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Last week, our baby died. We didn't know, of course. We went on planning and hoping and buying maternity clothes, and feeling lucky. And then, yesterday, the ultrasound technician said "Oh. Oh no. I should have checked that first." I didn't know what she was talking about. I was looking at the tiny little fingers up near the baby's mouth and wondering if he would be a thumb-sucker. "I can't see a heartbeat," she said, "I'm so sorry."

In what seems to me a cruel irony, I will spend today at an abortion clinic, surrounded by women with healthy babies that aren't wanted, having my son surgically removed. In pieces. We won't even have anything to bury. A small sample of the placenta will be sent off for testing to maybe find out what happened. Or maybe not. "It's extremely rare," my doctor said. Someone else used to talk about winning the 'evil lottery.' I guess that's what happened.

Our baby never had a name. All he will have is a tree that we will plant in our yard, to be removed at will by the next owners.