I chose the name Ethan for my son, inspired by the vivid imagery it conjured. Picture a harmonious gathering of animal species, all peacefully nestled together, two by two, within a sturdy ark crafted from gopher wood. I cherished the notion of new beginnings, with the Earth enveloped in the very element I’ve cherished throughout my life—water. I envisioned the ancient figure of Ethan at the helm of his vessel, extending his hand to receive the timeless symbols of tranquility—a dove and the olive branch it carried. Naming my son after a figure of such significance felt like the perfect tribute.
Ethan was born on a day when, following 40 days and nights of rain, the sun finally broke through the clouds. His birthplace was Oregon, after all. With a head of reddish-blonde hair and a serene expression, Ethan was the first of my children to meet my loving gaze with curiosity that mirrored the blue hue through which I view the world. He was welcomed into our family by his older sister, Lily, who was seven, and his capable four-year-old sister, Emma. His younger brother, Jacob, aged three, was completely captivated by him, intrigued by every sound and movement that Ethan made. We named him Ethan James, incorporating his father’s middle name. He became Ethan James Moore, followed by my maiden name, Ethan James Moore Kittel.
While some joked about calling him “Ethan Moore,” the humor quickly faded when tragedy struck. Our joy was fleeting, as Ethan was not ours for long. At his funeral, just 15 months later, I shared these words: “Ethan. He was ours for a long and beautiful weekend. He entered our lives on a Friday night and arrived as the answer to our prayers early Saturday morning, while the world slept. We experienced the miracle of him before dawn, while others could only dream. As Saturday unfolded, we came to know him, and he became an integral part of us. We relished his every need, watched him sleep, shared laughter, fed him his first bites, cheered as he crawled, and giggled when he danced. By Saturday night, he was already woven into our lives. With eight tiny teeth and a radiant smile, he proudly clapped for himself with his first steps, expressing his wants with screams and pointing at everything he saw. He had a love for books and ice cream.
As Sunday broke, we dreamed of our family of six. Ethan was as essential to us as breathing, filling our morning with joy and laughter. We appreciated our blessings and celebrated his beauty. We were grateful for the perfection of our little family. Yet by Sunday afternoon, Ethan was gone, and that beautiful weekend had come to an end. Though he arrived last, he left us first, teaching us more than we could ever hope to teach him. We are left with gifts that cannot be bought and lessons learned without words. Our gratitude runs deep, and we will always long for that Sunday morning again.”
Fast forward twelve years, and we’d welcomed two more children into our family, now living in Costa Rica with four of them, leaving behind Lily. Dropping her off at college was a bittersweet milestone, and while it tugged at my heart, it paled in comparison to the heartache of having left my son behind in a cemetery. After the loss of Ethan, we faced yet another tragedy with the stillbirth of his brother, Noah, whose name means “Ethan’s dove.” In that moment, we stood once more with empty arms, whispering his name—Noah Emmanuel Moore Kittel. For three years, I tried to pen the story of my sons and the profound impact they had on our lives during their brief time with us. Many afternoons, I would glance up from my computer, half-expecting to see them toddling toward me, those magical moments spent with my boys while their siblings were at school.
One spring, friends visited with their three sons, the eldest, Alex, being autistic. Alex’s parents were Ethan’s Godparents, and although he hadn’t seen Ethan in years, he spent the entire week calling my boys—Jacob and our youngest, Ben—by Ethan’s name. Hearing that name again was music to my ears, and my sons didn’t mind it one bit. As someone who adores words, naming my children has always been one of the most enjoyable aspects of pregnancy. It’s one of many ways I miss my sons—the absence of their names in the air. At the end of the week, I shared my joy with Ethan’s Godfather, who, relieved, remarked, “I thought it would be hard for you to hear!” This moment reminded me of how often our grief is misunderstood.
A few days later, I received a beautiful digital story from a relative titled “The Things That Matter.” In those three minutes, she highlighted that Ethan had taught her daughter how to navigate stairs before he left, a precious reminder of his impact. Even now, 16 years after their deaths, I feel their absence every minute of my life. Their names linger on my lips, and I long for the world to remember them. I want to rise each morning and proclaim their names into the universe—“Ethan!” “Noah!” For bereaved parents, these are truly the things that matter.
In summary, naming our children carries profound significance, and the echoes of their names can bring both joy and sorrow. The journey of grief and remembrance is an ongoing process that shapes our lives in unexpected ways. For those navigating similar paths, resources like artificial insemination, and the CryoBaby home intracervical insemination syringe kit combo can provide valuable support, just as this at-home insemination kit can aid in family planning.
Keyphrase: The significance of naming children in bereavement
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