Don't forget, it was my baby too: I desperately regret not holding my dead son

David Bartlett, 42, is a secondary school mathematics teacher with two daughters aged six and 11. Eight years ago, his wife, Cherry, gave birth to a stillborn boy.

ON THE day the baby was due, Cherry went to the clinic to have it monitored, but there was nothing, no heartbeat at all. The doctor patted my wife's hand and trotted out moronic phrases like: 'Oh, the world is a funny thing.' Cherry looked stunned, like the faces you see on television of people who have lost loved ones - she was beyond the normal range of emotions. My first reaction was I have to be hard, I have to be supportive, she needs me.

The horrible thing was that, although the baby was dead, they said Cherry had to carry it until they induced her the next day. Luckily, her contractions started naturally and that evening she delivered a little boy . . . the boy I so badly wanted, which made it even worse. His little face was all wrinkled and his mouth was open and I kept thinking, hoping, he might cry; that a miracle would happen. One of the nurses took him off, washed and dressed him and then they took photographs, which we still have. She said we could hold it, and . . . I have to take a deep breath for this . . . my wife held him. I couldn't. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I knew that if I held him, I would crack up. I so desperately regret that. I've regretted it every day for eight years.

That night I chain-smoked and let out bellows of pain, but I couldn't cry. The next day, I had to go and sign the death certificate and I couldn't even remember my name. They let me out the back way so I wouldn't have to face anyone and when I got outside I didn't know who I was.

Cherry confined herself to the house - she wouldn't see or speak to anyone apart from immediate family. I took the role of the strong one. I didn't have to - I'm sure Cherry wouldn't have minded if I hadn't.

About two weeks afterwards, I was lying on the bed when I heard a voice calling my name, but I didn't dare look - I was too scared. Then I began to think I had missed a golden chance. Just like I hadn't held the baby, I hadn't communicated with whoever was there.

I telephoned the office (I was an executive in the water industry) and the personnel manager said I could probably take three days off and I thought, wow, I've been through something traumatic and he's penny pinching. Back at work I was easily riled and I worried that I'd pound someone, so to avoid becoming aggressive, I did the 'turn the other cheek' bit. I'd been in a managerial position that required me to be abrasive in order to get things done and now I was gentler, people started taking advantage of me. I was passed over for promotion and the department was re-organised.

For three years, my stomach churned, but I didn't tell anyone about my feelings, not even my wife. I did stupid things like resigning from my job, which I quite enjoyed. I ended up in financial consultancy for a while and then much later I decided to go back to university to retrain as a teacher. I buried my pain, thinking it would go away, that I'd somehow resolve it and I kept stuffing more emotional baggage in there until one day it all fell out.

I had this terrible flaky rash, so I went to see our GP who said it was caused by nervous tension and depression. She teased it out of me and arranged for me to go for bereavement counselling. Talking it out was a big release. I only wish it had happened sooner. The medical and support agencies never considered my grief. Was I so prickly that I pushed them away? Or did they assume that men don't suffer and just forget to ask?

(Photograph omitted)