Nicholas was born on a beautiful day in the summer of 1984. My labor was short - perhaps two hours - and I birthed him easily into my own hands as my nineteen-month-old daughter Joy stood beside me in the bathroom. As with my other births, I had very little pain, but this time all was not well.

At best, I was 35 weeks along, and while my pregnancy was normal, it was obvious there was something wrong with this baby. He wasn't breathing, and the bones in his chest were malformed. Instinctively, I breathed into his nose and mouth. Suddenly he came to life. But several hours later, he simply closed his eyes and died.

We called the paramedics but they were unable to revive him. Efforts by the doctors in the emergency room were also unsuccessful. Our little one was gone.

Several days later, the coroner explained to me that our baby's body had never developed properly. He had a congenital heart defect, influenza, pneumonia, and sepsis. The coroner also said that Nicholas would have died regardless of where he had been born. Prematurity (let alone prematurity combined with a heart defect) is the leading cause of infant death, even in the hospital.

Although we grieved for Nicholas, we also knew that somewhere he continued to exist. Death is not the end, nor is it something to be feared. Nicholas died peacefully in his own home, surrounded by people who loved him. We should all be so lucky.