My baby has a name, even if he never heard it spoken. He has a first, middle and last name.
He also has parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents who love him more than you know.
He has a bedroom at home, even though he will never see it. Every detail was carefully picked out with him in mind. He will never get wrapped in the blanket I made for him or feel the soft yarn of the sweater I knit him. He will never see the beautiful name banner that hangs above his crib, welcoming him to his home. The lamp in the corner that was mine when I was a child. The crib my husband assembled and then re-assembled.
He will not have a chance to feel the sun on cheeks or the wind in his hair. He won’t have a chance to make a best friend, or three, to trade sandwiches with at recess. He will ever grow old or have children of his own. My baby will never be a child himself.
But for that blissful time we were together, mother and baby, my baby knew love. He was so very wanted and nurtured. He knew shelter and protection. And he knew love. And that love, between a mother and a child, is unbreakable. Neither time, nor space, nor death can break that bond.
My baby may not have heard his name, but I think it often, dancing on the tip of my tongue or twitching in the back of my throat. Sometimes, softly, like a whisper and sometimes, so heavy with grief and rage I think I might die if I don’t get it out.
When a child or adult dies we mourn them. We discuss life as though they were here. He would have like that, she always wanted to this. But when a baby is stillborn or miscarried, it seems like the world wants to forget them, as though they never existed at all.
But my baby did exist. He was loved and wanted and beautiful. He was real, he was here and he mattered. He deserves to be remembered as a person and not just as the baby I lost.
I want you to say my baby’s name because my baby is still my baby, even if he’s not here in my arms.
Photo credit: adapted from jack dorsey | Flickr