The Ghost on the Ultrasound Screen

"Do you need my crib?" she said helpfully, "I can bring it over this week. It's just collecting dust in the garage."
I smiled and thanked her, but changed the subject before arranging the delivery of the crib.
We do need a crib, along with so many other long-discarded baby gear items, but I'm not ready to bring any of them into my home. Setting up a room for this child, preparing in any way beyond taking my pre-natal vitamins, just seems too much like tempting fate, something I already feel like I've done too much of by conceiving again.

Since I lost the baby I carried before I gave birth to Bella, each of my pregnancies has come with a certain degree of fear, an emotional frost to keep hope and love at bay. That fear usually faded by the end of the first trimester, knocked down with the echo of each strong heartbeat in the sterile doctor's office, but many times, the fear was warranted, numbing me from the pain of other miscarriages.

This time around, the fear did not dissipate with the steady rhythm of my unborn child's blood coursing through his veins. I've heard his (or her) heartbeat, have seen him (or her) do somersaults on the ultrasound screen, have counted his fingers and toes, and have marveled at his unique profile, so different than his brother's and sisters. And even as I marveled, the fear has retained its clutch on my heart, nagging me not to get attached, not to hope, not to plan ahead too far.

The baby's room remains an office. The bins of clothes remain undisturbed in the basement. And no crib is being hoisted into the house. It's just too soon, too scary, too tangible. I want to hold this baby. I want to know him, want to guide his chubby fingers around a fat red crayon for the first time, want to see the joy on his face when he bites into his first birthday cupcake. I want to see him laugh at the antics of his brother and sisters, I want all of this so much that it terrifies me, as I cradle my growing belly, powerless to protect its contents.

I communicate my eagerness and hope with a gentle stroked response to his evening flutters against my belly. Stroking back confirmation that we're all waiting for his arrival. But I can't shake that fear, that nagging, freezing fear, that this baby, like so many others, will remain just a ghost on the ultrasound screen.