I have bipolar and Multiple Sclerosis. Three years ago, my birth control failed after I changed meds, and I found myself pregnant. At first I was terrified for all the reasons already seen. I had already decided I was never going to have children or be a parent. Despite his best efforts to pursuade me that I was over-reacting to my circumstances, my husband had come to accept my decision. After two days of knowing I was pregnant, my husband's reassurances that we'd all see it through together, and sick at the thought of facing an abortion (might be right for some, felt disgusting to me), I started to become resigned to the idea. Then, more than resigned. Happy. Then tickled. I'd been stable with both my illnesses for years. I'm a college grad with a degree in art and social science. I've had a job for thirteen years. I'm kind. I give to charities, own a home, have great husband who wants to be a daddy...

I got to be happy about the idea for four days. Then the bleeding started, and out with the baby came the necessary parts for making one. What did I learn from many of the preceding letters? That the child I lost was unwelcome in the world, and the tears I cried and still cry are misguided. The pain my husband and I still feel is unwarranted. I don't deserve to have a baby. I would have damaged it. It was doomed to a horrible life. People who aren't in my shoes are certain they are right about this and would think I was horrible and selfish if I didn't agree. We should be relieved.

Yes, I will never have a child who spends the many weeks I did in the hospital after an overdose or wrist-cutting, or whose family has to pick them up and help them start over on a semi-regular basis before they get their footing. But I will never see my child's beautiful paintings. My child will never swim or see clouds from an airplane window (two of my many favorite things), or get to figure out for himself what makes life worth living. I will never see my husband toss our lost child in the air. I don't consider it an equal trade, just as I am glad that none of my suicide attempts succeeded. I am not better off dead, and neither is the baby I lost. I've just started to see, however, how uncomfortable the world is with our presence. I wonder how many of the people in my life were crying false tears, secretly relieved that mine were real.