Getting to Say Goodbye
**The Day We Said Hello and Goodbye: A Bittersweet Meeting with Stanley**
Writing this brings a fresh wave of emotions, taking me back to that first and only night we had with Stanley. This experience was raw, surreal, and still full of love in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Stanley was so tiny, fitting in our hands with a weight that felt light but made his presence real. It’s strange how our minds work, trying to soften pain by almost convincing us none of this was real. But feeling him in my arms shattered any denial—I was holding my son, and he was here with us, if only for a while.
The hospital staff made this experience gentle and compassionate. They wrapped him in a tiny hat and blanket that somehow fit his tiny frame, as if volunteers had known that these small gestures of love would mean everything to families like ours. They were understanding of how Taylor and I needed to experience these moments fully, not rushed or glossed over. We were told we could stay in the room as long as we needed, with no set “checkout” time, and we were assured that we were there on our own schedule.
We decided to invite our parents that night, knowing we might not get the same chance if we waited. It was late, and in any other situation, I’d have expected my parents to be in bed. But when we called, they were ready to be there in a heartbeat. They held Stanley, and I could see their love for him as they kissed his tiny head and looked at him with the kind of love that only grandparents know. This was their first grandbaby, a role they’d been so ready to embrace. The tears flowed freely, not only from sadness but from the love that filled the room for this beautiful little boy. Taylor’s parents came in next, sharing the same mix of joy and grief with us. We took pictures with everyone, each capturing a moment that would hold us in the days ahead.
That night, after our parents had left and the hospital quieted down, Taylor and I lay down beside Stanley in his little cuddle cot. Having him next to me felt like the closest thing to normal I’d experienced in days. I drifted in and out of sleep, reaching out every so often just to feel him there. I’ll always remember that night as a gift—our one night together as a family, with no alarms, no interruptions, just us and our baby boy.
The next morning, reality began to seep in. We spent the day holding him, taking photos, and saying our goodbyes. We tried to do everything we could to honor his life and our love for him. I did skin-to-skin time with him, which brought a strange but precious comfort. Knowing I’d never have another chance, I wanted him to feel my warmth and to feel as much of a connection with him as possible. Taylor even danced with him, singing one of the songs that had become special to us. Every detail of that day felt heavy with meaning, a last effort to hold on before we had to let go.
When it was finally time to say goodbye, I thought I was ready. But nothing could have prepared me for the feeling of walking out of that room, leaving Stanley behind. I’ll always regret that last moment, not staying in the room until the nurse took him away. I thought we’d have more time to say goodbye, but then we were walking down the hallway without him, holding back tears that eventually broke loose in the car. The reality of leaving the hospital empty-handed hit me harder than I ever thought it would.
Coming home was its own kind of surreal. Family came by to check on us, bringing food, hugs, and small moments of laughter that felt both strange and healing. We sank into the blur of grief, finding comfort in anything that kept our minds busy, from endless TV shows to random conversations that filled the silence. The days were dark and heavy, and the thought of ever finding joy again felt impossible. But slowly, we began to move forward, carrying Stanley’s memory with us as we learned to navigate this new reality. I know now that grief and love can coexist, that I can carry Stanley in my heart and still find light in life.
Every part of me still misses him, but those precious moments we shared keep his memory alive, bringing me comfort and the strength to keep moving forward.
