The Day My Baby Died
The joyful new mom I was — died that day too
Twenty-four years ago, this month, my first-born son Connor died from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS.) He was 3 months and twenty-four day’s old.
While the days and weeks after he died are not always clear (I believe that’s the mind’s way of dealing with profound grief) the day he died is seared on my brain forever.
I had recently returned to work in New York City after my maternity leave and left him off at the daycare provider’s home prior to catching the train into work. It was such an ordinary day.
It’s striking how the days of major tragedies can be so normal — 9/11, Sandy Hook, Parkland. There’s no warning that your life is about to be changed forever.
I was at work only for a few hours when the daycare provider called and said the words I’ll never forget: “There’s a problem with the baby, he’s not breathing.”
I don’t remember it, but I must have started screaming because people came running to my office door. I was fumbling trying to call the pediatrician when my boss came in and offered to help. She realized there was no way I could take the train back to Connecticut, so she called a car service for me.
