I dreamed I held a baby and it was taken away

In the dream, I was in a large back yard in the evening, surrounded by people, family, friends, from all facets and eras of my life. Someone was holding her baby and it took a while but I eventually asked if I could hold it. She said yes. Everyone around me was watching me and smiling. At first, the baby wriggled, strongly, and I thought I would drop him. I thought he would hit his head on the ground and die. But I managed to keep him in my arms. I was squatting with him in my arms, then I was putting my hand on the back of his head. I was standing and feeling his warm little body inside the blanket in my arms. He was African-American, light-skinned, big eyes. I took him over to a very long and narrow wooden table. All of the people were all around the table, talking, laughing. I held him against my shoulder and I could feel him breathing against my neck.

And then I began to cry and cry and cry. People were alarmed. Embarrassed for me. Embarrassed of me. Someone came and took the baby out of my arms. It felt like my limbs had been ripped off. “Oh no, oh no oh no oh no,” I said, reaching out for him, but whoever it was took the baby far away and it was clear I would never see him again.

People were looking at me, turning away. I wanted to explain to everyone why I was crying, but no one seemed interested in listening. I remember trying to follow my aunt down the yard, trying to get her attention to explain, but she was too far away, absorbed in conversation, and couldn’t or didn’t want to hear me.

Then the same dream happened again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again…

I woke up with such intense sadness I don’t even know how to describe it. The thousands of defenses I keep up all day long to protect myself from the reality of my pain and loss were absolutely stripped away. Just–absent.

DH came in and I sobbed. I didn’t want to describe the dream to him, but he kept prompting me, so I did. I said the same things I always say, that I can’t understand how one person is supposed to be able to endure all of this. That I wake up every morning thinking, “I miscarried a normal boy,” and I know, deep down, that I am facing going through all of this again, and come April or so, I will be in this exact same position, recovering from another loss, the last one, and I will still have no baby in my arms. The cruelty of the polar oppositeness of what I yearn for and what I end up going through instead, again and again. What I yearn for: A beautiful baby in my arms. A house of life. A future with family. What I get: A horrific loss that tears down my mind, body, and soul, and takes away my capacity for joy and hope.

How I lay here in the morning feeling my empty abdomen, bleeding. Recovering from nightmares.

Instead of feeling a baby kicking inside me. Instead of going to the crib to comfort my little baby.

And outside in the yard, just beyond my window, the neighbor’s granddaughter squeals with delight as she runs in the sunshine.

Leave a comment


  1. Hugs to you… I’m so sorry

  2. Oh hun, I’m sorry. It’s like your uterus and your brain have teamed up to torment you. You have to just keep on working yourself back to center…ride the wave…get your balance…repeat. Sometimes there’s no other way to weather a thing like this. My heart is breaking that a person who feels everything so deeply has been saddled with so much trauma.

  3. I’m so sorry. What a miserable way to wake up and remember this. I hope Dr. S has some good suggestions for you tomorrow. Hang in there sweetie ((()))

  4. Kali

     /  November 25, 2013

    Your writing is poetic.

    I know that feeling of just being EMPTY. And no one understanding it, seeing me without that gaping hole in me, when I want to scream “How can I be whole?!”

    I’m sorry about this loss, and this pain.


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