Today is my second wedding anniversary. My husband is asleep in bed. If he knew I was awake I know he would want to talk, want to comfort me. But I got up quietly and tucked pillows next to him so he would continue to sleep. He's carried my pain in addition to his own so many times when I could not bear it, he deserves a break.

Our son Oliver was born and died on April 3rd, 2008. Actually, it would probably be more accurate to say he died late at night on April 2nd and was born on April 3rd at 39 weeks and 5 days. I had a perfectly healthy pregnancy. Oliver was perfectly healthy too, except that I know that from his autopsy and not from his apgar scores. He died during my early labor, probably because of the umbilical cord tucked next to his head that was compressed during contractions. During my lowest moments I think that literally means that my labor, my body, killed my baby. And I just want to die too.

Fortunately I'm more sane than that most of the time, which is good because I'm going back to work today. I'm afraid. I went to the allergist yesterday, and I filled out a questionnaire that asked "any recent hospitalizations?" I wrote "vaginal delivery." To be thorough or polite, or maybe both, she said "congratulations, and how is your baby?" I wanted to say "dead, thank you for asking." Sometimes I think I must really be an asshole, that I think of saying things like that to perfectly nice people, innocent bystanders to my tragedy. But I didn't. I mumbled something about "stillborn." And then she offered me a prescription for an antidepressant. She meant it as a kindness, the only way she could think of to ease my pain. But it seems absurd - a pill a day to fill the hole in my body and my soul that was my son.