Twenty two months

Dearest Sidney,

I did not forget about you on March 4th.  In fact, I composed a version of this letter in my head.  On March 2nd, there was a big storm, and the wind knocked out the power.  The city managed to get our power restored the following day, but we only got internet back late this afternoon.  So posting your letter was delayed.  The storm served as a visible reminder of the precariousness of life, how in just a few moments everything can change. IMG_20180303_102117039_HDR

Of course, I have been very aware of this since your death.  On the night of March 3rd, I lay awake listening to the wind rattling against the window.  I looked over at the time, and thought about how 22 months earlier I was in labor with you.  I almost dry heaved as I thought how I will never know whether you were alive or dead in that moment, and at what moment your heart stopped.  It feels surreal sometimes.  I don’t understand how you are dead.

Eli’s been talking about you more again.  Tonight, he said that there are five people in our family, and then he listed them-himself, you, Silas, me and papa.  He said he loves us the most in the world.  He included you.  I like when you are included.  He also wanted to bring the elephant stuffed animals to the cemetery to take a picture with your grave.  It was a nice thought.  But it makes me too sad right now. Maybe I will feel differently at a different time.

On the fourth, I went to the cemetery.  I left two new stones at your grave.  They are stones Eli and I picked from the back yard of a house that we were looking at.  We have been trying to find a house to buy before Eli starts kindergarten.  It is stressful, and there is very little inventory in the areas that we are looking.  Moving means we will meet new people.  They are bound to have little children who were born around the same time you were.  Another visible reminder that you are not here, and not the joyful little 22 month old I imagine you to be.  We have been looking for housing in two different counties.  On paper, one area is a clear winner.  But it is a different county from where we are now.  It would feel like starting over, and leaving the friends and community that have been holding us up since you died.  And I don’t think any of us are ready to do that.

My dearest littlest Sidney.  I love you so much.  I  miss you.  And I love you.  Always.  I will always love you.

Always and forever,



Twenty one months

Dearest Sidney,

Another month gone by.  Another month without you.  Yesterday, we had Eli’s fifth birthday party.  And you were not there.  I usually try not to imagine life with you, Eli and Silas, because it is a life that could never be, but I want it more than ever.  I want to be the overly tired busy mother of three active boys.  After Eli’s party, Silas and I went to visit you at the cemetery.  I talked to you but I don’t know if you heard me.  I love you.  That will never change.

The flu is very bad this season.  All four of the pre-K teachers in Eli’s school have the flu.  And one little girl who was at his birthday party yesterday has it now, 104.5 degree fever.  I am scared.  Scared that your brothers will get sick.  Scared and wondering if somehow I got sick and didn’t realize it and that is why you are not here.  I will do my best to be vigilant.  But now that you are gone, I can’t tell myself that I am worrying over nothing.  Because now I know that I can be the rare exception, that things that ‘don’t happen’, really can.

I went back to teaching last week.  It brought back my memories from when I returned to work after my emergency family leave after you died.   It also brings back memories of my last day with you inside of me, teaching, and then heading home, in early labor, getting ready to go to the hospital to meet you.  It still stops my breath to remember those moments.  It is a trauma that will never be okay.  Going back to campus is different this time–I rush home after my teaching days to nurse your little brother, because pumping milk is hard for me.  I should have been doing that with you, too.

I am going to get a small picture frame with spots for three photos to bring to my office.  I will put a photo of you and each of your brothers.  I also added another ‘S’ to my necklace.

I love you my perfect beautiful second son.

Always and forever,



Twenty months

Dearest Sidney,

Another month has gone by without you.  It has been a challenging one.  Your little brother developed a respiratory sickness.  We brought him to the emergency room, and spent three nights in the hospital.  He had respiratory syncytial virus, which then caused bronchiolitis. The doctors said that it was basically a fancy way of saying he had a cold, but that in babies, colds can be really dangerous.  As I held your brother in my arms, watching his chest rise and fall as he was hooked up to an oxygen machine, I thought about how maybe something similar had happened to you.  Perhaps you got a sickness that would not be serious in an adult.  But then we missed your distress and were not able to help you in time. I will never be okay with not knowing what happened to you.  And I will never be okay with not having you here.

We went to Kentucky for a week to see grandpa.  And I saw some people who I had not seen since I was pregnant with you.  I am in a safe little bubble now, and I really only interact with people who have been by my side since you died.  So it was a bit overwhelming to see other people, to be returned to a time period before I knew the heartbreak of your death.  And I looked at grandma’s computer and saw some pictures of me when I was pregnant with you.  A different life.  I had therapy today, and the therapist said that in someways it did not seem like it was that long since I started to come and see her, shortly after your death.  To me, it seems like a life time ago.  I don’t remember who I was really before I had you, and lost you.  I don’t remember a reality before I was your mother.  Twenty months.  It has been twenty months.

I go back to work this month.  I remember going back to work after you died.  It was overwhelming–hard.  It is different this time, but still hard.  Sometimes (often times) it all feels so overwhelming.

