Two nights ago I had the most vivid dream. Our whole family was at the hospital, in a conference room, sitting around a table. A doctor walked in, carrying a small, sickly baby. This is your baby, he said as he handed the baby to me. It wasn't Emma, because she was already in the room.
I cradled the baby. Soon, it was just me and the baby in the room as I continued to hold the baby close. I can almost feel that baby in my arms, even now, days later.
Sometime later Paul came in and I told him I wanted to take this baby home.
Then I woke up.
I'm not one for interpreting dreams or for trying to make sense of them. But every once in a while, I'll have a dream that will stay with me. This was one of those dreams. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if the baby in the dream was the baby I miscarried. And the more I thought about that, the sadder I became.
I've thought of that dream several times over the past few days and many times as I've held Emma, I've thought of the baby I've lost. My arms still long to hold that baby and my heart aches to know it, as I know my other children. I can't put into words how lonesome I am for that baby, that little life that I knew for only eleven short weeks.
Our house is full and our lives are blessed; yet, I long for the day when I can embrace and hold our baby that was gone too soon.