It’s a place I know all too well. The familiar scents and sounds transport me back to a time four years ago when my family spent nearly six months in this very hospital. It feels oddly like we never left, yet a part of me recognizes that those memories belong to another lifetime. On this particular day, I am not a patient but simply a visitor. As I wandered through the lobby, I heard someone call my name. Turning around, I saw a stranger approaching, her face lit with recognition.
“I don’t think you remember me,” she said, “but I was one of the nurses who assisted you during your delivery.” She paused, her eyes warm with empathy. “I remember your children, especially Oliver and Lily, and of course, Grace.”
My heart skipped a beat, and a lump formed in my throat. Hearing those names—my triplets—uttered by a stranger felt surreal. While our surviving daughter, Grace, is a name I often share, it’s rare to hear Oliver and Lily’s names spoken aloud.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as the nurse recounted that harrowing day, June 23, 2015, when my world changed forever. She had been part of a dedicated team working to save my premature triplets and my own life during a chaotic moment between life and death. This nurse, who had once been just a face in the crowd, was someone who shared in my family’s most profound experience.
Many people might shy away from mentioning a deceased child, often thinking it might cause discomfort. But for parents who have lost children, hearing their names is a lifeline. As time passes, the memory of our lost children can fade into the background of life, overshadowed by daily routines. Yet my family carries Oliver and Lily in our hearts every single day, even as life continues around us.
In the years since their passing, I’ve carved out a new normal as a parent of both living and departed children. While our family may seem complete with Grace, many don’t realize that she is one of three. Strangers often gaze at us, unaware that our family includes two other children who only lived for a brief time. Society often teaches grieving parents to conceal their loss, leading to awkward reactions when the topic arises. The discomfort can sometimes silence us, making it harder to speak of our angels.
As I stood there, tears glistening in my eyes, the nurse wrapped me in a comforting embrace. It was astonishing how quickly we connected; she had been there on the day my children were born, one of the few who truly understood my experience.
“I can’t thank you enough for saying their names,” I told her, my voice trembling. “I rarely hear those words from strangers.”
With a gentle smile, she replied, “I will always remember your family and your three children.”
Though I only have one child to hold onto, Oliver and Lily will forever occupy a special place in my heart. A brief encounter with this stranger was a poignant reminder that their existence is validated and cherished. It doesn’t matter how long they were with us; Oliver and Lily were here, and they will never be forgotten.
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