Every September 8, our family gathers to honor the birthday of our son, who we lost before he had the chance to truly live. For us, it’s all about the balloons. Each year, we choose a fun theme that reflects our son’s spirit, and this time, my older children, Mia and Noah, decided on dinosaurs. The tradition of releasing balloons into the sky has become a cherished ritual. As they grow older, their enthusiasm for this moment grows, too. We all watch the balloons float away, knowing that while they ascend, our hearts are anchored by the memory of our son, who we miss every single day. This year, he would have been 7 years old. Lucas was our firstborn, and he left this world just 9 days after he entered it.
It was supposed to be a joyous occasion when I first discovered I was pregnant on New Year’s Day in 2015. My husband, Tom, and I were overjoyed at the thought of welcoming our first child. I had a strong feeling that we were having a boy, so I dove into preparations—decorating the nursery, researching baby names, and reveling in the excitement of impending parenthood. Everything felt perfect, but I was blindsided by what came next.
It was during the anatomy scan, typically performed around 20 weeks, that our lives were turned upside down. The ultrasound technician seemed unusually tense. “Your baby likes to hide,” she remarked, leaving me with a twinge of unease. Moments later, the doctor entered, her expression grave. “I’m afraid there might be a problem with your baby’s heart,” she said softly.
After a referral to a pediatric cardiologist, our worst fears were confirmed. Lucas was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome (HLHS), a serious congenital heart defect. The news shattered our world, but one thing was certain—he was already so deeply loved.
Despite the diagnosis, we chose to continue the pregnancy. We met with high-risk specialists, clung to hope, and prayed fervently for our son’s well-being. On September 8, 2015, Lucas Jude was born—an exquisite little boy who filled our hearts with love, but also with fear, as we learned he would need a series of complex heart surgeries.
The first surgery took place when he was just a few days old. Watching him endure so much was an agonizing experience; I would have done anything to spare him from that pain. After what felt like an eternity, we were told he was recovering well and could come home soon. The evening of September 16 was a sweet moment when I finally got to feed him a bottle. We left the hospital that night, filled with a mix of hope and anxiety.
No parent expects the call we received shortly after returning home. The doctor informed us that Lucas had had a “blue” episode and that we needed to rush back to the hospital. I felt an icy dread take hold of me. Upon arrival, we were handed our lifeless baby boy. With tears streaming down my face, I cradled him for the first time without tubes and wires. He was free from suffering. In the following hours, we were surrounded by family and our pediatric cardiologist, but time blurred as I held him close, lost in an unbearable grief.
The months that followed were a dark time. I felt anger towards the world for moving on while we were trapped in our sorrow. I avoided gatherings, especially those with children, and eventually left my job. It was a friend who suggested we attend a support group for neonatal loss, and that connection became our lifeline. The understanding we found there was invaluable. Many of those parents had found ways to honor their lost children, inspiring us to do the same.
A year later, we invited family and friends to Lucas’s grave, where we read letters to him, released doves, and celebrated his life with cake. Though we were still heartbroken, we were also expecting our second child, a girl, in just a few weeks. We had so much to share with her about her big brother.
As Mia turned 6 this year, she began asking more questions about Lucas. Tom and I strive to be open with her, explaining that he had a sick heart and now watches over us from heaven. She often expresses how much she misses him, which breaks my heart. Meanwhile, Noah, now 3, will soon have those same conversations.
This year, we chose a scenic spot by the water to release our balloons. Both Mia and Noah eagerly joined in, turning it into a collective celebration. “Happy Birthday, Lucas,” we say together, through smiles and tears. We can’t change the past or give him the healthy heart he deserved, but we are forever grateful for the nine days we had with him. His memory lives on in our hearts, shaping who we are every day.
If you’re navigating similar experiences, you might find support in other resources, such as this excellent guide on intrauterine insemination, and for those considering at-home options, check out this reputable retailer of insemination kits. Our journey has taught us the importance of cherishing every moment, and we hope to keep you engaged with more insights in our other blog post here.
In summary, celebrating the birthday of a lost child is not just about mourning but also about honoring their memory and the love they brought into our lives. Each balloon released is a reminder of their presence in our hearts.
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