Last week, I dreamed we were at the hospital for an ultrasound. I dreamed again that I held a baby in my arms. I counted his fingers and toes.

"So this is what happiness feels like," I said. "This is how I should feel."

I dreamed that Jesus was on earth again. Going from place to place. I heard he was coming to my neighborhood.

"If I can just talk to him in person," I said to a friend, "then he would be able to help me." I had surmised that my prayers weren't answered because I wasn't talking to him face to face.

I got so close to him. I was so excited. I had so many questions to ask. But most of all, I wanted him to make my son better. To make me better. Or maybe my question was, "how's my baby doing?"

My baby would be almost five weeks old by now.

I stood on my tip-toes to see him. Waited patiently for him to finish talking to someone else but I kept pushing my way forward, closer through the crowd.

I woke up before I got to see Jesus, before I got to ask him to help me.

Since waking from that dream, I've felt so low. I have no energy. I don't want to smile. To eat. To think. To work. I don't want to see anyone.