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ake photographs of a dead child? No way. To me, it was creepy, exploitative and completely out of the question. I could not stop envisioning scenes typical of forensic crime lab dramas. Gray-hued cadavers placed on shiny tables in a windowless, disinfected room.

I was already a hormonal mess, sleep-deprived and completely traumatized by what was about to happen. First of all, this is not at all how I had foreseen my first childbirth experience. I was supposed to be at least eight months along with a lost mucous plug or ruptured membranes. I was supposed to be fat with rosy cheeks (like Mrs. Claus, only with anxiety and contractions).

My husband and I had never been parents before, and now we were about to meet a child we’d never change, feed or soothe. Our pastor told us that our pain was that of mourning our dashed hopes and anticipated joys. I just wanted this stillbirth nightmare to be over so I could go home and scream at the top of my lungs and pack away the crib and blankets. I wanted to hide in my bedroom and reflect upon why I was not meant to be a mother. I even felt like a disappointment to the labor and delivery staff in that I could not produce what so many thousands before me had.

My arrival at the hospital was like that of any normal expectant mother for a scheduled induction. I wore house socks and held my husband’s quivering hand. We entered the business office and received identification bracelets. We waited in a stark white room with a wall clock and a barrage of television infomercials declaring the merits of Magic Bullets, OxiClean and bareMinerals. When the doctor finally delivered her, I was afraid to look. After all, she was arriving so early, with so many internal abnormalities of which we were already aware, that I thought she might appear alien-like. Nevertheless, when my very first flesh and blood production was placed lifeless in my arms, she looked like a sleeping cherub. With the pink tone of life slowly fading from her face, she appeared strangely content with her unfortunate fate, as if she had maturely accepted it long before we had. It was difficult knowing that for so long (six months to be exact), I had essentially been her life support (her ventilator, if you will). According to the doctors, I wasn’t doing her any favors. I held her and stared at her for a very long time. I talked to her. My husband rocked her. We most definitely did not want the video camera. But several family members were really pushing the photograph issue.

“That way you’ll never look back and say, ‘I wish I had.’”

“That way you will know that you did every thing you could to honor her.”

But I was afraid to take her picture. The mere suggestion felt like an invasion of privacy. Would we not be disrespecting the deceased? I began contemplating the meaning of a “snapshot.” What purpose does it serve? I suppose it’s how we, as humans, attempt to hard-wire a memory. Among other things, we also use photos for evidence, protection, justification and art. Did I wish to place on a back burner in my mind the physical and emotional despair of this day? Or did I need to prove to myself what a glorious part in the circle of life I had played? Granted, my most significant role in the universe thus far would be short-lived. However, I had indeed become a parent. I was the only female who would ever nurture this one-pound, 15-ounce being. Even though life had failed her, I was still a proud mother. I describe the experience as the single best and worst day of my life. My child had not lived, but I had met her. That was enough.

And we did take photographs—moments that to this day have only been witnessed by my husband and very few family members. I even made a small keepsake album that I keep hidden away. From time to time, I will glance at these sacred images even today, six years later. Looking back now, I don’t know why I was so opposed to taking these photographs. No, they did not include Santa, her teammates, pets or birthday cakes, but they are ours to touch and stare at when we need proof of that wonderful nightmare. I can marvel at how her features resemble those of her younger sisters, who are still too young to comprehend her tragic fate.

I now do not know how I would cope without those photographs. I shudder to think that my fear of the unknown nearly destroyed my first-born’s opportunity to achieve a physical permanence within her mother’s life. And that would have been my greatest tragedy.

Heather Philpot is a freelance writer who lives in Travelers Rest, S.C. She can be reached at cjtig71@bellsouth.net.