It had begun nearly two years prior, with a miscarriage, and then another. I was compiling a list of fertility clinics when he made an appearance on the ultrasound monitor, a flickering response to my quietly brewing despair.

I spent the long months of pregnancy that followed feeling like a cartoon character with a me-size thunderstorm threatening at every turn. Though my pregnancy was healthy, I was convinced I had to remain vigilant until my son was in my arms. When my husband and I visited my obstetrician nine days past my son’s due date, I wasn’t surprised to see an irregularity in his heartbeat. Less than an hour later, we were checking into the hospital to start my induction. Later that night, my son’s heartbeat dropped again, prompting a small army of doctors and nurses to rush the

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