been waiting for him, how much I loved him, how beautiful he was. All night long, I thanked God for my little baby and the privilege of holding him. Finally, I dozed off for an hour or two with Ethan in my arms.

The next morning, I anxiously awaited the doctor's arrival. Ethan seemed dehydrated and we were approaching the 24-hour mark. At about noon, Dr. Keane examined Ethan and explained to us the possible complications of feeding him: his internal system might not be developed, and ingesting food could cause his intestines to perforate. In addition, his anus was underdeveloped, so it was not clear if he could have a bowel movement. What a position to be in as parents—feeding him might cause his demise, but so might not feeding him. Oh, my son—I did not want him to suffer. He looked so frail.

Dr. Keane suggested feeding him a tiny bit of formula through a tube. And since he'd survived for 24 hours, she thought we could begin making plans to bring him home the next day—Sunday. I was thrilled! My heartfelt desire before having Ethan was to have the opportunity to bring him home, although I knew there was only a small chance of that.

A nurse put a very narrow feeding tube down Ethan's throat into his stomach. The first feeding went extremely well, and there seemed to be an immediate improvement in Ethan's condition.

Like the previous day, our room was filled with visitors; at times it seemed more like a convention center than a hospital room. But by Saturday evening, almost everyone had left. It had been wonderful to have so many people share in Ethan's life and support us, but it was also nice to have some quiet time. Josh and I relaxed and talked and took turns holding Ethan as The Sound of Music played on the television in the background. I have fond memories of that interlude.

Later in the evening, poor little Ethan began grunting as he tried to pass his meconium; I desperately wished I could help him. By 2:00 a.m. Sunday, it was clear he wasn't digesting his food—it was coming back up through the tube and his

nose. There was also some blood in the tube. The nurse decided to pull out the tube. Ethan's color and breathing had also changed. He was much darker and was now struggling to breathe; his chest rose and fell deeply with each breath. His condition continued to deteriorate over the next few hours, and the nurse explained that his lungs were beginning to fill with fluid—the beginning of congestive heart failure. She placed Ethan on my chest as tears poured down my cheeks. I was losing my little boy. I told him it was all right—I understood if he had to go, I loved him so much but did not want him to hurt any longer.

As the sun rose, his heartbeat slowed. It was 6:27 a.m. when he stopped breathing. My beautiful little boy was gone. I wished I could turn the clock back to the day before, when we were talking about taking him home.

After some time had passed, Josh called his parents, the kids, and our pastor. I called my sister and a couple of close friends. As we waited for Josh's parents to get there with the kids, we talked with Carolyn, the nurse who had helped us through labor, about how to prepare for Sam, Katie, and Emma's arrival. We decided to wait for them in our room so they would not be afraid of seeing Ethan. They were a little apprehensive at first, but eventually all three of them, as well as my in-laws, held him for a while.

In mid-morning, a man from the funeral home arrived. He would take Ethan's body with him, as well as the clothes he would be buried in. We'd picked the christening out- fit my sister-in-law had made for him—a tiny off-white embroidered dress and a matching bonnet. Now came the hardest part—I had to leave the hospital without my son. I wrapped him in a baby blanket with tears pouring from my eyes. I did not want to let him go and finally gave him to Carolyn, who would give him to the man from the funeral home after we left. My heart was broken.

On December 31, Josh and I drove to church for the service. I wanted to get there early enough to decide whether to have an open casket. I wanted it open so everybody could see how beautiful my

baby was. But everyone else thought it was not a good idea—the funeral director, my in-laws, our pastor. They felt Ethan was so dark that it would detract from the service. So the little white coffin was closed and a framed picture of Ethan was positioned so everyone could see it. The service was lovely: a friend read a devotion she had written, we sang several uplifting songs, and the pastor delivered a comforting and hopeful message. I turned and looked at Josh at one point during the service and saw that tears were rolling down his cheeks; I held his hand a little tighter.

It meant a great deal to me that Dr. Clemans, several members of her staff, Dr. Keane, and several nurses from the hospital all came to the funeral. In fact, Dr. Clemans's counsel before, during, and after Ethan's birth and death was truly extraordinary. When we first met and learned that we were both Dartmouth alumni, it was a nice connection. But after we walked through the birth and death of my son together, we shared so much more. Not only is she a technically skilled ob-gyn, but she is wonderfully adept at the personal side of medicine.

After the service, I went back to the front of the church to look at my son for the last time. I stroked his face and touched his hair and told him I loved him.

We buried Ethan five months later, on May 22. The weeks leading up to the graveside service were hard. I had not expected to feel intense grief all over again. The day of the service was cold and rainy, but the service itself was beautiful.

At its conclusion, I distributed balloons—blue and yellow—to those who had come, explaining that there were 40 balloons because Ethan had lived for 40 hours. We then gathered around Ethan's tiny white coffin and released all the balloons at the same time. We watched as they raced skyward, a blue and yellow cloud that became smaller with each passing second. As I watched the balloons soar skyward, I felt peace descend on me. It occurred to me that just as I had let the balloons go, I could also let my son go because I would meet him again.