When I was rolled out of the operating room Ava was resting on my chest, and the first thing I did was look at her ears. When a baby is developing in utero the kidneys and ears develop at the same time so often times a congenital disorder with one can be seen in the other. Ava had no amniotic fluid left when she was born which suggested a problem with her kidneys. I traced my fingers over her tiny ears inspecting every curve and every fold. They were perfect. It didn’t make any sense. Why was there no fluid? How did this happen? I pushed my questions out of my head and tried to remain present, in the moment with my daughter. I didn’t know what was going to happen next or how much longer I would have to hold her. I wanted to treasure each second we had left together. My brain went into overload as I tried to force myself to focus, taking little mental snapshots of my baby that would have to last a lifetime. I stared at her intently trying to memorize each feature of her face before someone would come take her away. I made sure Travis had taken some photos of her because I was sure we didn’t have much time left. Each time the curtain was pulled back I was certain whoever it was had come to tell me that it was time to let her go, but no one ever came. When I was deemed stable my bed was wheeled down the hallway back to my room, and Ava remained in my arms. I asked my nurse was how long I was allowed to keep her and we were comforted by the answer, however long we wanted. I felt a sense of relief wash over me. No one was coming for her. I didn’t need to rush. The clocking wasn’t ticking away our last moments together. I didn’t have to force my brain to stay awake. I could rest.

I spent that first day in and out of consciousness and every time I woke up I felt a sense of comfort knowing that Ava was still there. For the rest of that day, we almost functioned like a family with a new baby, except she never cried. We took turns holding her, we took pictures of her, and when my parents arrived with Logan we introduced him to his baby sister. Logan was sitting in a hospital provided wagon, and Travis brought Ava to him wrapped in a blanket. He looked at her timidly as Travis bent over next to him so he could see his baby sister. Logan smiled and waved at her then put his arms under her body almost trying to hold her as Travis assisted him. Logan had just started learning about and identifying body parts so Travis took the opportunity to talk about all the parts of Ava’s face. When Travis asked where baby sister’s nose was Logan firmly pushed a finger on her tiny nose leaving a lasting imprint on the tip. Later that evening Logan sat on my bed between my legs and we brought his sister to him again. This time Travis explained that baby sister got sick and died. Logan gave her another wave, said, “hi baby,” and then went back to the video he was watching.

The next few days I continued to hold Ava as often as I could. We all did. Travis held her, my parents held her, even some friends came to visit and got to hold her. I realize from the outside looking in, this all seems crazy and for some maybe even a little disturbing. I can see the look on some people’s face as they’re hearing this or reading about it. I probably would have had the same disgusted look on my face before Ava was born. I would have thought we were weird and even a little disturbed for keeping a dead baby in our room, but understand that she didn’t look disturbing. She didn’t smell or start to decompose, she was just peacefully still. Her eyes were closed, and her skin was dark but she was just this perfect, tiny little human being. Her hair was dark black and silky soft, her skin was smooth as velvet. Her nose reminded me of Travis’, but her lips looked more like mine. She wasn’t a dead body that we were holding, she was Ava. She was our baby as we had only ever known her, silent and still. Her tiny hand seemed to naturally hold on to our fingers and it was easy to imagine what it would be like if she had been alive. I took naps with her laying on my chest and felt at ease cradling her while I was in bed. I told Travis I could see how a person could just take home their dead baby and pretend she was alive. It suddenly didn’t seem so crazy to me.

But then there were the moments when we couldn’t hold her, like when we were eating, or when I got up to go to the bathroom, or when a friend would come that we thought might feel too uncomfortable with seeing her, and there was nowhere to put her. Those were the moments when having her would feel so wrong. There wasn’t a bassinet for her so we would sort of just tuck her in a corner somewhere, out of the way. When we went to sleep at night Travis wrapped her up in blankets and a down jacket and put her off to the side of his bed on the floor. Neither one of us wanted her in our bed for fear we would crush her, much like a live baby, but having her on the floor was equally as haunting. After two nights Travis told me he couldn’t have her in the room for a third. He couldn’t sleep knowing she was alone and cold on the floor and I agreed.

After two nights we decided it was time to let her go. Our friend Loren had just arrived for a visit as we were getting ready to say goodbye and we let him hold her as we talked. He gazed lovingly at her face and again it felt like any other normal interaction one might have with a living baby. After a few minutes, Travis nodded towards the clock. It was now or never. We knew we had to let her go or we never would. Loren left the room to give us some privacy as we said goodbye.

I held her for a few last moments, kissed her head and handed her to Travis. He left the room as he brought her to our nurse and returned with only the tiny garments she had been wearing. A gown, a hat with matching blanket, and her hospital blanket. I held those items tightly to my face, inhaling deeply trying to take in every last remnant of my child. Travis and I held each other quietly for a few minutes before inviting Loren to return to the room. Now that Ava was gone everything felt different. The room felt empty and lonely and more like a prison than it had before. I needed to get out. Travis found a wheelchair and the three of us went outside for a walk.

When we got to the lobby I was almost surprised to see that it was pulsing with people talking and hugging and laughing. The world hadn’t ended while I was stuck in that room, it only felt like it. We stepped outside and the sun hit my face for the first time in six days. The cool breeze gently blew my hair. I took a deep breath, letting the fresh, spring air fill my lungs. I did this over and over as we made our way down the sidewalk. Life had gone on outside of my hospital room. I had forgotten what it was like outside of those four white walls. I didn’t want to go back inside. I wanted to stay out here where every moment wasn’t consumed by thoughts of Ava, where people didn’t know my daughter had died and nobody gave me sad eyes. I wanted to stay out here with the living. For the first time, I looked forward to going home.

Back in the hospital room that night I carefully folded Ava’s things then gently placed them in the keepsake box the hospital had provided, and we started to plan her funeral.