“I got the call from a co-worker: “He’s taken a turn for the worse. It looks like today will be the day he goes home.”
It was my only day off in a 6-day stretch, but there was no hesitation. I drove straight to the hospital.
When I walked into the butterfly room, I was met with a father pacing and a mother with tear-stained cheeks, clutching her bundled baby boy. My heart shattered—but I knew my role. This wasn’t about me. This was about a family breaking straight down the middle.
I hugged her instantly. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” I whispered it over and over, knowing it could never take away the pain, but praying it offered some comfort.
She placed him in my arms and said: “I know he would want you to hold him one more time, too.”
I nearly broke. As I held her most precious treasure, I apologized to him too. Together we listened to his soft, slowing breaths. We talked about his short but powerful life—how he taught me so much, how he only ever knew love, and how he would never be forgotten.
Hours later, when his sweet soul left this earth, she asked for me again. Through sobs, she said: “It didn’t feel right handing him to anyone else but you.”
I carried his tiny body, feeling her grief collapse onto me. And I whispered a prayer for strength—for her, for him, for all of us.
This is what’s written between the lines of my job description. To love these fragile babies means risking heartbreak. But I’ll take it. Because the honor of being there—when the pain is unbearable but the love is even greater—is worth everything.
That night, I went home, let myself cry, and then set my alarm for 5 a.m. to show up for another baby who needed me.
This story isn’t unique. The world is filled with nurses carrying stories of love and loss in silence. So if you know a healthcare worker—hug them, text them, remind them you see them. They might need it more than you realize.” 💙
Credit – Lauren S~