Ghosts

I just finished reading Peggy Vincent's The Baby Catcher.

Every home birth she described in the book I imagined taking place in my own home. It's early in the morning here - the time when the edges blur around truth and dreams. My son is curled next to me with one hand resting on my leg. His father's snores temporarily silent on the other side of the bed.

My house is full of ghosts. There's the ghost of me labouring in the bathtub, on the toilet. Another ghost cleans out my kitchen cabinets while laughing companionably with the midwives. A third ghost rests her elbows on the edge of the futon, squatting to push the baby into the world.

Nights like this are hard. I look at my son and thank G-d for every cell of his being, no matter how he came into this world. Then, I grieve for what we both lost.

I can only pray for his continued good health, and for me, a chance to try again - to replace those ghosts with my physical being.