Lily

You were born on Monday, January 28, 2008 to two loving parents. I met your mother and father about an hour before your surgery to talk to them about the c-section. Your mom was sweet to us, your father friendly, both with a nervous air about them. I asked them if they knew what they were having, they told me a little girl who would be named Lily.

We were doing the c-section earlier than we normally would because you had a heart condition and your mom’s doctors felt it would be better to get you out now. Your mom told us in specific details what was wrong with you. Your aorta, left ventricle and mitral valve were all underdeveloped, something called hypoplastic left heart syndrome. They planned to deliver you, place a tube down your throat to help you to breathe, and eventually do some surgeries to repair your heart.

Your father sat next to your mom as she was being cut open. When you were born, they held you up for both of them to see. You could hear the smile in your father’s voice, his wonder as he watched you. Before they took you out of the OR and down to the NICU, the neonatal team paused next to your parents, allowed them to see you. Your father reached in the incubator and brushed your hand. Your weight and color were both good.

We went back to work, closing up your young mother. Only 25 years old, but possessed with such a sweet kind motherly soul. She and your father talked from time to time, but it was difficult to hear them over the room’s general noise. Eventually your father went down to the NICU with you, as we finished the final stitches on her. Your mother was probably the most grateful patient I ever saw in that OR. She thanked each and every one of us, told us how wonderful we were. She must have been consumed with worry about you, but she made sure we knew how appreciated we were. We wished her and her daughter, you, well.

It was the next day while I was preparing for another surgery that I heard. You died just an hour after you were born. For one reason or another, your heart decided to stop. The neonatal team began CPR, but in someone so young, it’s often hard to bring them back. So they did the only thing they could: they got your mother from the recovery room, and she held you as you went.

You were my first patient to ever die, Lily, and it took me by surprise. I always expected this person to be old, someone with a stroke or a heart attack or even a car accident. I didn’t expect that person to have lived only an hour, knowing nothing but hospital walls. I hope you know how loving your parents were towards you, how great they would have been to you. I never got the chance to know you, Lily, but I will remember you for as long as I live.