For the first few weeks I was always expecting to catch the baby, somehow, mid-death. If Dustin wasn’t watching me, I sat on the edge of our bed staring, my breath stopping when the baby’s did, my mind counting the seconds until he gasped, his tummy like a small balloon, filling up. I hovered over him, vigilant, while he slept, watching the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. During the day I puttered around the apartment, inventing reasons to walk by his bassinet and confirm he was still alive. It felt like this was what I was born to do: save my son just as he was slipping away forever,
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