For many parents, the NICU holds moments of both hope and heartbreak. Some recall the beeping monitors and hushed tones of nurses, others remember the weight of their baby in their arms for the very first time. For loss families, these moments carry an even deeper layer of meaning—memories that are cherished, even when they are also painful.
“I remember the first time I held her, wires and tubes everywhere, but she fit perfectly in my arms,” one mom shared. Another parent described the comfort of a gentle touch: “The nurse tucked a blanket around him, and for that moment, he looked so peaceful. I hold onto that.”
Parents spoke of reading stories, singing songs, and whispering words of love into tiny ears. These small rituals, often done through tears, became ways to connect in a space that can feel overwhelming and fragile.
Though their time in the NICU ended differently than they had hoped, these parents carry their memories forward with reverence. Each family’s story reminds us of the profound love present in even the briefest of lives.
Our NICU Experience:
We immediately felt wrapped in support in the NICU. It was obvious that the doctors and nurses put every part of their souls into trying to save our daughter. They acted swiftly and with so much care. At the same time, it was so traumatizing and isolating. We felt lost, like we were in a haze, seeing our previously perfectly healthy baby now in such terrible condition. Her birth and death have changed us completely and forever.
Message of Remembrance and Hope:
Our daughter, Chloe, is so missed, loved, and cherished. She is our first child and the first grandchild on both sides of our family. To our precious baby girl, we love and miss you endlessly.
In Honor of Chloe:
We have planted a beautiful garden, dedicated a bench, released butterflies, and shared Chloe's story with many. Find what brings you comfort to honor your child and keep them close. Every one of our babies is loved, missed, and deserves to be remembered.
Our NICU Experience:
"Your little hands so soft and still, I held them in my own,
Whilst wishing we had more than just a handprint coming home.
I studied every nail and line and every inch of you,
And cried for all the things your little hands would never do.
I'd never get to clean your hands, there'd be no messy play,
I'd never see your fingers point to things you'd try to say.
I'd never hear the sound they'd make whilst splashing in the bath,
Or how they'd cover up your lips whilst trying not to laugh.
I wish so much I could have taught you how to write your name,
Or watched your little hands outstretched to play a catching game.
Your little hands would never feel a scrape or gain a scar,
Nor would they play an instrument or learn to drive a car.
Your little hands, my little hands, forever left unchanging,
No exploring, falling, climbing, drawing and no ageing,
My only wish for you and I is that we had more time,
'Cause I could have spent forever with your little hands in mine."
Message of Remembrance and Hope: Our son will always be a part of our family, and we will always be in awe of his brave fight for the six days he was with us.
Our NICU Experience:
Luna's NICU stay was brief, at only 12 hours. Most of that time, I was not there with her and only saw her once before our last meeting during her baptism. I was finally able to hold her skin to skin after they took her off the cooling blanket and ventilator. Her skin was so cold and soft. She had the dotted blanket pattern imprinted on her back. As soon as they placed her on my chest, her eyes opened to look at me. I like to think that she recognized me, and I hope she could feel how much she was loved.
Message of Remembrance and Hope:
I want her to be remembered for the mighty, little warrior she was.
Our NICU Experience:
The NICU was our little Josie Mae's only home during her short 10 days of life. After labor and delivery, she was transported to a bigger hospital in Madison, Wisconsin, for more intense medical care because the smaller regional hospital where we gave birth was not equipped to handle her needs. St. Mary's Hospital NICU will always have a special place in our hearts. The medical staff there gave her the absolute best care they could and assisted us with making as many memories as we wanted before we had to remove her life support and let her pass away peacefully in my arms. It is a decision that no parent should ever have to make, and her neonatologists shared that whatever decision we made was the right decision for her and validated all of our feelings and emotions surrounding her care. HIE was not a diagnosis that was seen often in our NICU, but they were amazing at giving us all of the information we needed and asked for. We appreciated the transparency that was provided.
We were able to baptize her right in her little incubator, and the nurses helped us dress her in the dress that both myself (her mother) and my sister (her aunt) wore for our baptisms when we were younger. We also made molds of her hands and feet, our hands with her hand stacked on top of each other, as many hand and foot prints as we wanted, with help from the nursing staff. Every day we walked into her room, we were greeted with another cute craft that her overnight nurse had made for us. A bookmark with her handprint on it and a picture of her and her footprints on orange cardstock with the caption "cutest pumpkin in the patch" (it was early October) were among our favorites. The absolute favorite is something we never could've dreamed of but was offered to us by the nursing staff. It is a mold of her face that they did for us after she had passed. I can't imagine how difficult it would be to do something like that, and we asked a number of times if they were sure they wanted and could do that, and it was always answered with "absolutely." They are truly heaven-sent, and we cannot thank them enough for the amazing love and care they gave our little rockstar and the precious mementos we have of her.
