I was sixteen years old, and it was my last day of working because I was eight months pregnant with my first child. The doctor told us it was a baby boy. My husband and I were happy. A week later I started having pain. I called for the doctor and told him what was happening. He told me to get to the hospital so I could be checked out.

When we got there, the pain had gotten so bad, at times, I could not take it. Soon after that the baby was coming. The doctor looked like something was worrying with him. When we asked if every thing was all right, he checked me out and walked away. He called for another doctor. This doctor told us that my baby had died. They could not tell us the reason why. They just said he stopped breathing. By the time he was born, there wasn't anything that could be done.

We had to have a funeral for this little baby boy-- the one I will never get to take home to love like other mothers and fathers. When all the people had gone home and the day was over, I had to walk though the house and see all the things I had gotten for this little child.

It has been two years since the passing of my son. I can't look at babies without thinking about him. One day my husband and I were talking about having more children. I told him that I was not sure if I would have any more children. He told me it would happen in God's own time.

I started going to school for typing; and things were happening to my body. In the morning I was in the bathroom with my head over the toilet. I remember this feeling. I said to myself, "I'm eighteen years old-- I can't go thought this again."

After two weeks, I called the doctor. He said I needed to be tested. He would call me in two days. Do you know how long two days can seem, especially after what I had been through? He finally called and gave us the news. When he told me I was going to have a baby, I got really quiet and held the phone for a few minutes. Then the doctor asked me if I wanted to have the baby. He was one of the friends that were there when I lost my first baby. Then I had to stop and think if I wanted to have this baby.

I was eighteen years old, and I was having my little girl. I lived in Groton MA. She was born on May 27, 1996, at seven p.m. She weighed four pounds, nine ounces, and she was a very sickly little girl. They did not bring her to me for over twenty- four hours. When one of the nurses came into the room, I asked her if I could see my baby. She then told me that the baby was going to be moved.

They brought the baby to the room so I could see her before she left the hospital. The doctor tried to tell us how she was doing. At eighteen you can't take it all in. When they opened the door for the baby to leave, I started to cry. It's hard to have your baby go somewhere without you. I did not have any idea where she was going until they told me she was going to Worcester.

In the hospital in Worcester they put her in the NICU. It is overwhelming to see that you are not alone trying to care for your child. She stayed in the hospital for one month. At times she was so sick, and we went day by day not know if she would get well.

Now she is thirty years old with children of her own, and she is doing well. We sometimes talk about how things were when she was born, and I get so sentimental knowing she could have died. Thank God our prayers were answered. She has finished school and recently bought a new home in South Carolina.