Our family was thrust into the NICU-verse when our son M was born at 27 weeks. Our heads were spinning until we met Nurse Julie Kennedy. Julie took care of M early on; when we met, she promptly introduced herself and began explaining how M was. She asked how we were doing, and told us no question was silly and that we can never call too many times to check-in. In that moment of extreme helplessness, she gave us the tools to be the best parents we could be.

Julie had M two other times during his stay and the last time was the day he passed away. When we went to spend time with M after his surgery, Julie was serious but light. She told us she’d call if anything happened and later, I got a call that M was hemorrhaging. The room we ran into was sheer horror. A team was fighting to keep our three-pound son alive. There were shouts for more blood, methodical resuscitation counts, and movement everywhere. At the top of M’s table, holding his little head, was Julie. When it was clear M was not going to recover, we asked the team to stop and let me hold him.

We spent the next three hours holding M and Julie stayed with us. We cried together, she organized a small group to say goodbye and made sure we got all the keepsakes. She even jokingly threatened to put an IV in me if I didn’t drink some water. When we left, I handed M to Julie and asked her to play Yellow Submarine for him. She knew we sang that to him every day and it meant something special to our family. Later, we learned that Julie played Yellow Submarine 10x for M and my broken heart was repaired a little. We’ve never questioned the care M received during that last day of his life, both living and deceased, and that was because of Julie. Julie provided us with a safe space to feel our emotions, make informed decisions, and love our son to the best of our abilities.