Message of Remembrance and Hope:
Josephine Mae Eldridge may have lived a short life, but she was an organ donor and has already saved a life with the gift of heart valve tissue. She joined her uncle, Tyler, in heaven, who was also taken too soon due to Type 1 diabetes complications. We have since welcomed her little sister Lillian into our family and talk about her big sister Josie to her all the time. We love and miss her every day.
We honor her every year on her birthday by sponsoring a pizza party at the Ronald McDonald House, located within St. Mary's Hospital, for the NICU and PICU staff and parents with patients being cared for there. It is also a thank you to the staff for taking care of her and to the Ronald McDonald House for providing us with a place to basically live in, without charge, for her 10 days of life. Being one floor above the NICU and being able to go and visit her whenever we wanted to was something we cherish every day.
Remembering Axel Paul Krasnov – by Aleksandr Krasnov
Our NICU Experience:
There's one small moment from the NICU that I keep replaying—simple, raw, and everything to me. When the machines were beeping and everything felt clinical and huge, I would lean over the isolette, press my forehead to the plastic, slip my finger into his tiny fist, and whisper, "You're mine. I'm here." I didn't beg for miracles then; I just wanted him to know he belonged. That tiny touch felt like the only thing I could give that mattered.
If I could tell the world one thing from those NICU days, it would be this: being human with someone in pain—showing up, holding silence, touching, whispering—is more powerful than any answer. Those moments of simple presence are what mattered most to me and to my son.
Messages of Remembrance and Hope:
From the very first moment we learned we were expecting you, Axel, you were cherished beyond words. You weren't just anticipated—you were already loved more deeply than life itself. Each night, before sleep, I pressed my voice into the safe warmth of your mama's belly, reading you stories and poems, hoping you would feel the world's beauty before ever seeing it. Each morning, I kissed that belly and whispered promises: that your daddy loved you, that I couldn't wait to hold you in my arms.
The first time you kicked me, as my ear rested against your mama's belly, it stole my breath away. In that instant, everything shifted. My heart, my soul, my entire world rearranged itself around you. I was no longer just a man—I was your father. And you, my son. From that moment forward, the countdown to meeting you wasn't just a wait—it was a longing that filled every corner of me.
I built you a crib with my own hands and reshaped our home into a place made just for you. By the time we crossed the first trimester, our home was already filled with your tiny clothes, your diapers, your changing table, and all the little things I thought you might need. I wanted everything to be ready for the day you arrived.
As your mama's belly grew, and you began to respond to my voice with little movements, I began writing a book for you—a gift of words and lessons, a map of love and wonder I hoped to hand you one day when you could sit beside me and listen. I wrote songs for you, too, and your mama sang them sweetly, filling our home with music you seemed to recognize. Every time you kicked along, I wondered: would you become a singer? A musician? Someone who would fill the world with your own music?
And then, Axel, you came. And for 19 days, I had the honor of being not just your father in waiting, but your father in truth. Those days were a lifetime of love condensed into moments too fleeting. When you left, a piece of me left with you. My heart will never be whole again, because the part that belonged to you is gone.
I miss you every second of every day, my beautiful boy. You were, and always will be, the greatest gift of my life.
Today, I remember my son, Axel. And I remember every baby who has lived, fought, and died in the NICU. Axel was wanted, prayed for, and dreamed about long before he was born. We prepared his nursery, bought his clothes, and whispered stories to him when he was still in the womb. And then he came—tiny, beautiful, and fragile.
The NICU was a place of miracles and heartbreak. Machines kept him alive. Nurses and doctors gave everything they had. And we gave what only we could—our love, pressed through the plastic of an isolette, our voices whispering, "You are mine," while alarms screamed around us.
And then, 19 days later, we had to say goodbye. I held him as he left this world. I watched his soul slip away, and something inside me shattered forever. There is no moving on from that. There is only carrying it.
Please understand this: when you know a parent who has lost a baby, the greatest gift you can give is your presence. Don't tell them it will get better. Don't give them answers. Just stay. Sit in the silence. Whisper the baby's name with them. Bring food. Fold laundry. Cry with them.
Because grief doesn't mean we stopped loving. It means we loved so much that our hearts broke when we lost them. Axel is my son, always. And today, on NICU Remembrance Day, I say his name for the world to hear: Axel.
Thank you to our brave and beautiful loss families for sharing your stories, your babies and your hope and love with all of us this NICU Remembrance Day. Your beautiful children will always be remembered and cherised in the HIE community.
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