This week has brought record cold temperatures.  The world has seemed off kilter since your death–like once you died, we entered an alternate reality, where all sorts of things that shouldn’t happen happen.

Anyway, my beautiful dear little boy.  I miss you.  I love you.  Another month without you in my arms.

I love you, always and forever.



Nineteen months

Dearest Sidney,

Another month has gone by without you here.  Another month of not holding you, of not watching you grow, laugh or play with your brothers.  I went to Massachusetts for Thanksgiving.  It had been two years since I had been home.  The last time was Thanksgiving 2015, when you were growing inside of me, before I knew the depth of pain and heartache I have now become familiar with.  As we drove through Hartford around 10 pm at night (which is 1.5 hours from my parents’), I started to cry hysterically.  I had imagined going home last Thanksgiving, in 2016, with you and introducing you to everyone.  But that didn’t happen.  (We didn’t even go to Massachusetts because grandma was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer on November 15th, so we went to be with her.  On Nov 30, six days after thanksgiving, she died.  So much death, so much sadness.)  Going home without you.  Seeing people who I know so well on the one hand, but who have not seen me or interacted with me since before you died.  This time, I didn’t really see friends like I usually do when I am home because I just couldn’t do it emotionally.  I spent the time with Bubby and Opa, and your aunts and uncle.  I didn’t want to have to see people ‘for the first time.’  Here in Baltimore, I rarely meet new people now.  The people I interact with all know about you, all held me (and still hold me) as I learn to live life without you.  But it’s not like that in other places.  People only know the old me, the pre-loss me.  But that person no longer exists because you have changed me.  And I can’t (and would never want to) go back to a time before you, my dear second son.

Papa and Eli just got back from spending five days with grandpa in Kentucky.  I stayed here with your little brother.  It was the longest Eli and I had ever been apart.  I don’t know if you would have stayed with us, or gone with the boys.  I don’t often imagine a scenario with all three of you, because it can never be, and it never would have been, anyway.  Lately, when I am going about my day to day routine, I will be hit with a vivid memory from my pregnancy with you, and then I feel like I have been punched in the stomach, recalling finding out your heart had stopped, delivering you, and then the horrendous pain of facing a life without you.  And I still cringe when people offer their opinions about the age gap between Eli and Silas, and think about the age gap between you and Eli, wondering what your relationship would have been, thinking about whether you would have been able to play together more, and how you would have been in high school at the same time, you in ninth grade, and Eli in 12th.  But that will never be.  Oh, how I miss you.

The world feels like it is falling apart.  It has since 2016 for many reasons.  We will most likely all go to grandpa’s towards the end of the month.  You will be missed.  You are always missed, my beautiful boy.

Lately I have been more anxious.  Anxiety can weaken immune systems.  If that hurt you, my baby, I am so sorry.  I will always be so so sorry that I wasn’t able to get you the help you needed.  I love you so so so much.

Always and forever,


1.5 years

Dearest Sidney,

It has been 1.5 years since I bore you.  I can’t believe that so much time has gone by.  I wish with all of my heart that you were here by my side, that we were celebrating you being 18 months old, and marveling at all the new things you were saying and doing.

I am having trouble writing this letter to you tonight.  I keep writing sentences and then deleting them, since nothing seems adequate, nothing captures the complexity of emotions that I have had this past year and a half, the pain I have over not being here with you.  I continue to have flash backs to the moment I found out that your heart stopped.  Mine did too.  In that moment, mine did too.  Or I will be driving, and I will flashback to driving home from work in early labor with you, talking to my mom on the phone and wondering when you would arrive.  Sidney, I love you.

We went to dinner tonight at the house of a family whose second child also died, a little girl.  Fifteen years ago.  Somehow deciding on names came up, and they talked about naming all three of their children, and so did we.  We included you, told the stories of Eli wanting to name you fireman, Eli or yucky.  It was nice to have someone that understood just a little bit.

Your Opa visited these past few days.  We went to the cemetery, knelt by your grave, straightened the stones that are there. Later, somehow, minivans came up.  He said, “Well, you don’t need such a big car since you only have two children.”  I have three, I thought, but you don’t need a physical seat.  I carry you in my heart.

I want to know you more, Sidney.  To hear you laugh.  To know your personality.  To watch you and Eli play and delight in each other.  To breathe in your smell and kiss your soft skin.  Sidney Louis.  I want new photos to post of you, funny stories to share about you.  But all I have is my memories of my pregnancy with you.  I look at your beautiful picture ever night.  I still always think of you.  I will always love you.  That will never change.  Always and forever.



Seventeen months

Dearest Sidney,

I am so tired.  I am tired of not being able to watch you grow up.  I am tired of not being able to kiss you, and hear your little voice say ‘mama’.  I am tired because your little brother has decided to stop sleeping at night, and because your father is away in Seattle.  And because everyone seems to think life is okay now that we have your little brother. I am tired because people don’t understand–yet how they don’t understand, how they could think the death of a child is something you move on from, is beyond me.  I miss you so much my precious second son.  I want to know so much more about you than I know, than I will ever be able to know.

