The 5th through the 11th of every month has become a sacred space for us—a time to remember, reflect, and feel the echoes of a life that was far too short.
I often imagine a world where Sterling lived, wondering what our lives might have looked like, what milestones we would have celebrated, what ordinary days would have felt like. But my mind also travels back to the memories that are painfully vivid—the ones from this same week, 11 months ago.
Breinne and Sterling were life-flighted to Los Angeles Children’s Hospital. On that day, I was in the ER with my newborn son, waiting for the ambulance that would take us to the hospital ready to admit Sterling. The nurses and doctors tried to soothe our fears, reassuring us that all tests were negative and that it was most likely a case of RDS. They said he would probably only need CPAP for a week or two before we could bring him home safely.
But the reality was far harsher than we could have imagined. On December 6th, I remember the fear gnawing at my heart, the fragile hope I clung to even as I watched the newest, tiniest member of our family struggle with every breath. And then, as the day wore on, that hope crumbled. By the afternoon, Sterling had stopped breathing and needed to be intubated. By evening, his tiny heart had stopped, and I watched in utter horror as doctors fought to revive my one-day-old baby boy.
At that moment, I thought I had reached the worst experience of my life. But truthfully, nothing compares to the hell I now live in—the emptiness of a life without him. Back then, he was still here. Still alive. I could lay my hand on his chest and feel it rise and fall. I could brush my fingers through his soft, delicate hair and press kisses to his chubby cheeks, careful to avoid the tubes and wires keeping him alive. Those fleeting moments of connection were everything.
I know it’s selfish to wish for those hospital days again. Deep down, I’m grateful Sterling is no longer suffering. And yet, in a strange, heartbreaking way, those days don’t feel entirely awful anymore. They were days he was alive. And as hard as they were, if I could go back and relive them, even knowing the outcome, I would do it in a heartbeat.
If I could, I would never leave his side. Not for a second. And instead of fearing what might come, I would soak in every tiny, miraculous moment with him—the warmth of his skin, the softness of his hair, the quiet rhythm of his breathing. Every second of life with Sterling would be a gift to treasure.
You don’t need to be sorry for me. I am still one of the lucky ones. It may not have been the life I imagined for Sterling, but I am thankful he lived at all. I am grateful for the hospital days, for the time I had with him, for the chance to be his mama. And for that, I will always count myself blessed.
