My baby boy

I was lying on the couch two nights ago, holding the new blanket I’d just bought against my cheek. It was so soft and velvety. “It’s soft as a puppy,” I said. And I thought of how, earlier, I’d wrapped it around DH’s head and neck so just his face peeked out, and I took a picture of him. I thought about how I often hold him in  my arms and whisper, “You’re my baby.” 

And just like that, I saw him. My son. The boy we just lost. The normal karyotype boy whose body stopped growing at six weeks, and whose heart stopped beating when he was eight weeks old. Such a tiny heart. And there was nothing I could do to keep it beating.

Images came, one after another. So vivid. So real. Like I had lived each scene.

I saw my baby boy wrapped in a soft blanket, his little face peeking out. I saw the “oh” of his mouth. I heard him! I heard his delighted, “Ah-ah-ah,” when I kissed his round, warm, soft little belly. I saw him sitting on my hip as I walked through the house, bouncing slightly, singing The Beatles “Good Night” very, very softly to try to get him to fall asleep on my shoulder. I heard his distressed cries in the middle of the night, saw his silhouette in the dark of  his nursery, saw him standing in the crib, holding the bars, and I went to him. I saw him in the bathtub and heard him babbling to himself nonstop in a sing-song voice, heard him laugh as I poured a cup of warm water down his back, rinsing the bubbles away. I saw his round face, his Asian eyes, bathed in moonlight as I held him up to the window so he could look outside, and I buried my nose in the crook of his neck and breathed him in. I saw his mouth at my breast and felt the weight of him in my arms, and when he opened his eyes and looked up at me, I said goodbye.

So many tears. I felt as though I was not here on earth but elsewhere, suspended in some other realm where only my baby boy and I existed, and where we could enjoy each other for a little while before saying goodbye.

I must have cried for a couple of hours without stopping, and barely able to breathe.

I’ve never experienced anything like that. It was beautiful, but the beauty hurt more than I express. I told myself I wasn’t going to write about it because I didn’t want to feel that level of pain again, but something compelled me to this morning, and even though it’s making the tears rain down as I type, I’m glad I’m doing it. For him. Because this post is about and for him, as much as it is for me. I would have been a good mama to him, and he would have been my cherished baby boy for the rest of our lives.

I’m so sorry we aren’t able to live life together. I love you.

Leave a comment


  1. I am so sorry for your loss. This is such a beautiful post…Hugs.

  2. lisa

     /  January 27, 2014

    What you had with your baby boy was just as real as everything else this world offers and that bond was beautiful and forever. Thanks for sharing.

  3. Violet

     /  January 27, 2014

    Thank you for opening your heart. I can just picture you with this little one. I know you will hold a babe in your arms one day and be a wonderful mother.

  4. I’m so sorry for your loss and your pain. This is a beautiful post – thankyou for sharing this experience with us

  5. Abiding with you in your grief.

  6. *Hugs* My jaw dropped when I read this post–I wish I could wrap you in a blankie and cuddle you. Those kinds of visions are a gift and a curse, but it was beautiful and I’m glad you shared. My heart is with you my friend. Much love. XO

  7. This is just so beautiful. I am so sorry for your loss. You’ll be in my prayers… hugs.

  8. It’s so hard to loose a baby, especially when one is wanted with every fibre of your body. Hugs.

  9. I can relate to this on so many levels. I’m so sorry that you are not holding your son, breathing him in and doing everything together as you dreamed. Thinking of you and sending love & peace.

  10. What a beautiful, yet painful vision. I never see mine beyond his tiny embryo with limb buds stage. I think it’s my survival tactic.

  11. My heart hurts for you. It is amazing to me when the “moments” that bring your to your knees occur. I rarely, if ever, see them coming and wow are they intense.


  12. Such a vivid and heartbreakingly beautiful outpouring. The grief is palpable, I know. I’m so sorry. Xo

  13. Thank you, everyone. Your voices help me bear this, when it comes. I’m grateful I had this truly remarkable and vivid time with him, and also thankful to have had this moment when I was able to experinece the raw truth of this grief I must be carrying around with me day in, day out. And thankful to have had some time when I was able, too, perhaps, to release some of the grief. It has been a teary few days. Today, while I was driving, I kept imagining him in a car-seat in the backseat, babbling as I drove around doing errands. He is so *present*. I wonder why that’s happening right now. It must have something to do with the next transfer nearing. Some need to give him, and give myself, that time and space together before moving on.

  14. I too find there’s no idea just when the grief will strike the hardest. It’s been over 9 months for us and I’ve found it worse lately (as we approach IVF again). I think the fear of it happening again is making it all seem worse. Will be thinking of you, and your beautiful boy xx.

  15. Kali

     /  January 28, 2014

    I cried at my desk reading this post.

    I feel my child’s presence all the time–the one that is waiting for me but I can’t seem to bring into this world. Each one that I carried, I also felt as a child, and looked forward to our time together and mother and child, rather than waiting-woman-and-medicalized-bad-news. For me, they all had futures, we had futures together, that were ripped away.

    I don’t know the why of anything, why today I’m so teary, when I was fine for a week, why today you saw and felt your baby’s soul and what could have been. Grief and the flip side of it, the joy we feel at moments–because there can be no grief if no source of joy is lost–both are so unpredictable.

    Sending love and hugs.


  16. I am sorry your going through this struggle. Its extremely unfair and difficult to wait for something you know you have no control over. I have lost 4 pregnancies and it still hurts bad. I wanted to know ….does it help that you know the sex of your baby? Reading this I felt extremely sad that I never got to know whether it was a boy or a girl….not that it really matters. But does it comfort the grieving process in any way.

    • I think for me it did help the grieving process,…but I’ve never had a fetus before so I’m not sure what it would be like to have a loss of a fetus without connection to gender. But perhaps the most helpful thing has been openness to visualization…maybe even imaging a gender neutral baby would access that rawness you need to begin to move on. I hope that is helpful, hope you find healing xo


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