Leaving the OR felt surreal.

I remember looking over and seeing Ben and my dad talking with Dr. K, thanking her for giving us the time we had with Ethan, and for taking such good care of me. I thanked her too… for everything she had done, and for keeping me safe through it all.

My body was shaking uncontrollably. I was so cold, and everything felt like it was happening just slightly outside of myself.

The hallway felt so quiet as they wheeled me back.

As they began to wheel me back to the room, they asked if I wanted to hold Ethan. I wanted that so badly, but I was shaking too much to safely hold him, so Ben carried him as we made our way back.

As we crossed back into the room, we entered the same labor and delivery space that had once been filled with the steady sound of Ethan’s heartbeat.

Now it was quiet.

But somehow, it didn’t feel empty.

There was still a presence there. A kind of quiet, unexplainable peace. Even joy, in a way. Not the absence of grief, but something deeper… a knowing that even though our little boy had passed, we were still being given time with him.

Time that we didn’t take for granted.

Before we began anything else, the nurses were able to get Ethan’s weight and measurements. It was a small but meaningful moment confirming those details we had so longed to know.

The hospital also brought in a cooling bassinet, something designed specifically for situations like ours. It allowed us to keep Ethan with us longer, preserving his body in a gentle and respectful way so we didn’t have to rush our time with him.

It allowed us to slow down… to not feel rushed in saying goodbye, and to simply be his parents for a little while longer.

It was an incredible gift.

One of the first things I wanted to do after that was give Ethan a bath with my mom.

My sweet nurses helped prepare everything, knowing his condition meant we couldn’t submerge him in water. So we gently cleaned him the best we could, right there on a tray table over my hospital bed.

It was in those moments that I saw his body more fully for the first time.

The extent of his limb body wall complex.

It was another reminder that his body wasn’t made for this world. And yet, at the very same time, I held tightly to the truth that while his body here looked the way it did, his soul and heavenly body were made whole.

By that point, my shaking had started to ease, but the nausea had set in hard. I was getting sick, trying to balance recovery with this deep desire to care for my baby. The nurses were doing everything they could to help manage it, while my mom and I focused on Ethan.

We weren’t experts. We didn’t know exactly what we were doing.

But we were his mom and his grandma.

And that was enough.

We gently cleaned him, doing our best with all the little things that come with a newborn. Some of it wasn’t easy, the natural coating on his skin and in his hair was difficult to wash away but we did what we could, taking our time with him.

Through Sufficient Grace Ministries, we had been given guidance from others who had walked through limb body wall complex before. They helped us understand how to care for his body in a way that allowed us to place a diaper on him and gently tend to his wounds, so that we could dress him in a little outfit instead of having him fully wrapped.

And that meant so much to us.

Once he was cleaned up, we were able to get him dressed and spend time just holding him, taking in every detail, every feature, every moment.

There was something so tender about seeing him dressed, like we had imagined… even in the midst of everything.

Because we knew how much these moments mattered.

A NICU doctor came in to examine him, since he had been born alive. That part was hard, but also reassuring. He gently confirmed what we already knew, that there was nothing that could have been done.

Even beyond what we could see externally, Ethan’s heart was not developed correctly or in the right place.

It was another confirmation… and another reminder of God’s mercy in taking him home to be made whole.

Later, Austin came in.

He had been resting in the room next door, and when he woke up, he got to meet his baby brother.

Of course, the first thing he wanted to do was beep his nose, something he’s been very into lately. It was such a simple, almost funny moment in the middle of everything.

And then I held both of my boys.

Right there in that hospital bed.

Still recovering. Still processing. Still trying to take it all in.

For a moment, everything felt whole… even knowing it wouldn’t last.

It was sweet. And sacred. And something I will never forget.

As the day went on, things began to quiet down.

Family stepped out to take Austin home for dinner, and we prepared to be moved to another room for monitoring.

While we waited, Ben read Ethan one of my favorite books, The Tale of Three Trees a story I had packed ahead of time, hoping we would get to share with him.

I also read him a letter I had written.

We prayed.

We talked to him.

Even knowing he wasn’t there in the way we wished he was… it still mattered. It still felt important to do the things we had dreamed of doing with him, just in a different way.

We took pictures with our incredible nurses, who had cared for us so deeply throughout the day as we prepared to say goodbye to them.

My doctor came by again, along with nurse Stephanie who had walked with me through so many of the harder moments during pregnancy. They had even arranged special touches for our room…small, thoughtful gifts that meant more than they probably realized.

Later that evening, we were moved into another room.

The day had gone by so quickly.

Moments that I wanted to stretch out… somehow passing in what felt like seconds.

Around 9:30 that night, Carrie from the bereavement team came in and asked if she could make handprints, footprints, and molds.

Ben was sleeping, and I was confined to the bed, so she gently took Ethan and cared for him.

At one point, she called our room and asked if she could give him another bath and clean him up a bit more.

I said yes, and I am so glad I did.

When she brought him back… I barely recognized him.

His hair, so full, so soft, this beautiful reddish-brown, was fluffed and clean. He looked so peaceful. So handsome.

She had cared for him so tenderly.

In a way I’ll never forget.

That night, I held him as much as I possibly could.

My little three-pound, eight-ounce boy resting on my chest.

The room now filled not with his heartbeat, but with mine, echoing through the monitors as they watched over me.

I barely slept. Maybe thirty minutes at a time.

Partly because of recovery.

But mostly… because I didn’t want to miss a single moment.

I just kept looking at him.

Taking him in.

I kept trying to memorize him… afraid of what it would feel like when I couldn’t hold him anymore.

This little boy that God had knit together in my womb.

And even in the heartbreak… even in the questions… even in the moments where my heart still feels the weight of it all

What an honor it is to be Ethan’s mom. 💙