If you read nothing else on this late summer evening, read this heart-rending account of a father remembering his first son, and hearing the news that he would be born dead:

On the drive home, we were mostly silent. As if exchanging telegrams, Lisa and I said what we needed to and no more. We each assumed there was only one possible decision, so when we talked, we talked logistics: appointments to reschedule, job responsibilities to manage. We asked questions we might have asked the midwife, about recovery time.

Then we realized we weren’t in agreement. I was talking about the D and C, while Lisa had decided to give birth. Incredulous, I asked why she would want to go through all that pain. She said she couldn’t imagine just getting rid of our child by a surgical procedure; she wanted to see him.

So I had to ask myself: Why didn’t I want to meet my own son? Clearly, it wasn’t Lisa’s pain I was worried about. We pulled into the driveway, phoned the hospital, turned around and drove back.

Going to the hospital for a stillbirth is the photographic negative of going for a live birth. You carry the overnight bag, check into a room in the maternity ward and so on. But they put a marker on your door to alert the nurse-midwives that, in this room, things are different.

Read the rest.

h/t Charlotte Was Both.