dead.

My dear ghost child:

I still see you, in the space between sleep and waking. Often, when in the throes of insomnia, I wake every two hours to your phantom cries.

I dream of you: in them, you nurse quietly, and I bend to kiss your head, the sweet scent of you filling me.

You would have been mine this month, I know it. You’d have been early like your brother was, little and quiet and sleepy for those first few weeks. We would have taken walks every day, now that I know where all the sidewalks in town are. We’d cheer for your brother as he plays tee ball and spent time hiking. And you’d have gotten used to the rocking of the jogging stroller – the one indulgence I had planned for this baby.

You’d have been my running buddy, the one thing that would be yours and mine alone.

And this September, you and I and your brother would have gone to the bus stop together, you in the ergo, waving goodbye to your big brother as he got on the bus to go to school for the first time. We might have gone for our walk after then, or maybe then we’d head to daycare, where you’d get to spend the next few years getting to know kids in your class until you, too, went to kindergarten.

I don’t know if you’d be an abysmal sleeper like your brother was, but I can tell you I’m an expert at helping babies sleep, so I think your daddy and I would have figured out a way to get you to sleep pretty well.

Would you have looked like Lucky, who was so dark when he was born? Or would you be the spitting image of your daddy?

Would you have loved to dance and sing and twirl along to the songs like I did when I was a little girl?

I wish I had the chance to know. Right now, as it warms up and the leaves come out on the trees, I wish I had the hope of taking you for a walk, or bringing you for a run in the jogging stroller. I wish we had the blue room made up as your bedroom and I could sit in there in quieter moments, rubbing my swollen belly, feeling you roll underneath my hand.

I miss you.

But you’re not here. And with every week that goes by, every week further from the moment I learned you weren’t to be, I grow farther away from you.

We got a puppy, you know. We named him Happy. Your dad and I figured that if Lucky couldn’t be a big brother, he might as well have a companion. He loves Happy; loves to make him run and throw a ball for fetch and play tug of war with him.

I’m starting to realize that we might never meet you – that you will always be my ghost child, a figment of my imagination. Representing my hopes and dreams of a very different kind of family than the one we have today.

The family we have today – the four of us now – is okay. More than okay, it’s our life in the here and now.

And I need to live it. I need to let go of the dream of having two children; I need to release the pain and the anger and the bitter and let it fly away.

I need to let YOU go.

I love you, and I wish SO much that things were different. I wish that you were in my arms, that my love for you could have made you real. We fought as long as we could to bring you home with us. And I’m sorry we couldn’t do more.


It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
– Dumbledore, “The Sorcerer’s Stone”


I am awful at goodbyes.

It’s time, though.

This space of mine no longer feels like an opening; it feels like a shackle, chaining me to infertility. It’s my own fault, of course – writing about infertility was a hobby of mine back in the day.

But now it’s a painful reminder of what I don’t have.

And I can no longer dwell in my dreams.

You know how to find me. And I love you all.



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