Losing a baby changes everything. Even 13 years later, I can still remember every detail of the day we learned our son would not survive.

In March 2013, my then-boyfriend, Jeff, and I found out we were expecting our first baby while living in Sioux City, Iowa. We were overwhelmed with excitement and already dreaming about holding our little one in our arms. For the first few months, everything seemed normal, and I believed my pregnancy was progressing just as it should.

The week before Father’s Day, I went in for my anatomy scan. Jeff’s mom, Jane, came with me to the appointment. I still remember walking into the office, checking in with the receptionist, completing the routine urine test, and sitting in the waiting room full of anticipation.

When the ultrasound technician called us back, I could hardly contain my excitement. During the ultrasound, she asked if we wanted to know the baby’s gender. Without hesitation, I said yes.

“You’re having a boy.”

The moment those words left her mouth, I saw a change in her expression. There was something more she wasn’t saying. She quietly told Jane and me that the doctor would speak with us shortly and escorted us back to the waiting room.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it.

A few minutes later, the doctor led us into a small, secluded room with hard black plastic chairs. I sat down smiling and asked, “So we’re for sure having a boy?”

She looked at me with such compassion and replied, “Yes, but there’s something else.”

I had never seen heartbreak in a doctor’s eyes before that moment.

She gently explained that my son had anencephaly, a fatal neural tube defect where the brain, skull, and brain stem do not fully develop during pregnancy. I had never heard the word before. I remember asking her if there was anything we could do to help him develop, anything at all.

There wasn’t.

She told me he would likely not survive birth and, if he did, his life would be very brief.

In an instant, the future I had imagined disappeared.

When I got home, I called Jeff and told him he needed to come home immediately. I had planned to surprise my family in Colorado with the gender of our baby, but instead I called my mom sobbing, telling her she was going to have a grandson who would never come home.

 In the weeks that followed, I moved back to Colorado permanently. We sought additional medical opinions, hoping someone would tell us the diagnosis was wrong. My mom’s boss even paid for a 3D ultrasound so I could see my baby boy more clearly.

But every doctor told us the same thing.

My OB-GYN eventually explained that Jeff and I would need to make an impossible decision: continue the pregnancy and risk complications that could threaten both my son’s life and my own, or deliver him early. No parent should ever have to make that choice.

We chose to meet our son sooner.

On July 25, 2013, I was admitted to NCMC for an early induction. Over the next 24 hours, I experienced every emotion imaginable: fear, grief, love, heartbreak, and overwhelming anticipation to finally meet my baby.

On July 26, 2013, at 7:30 in the morning, I delivered my beautiful son, William.

Shortly after his birth, one of the nurses told me about Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep and explained that a volunteer photographer could come provide remembrance photography for our family.

At first, I was terrified.

During the session, one of the tiny hats the hospital had placed on William slipped off. I immediately covered him with my body, almost like a shield. I was scared people would judge him or see him differently because of his diagnosis. I didn’t want anyone to look at my son and see anything other than how deeply loved he was.

The photographer gently came over and comforted me. She told me she wasn’t there to judge — she was there to help make an unimaginably painful moment a little easier.

Her kindness changed everything.

She treated William with dignity, tenderness, and love. She captured not only photographs, but the emotions and connection we shared as a family in those brief moments together.

I don’t remember her name, but I will forever be grateful for her compassion and for the gift of those images.

Those photographs have become priceless reminders that William was here, that he mattered, and that he was deeply loved.

I have never publicly shared this story before because the pain still feels as fresh as the day I learned my son would not be coming home. But after 13 years, I also know how important it is for grieving families to feel seen, understood, and supported.

For families facing pregnancy loss, infant loss, or a life-limiting diagnosis, remembrance photography can preserve the existence of a child whose life was far too short. The images created by volunteer photographers through Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep become lasting proof of love, connection, and the precious moments parents are able to hold onto forever.

William will always be my son, my guardian angel, and one of the greatest loves of my life.