The hardest part about looking for an urn for my baby was having to acknowledge my baby’s death. Each picture I looked at, every description of dimension and size – it was like being told over and over again the baby has passed away.

Louie’s words, We’re doing this for Calvin. We’re doing this for our baby, are what gave me strength to stand in the funeral home in a room of urns and caskets, to spend hours on the Internet looking at hundreds of urns and reading hundreds of descriptions. Choosing to deliver our baby, choosing to have him cremated, choosing an urn for his ashes – these are all born out of the same love and respect we have for our child, and that is greater than the loss I felt (and continue to feel).

We decided on this blue Baby Bear Urn from “In the Light Urns.” I like that it’s small and that it has a teddy bear on it, and I also like the light blue and white colors. It feels right for my baby.

I was randomly opening up an old journal and found this in an entry dated October 30, 2001:

(Oh yeah, more of Dream 2):

was pregnant but it was weird. it’s like a bubble. belly button is popping out. Go to the doctor’s. I’m fine. tell Louie we’re going to have a baby…. Then the shape slowly fits more into body, until it disappears… then i’m not pregnant anymore and I wonder what happened.

Why do I want to remember? I don’t know. I just feel like I have to.

It wasn’t until I was on my way to work that I remembered dreaming about Calvin.

It was almost like the day in the hospital, when they brought him into the room so we could hold him. Except he was much bigger. He had hair. His skin was no longer dark pink. He was still wrapped in a hospital blanket, and like that day in the hospital, I moved the blanket away from his face so I could see him. He had a cleft in his lips. It was the same bittersweet feeling, that same sadness, that same joy of seeing my child. Two nights before, I dreamed of a different baby, I don’t know how I know the difference.

I was waiting for the light to change.

While I was waiting to cross the street to the office building, I noticed a little boy to my left. He was holding his mother’s hand. He was a wearing a grey long-sleeve and jeans. To my right, there was a mother holding her baby girl. I only saw them in my periphery, and when I saw, I made a concentrated effort not to look. The light changed from a hand that signaled ’stop’ to a a person that told me to walk as fast as I could through the crosswalk. For some reason, it felt like the little boy’s voice was right behind me.

Sometimes, when I start to feel overwhelmed, my head tries to shut itself down. It’s almost dizzying. It’s almost like fainting. That happened at work. A colleague was transferring a call and the person’s name was Calvin. I heard him say my son’s name: “Calvin. C-a-l-v-i-n.”

All these things hurt me.

When Louie found out I had a dream about our son, he asked me if I thought it meant something, besides to hurt me.  I told him that I didn’t it these things were meant to do that. He reminded me that feeling this sadness is a beautiful thing, because it reminds us of how much Calvin means to us, how important, and how wonderful it was to have him for the short time that we did.

A friend said that maybe Calivn was saying hi to me – I guess maybe it’s like how “Too Good To Be True” played at the restaurant the other night. I used to sing that to Calvin while I was pregnant with him. Louie sang it to him when he was holding him in the hospital. As much as I’m aching and longing for my baby, I wouldn’t go back and change any of the choices we made.