It was just the Jewish New Year, and the Day of Atonement.  I associate you with these fall holidays.  Two years ago, during the high holidays, you were growing inside of me.  One year ago, I was broken and grasping.  And now I returned to synagogue without you.  We sat in the quiet room, overlooking the bima.  Papa rocked Silas back and forth.  There were a few other families with toddlers in there too.  At one point, a little girl kept coming near you, watching you, and staring.  “Baby,” she would say. “Baby.”  “How old is she?” I finally asked.  Almost 1.5 years old, her mother said.  Just a few weeks older than you would have been.

The world is a scary place these days.  Tonight is the start of sukkot, a holiday that emphasizes community and fragility.  Will we have enough to get by?  How can we join together to prepare for the winter and help each other?  I have needed a community so much since I lost you.  On October 1st, I went to a memorial service in your memory, and the memory of other babies who died too soon.  Familiar faces, familiar heartbreak.  It was a place to say your name, to see your name written.  Towards the end, they call each baby’s name, and the baby’s parents and other family members go up and receive a rose and a little angel statue.  With your last name starting with T, you were near the end.  Having an A last name, I am used to being near the beginning.  As I waited for your name, I thought about how I am going to have to get used to my children’s names being call near the end.  You were the first of my sons whose name I waited to hear, who helped me have this simple realization (that I am having trouble articulating).  But it won’t ever be your name I am waiting to hear at graduation.   This is my chance to hear your name.

So as I write this, I whisper your name out loud.  Sidney Louis. I remind the world that you existed, and that I will love you always and forever.  And I will.

I miss you my precious second baby boy,




I have been missing Sidney more intensely these past few days.  He should be here.  He should be toddling around, playing with his brothers.  He should be more visible, so that people stop asking Eli what it is like to be a brother, because it will be so obvious that he already was a brother.  Wednesday night was the start of the Jewish new year, the year 5778.  Because we go by the Jewish calendar, it always falls on slightly different dates.  Rosh Hashana two years ago, I remember sitting around and talking to friends, unaware that Sidney was already growing inside of me, but desperately wanting to be pregnant.  Rosh Hashana, one year ago, still in the raw early days of trauma and grief.  I went to temple, in a fog, unable to make eye contact with most people, terrified to have to interact.  Sitting in services, the rabbi pauses to read the names of all the babies born into the community.  He gets to the last names starting with ‘T’.  No mention of Sidney.  Skips over him.  Even though he cried with us at the hospital.  Even though he presided over the funeral.  Even though he sat with us in those early moments of desperate raw grief and shock.  Later in the afternoon, went to do tashlich, where you say you are sorry and throw your ‘sins’ in the form of bread into the water as you reflect on the changes you want to make in the new year.  Desperately sobbing for allowing Sidney to die, for not knowing he needed me, for not being able to save him.  And now it is Rosh Hashana again.  I sit in temple this year and everyone smiles and asks about Silas.  I stand in the back, wearing him in the moby, and rock when he gets fussy, the singing and prayers lulling him back to sleep.  This time when the rabbi reads the list of babies born in the last year, he includes Silas, acknowledged and welcomed into the community.  At dinner for Rosh Hashanah, talking about Silas’ birth, I mention that he came out after 1.5 pushes, and she says, yes, but that’s because it is your second.  He’s actually my third, I think.  And you know that.  You met me for the first time just a week before Sidney died and was born.  How quickly people forget (or pretend to forget), now that Silas is here.  It’s assumed that I am fine.  That I am happy.  And in some ways, I am happy.  I love Silas so completely.  But I mourn for Sidney.  The other day, my husband pointed out that if Sidney had lived, he would have had some time with my mother in law.  Silas won’t.  She knew about him, but she died before he was born.  For over a year, I went to the cemetery to visit Sidney every week–I think I literally only missed once or twice.  But lately, I have been missing more weeks, struggling to find the time, as I juggle parenting Eli and Silas, and trying to work at night, once they are sleeping.  My little Sidney.  I am sorry. I miss you.  I don’t want to move on from you, to be pushed forward by life.  I need you.  And I can’t have you.

I don’t know what I will do for child care with Silas when I go back to work full time.  Eli’s nanny has been with us for over 3 years now.  But she is not sure she wants to work full time again (she is only in the afternoons now).  And I did not enroll Silas in the daycare at Eli’s school because I couldn’t future plan.  They only have one day available right now, not sure if that will change before January.  There is a waitlist there anyway, but the director seemed to think she might be able to work something out.  So many moving parts.  Eli is pre-K this year.  It is the only year that he and Silas can be at the school together.  Sidney would have had two years.  Sending Silas to a different day care seems like a big deal.  I want them to see each other on the playground, at shabbat.  I want lots of things that can’t happen.  We had friends over for Rosh Hashana dinner last night.  There were 7 children under age 5.  Eli was the oldest, Silas was the youngest.  There should have been eight.  Missing.  Sidney will always be missing.  And my heart will always be broken.  Even when it is filled with love for Eli and Silas.  Even when I can recognize the positive in my life.  The missing doesn’t go away.