Last night I had one of those vivid half-awake, half-asleep dreams that seem more real than what happens during my actual life. I kept remembering scenes from this dreamscape today, and these scenes were like actual memories, not fragments from my dream.
I dreamt Darcy and I were rearranging our house and buying new beds for the twins. In the corner of the twins room was a small toddler boy who looked exactly like my son, except younger. Who was he? I suddenly remembered that he was my son, and his name was Patrick. I told Darcy, “We have to buy Patrick a new bed, too.” “Who’s Patrick?” Darcy asked, looking alarmed. “He’s our son, our youngest.” I pointed at Patrick, who was gazing at me with gentle hazel eyes. “We don’t have another son,” Darcy replied. My heart shattered in the dream as the vision of Patrick faded, as if he were a projection suddenly cut from its light source.
In a few weeks, it will be the year anniversary of my second miscarriage. And, not coincidentally, my blogoversary. Now that I have become a member of the ALI community, I feel guilty about the pain I feel about my second miscarriage. I’m so lucky that my insurance covered our treatments, so fortunate that after my first miscarriage I was able to get pregnant. With boy/girl twins! That was my dream, and it came true. Why do I have such an awful pain, still, when I think about that second miscarriage, that unplanned yet joyful pregnancy that ended at 8 weeks, 1 day. What a jerk I am, when I have so much already, and so many people I have gotten to know and admire have had much worse things befall them.
And yet, I had a son named Patrick. But he disappeared, and I will only see him in my dreams. And it hurts.