On October 7th, I attended Seattle Ignite, an event where a series of presenters get on stage and speak for about 5 minutes about a certain topic. Usually I leave the event feeling enlightened or amused by some of the funny talks. But on October 7th, I left incredibly moved by one of the stories I heard.

Randy Scott was one of the speakers that night. His talk, titled "What it feels like to be hit in the face by a shovel", describes how he felt the day his daughter was born and the doctors told him that she had down syndrome. I immediately connected with Randy. My situation, is of course a litte different. When the doctors told me my son was going to die, I was a little bit in a haze and didn't really grasp what was happening. But when Leo actually died and the days and weeks following his death did feel like I was constantly being hit by a shovel...over and over again.

Randy shared the news with family and friends and while most people responded with a sympathetic "I'm so sorry", his father-in-law responded with an enthusiastic "I can't wait to meet her". Most people were so focused on this little girl's diagnosis, whereas the father-in-law was focused on the good news: there's a new baby girl in the family! At the end of his talk, Randy Scott encouraged us to change our narratives...and I realized that I have in fact 2 stories to tell.

The first, is a story of sudden death, injustice and pain. It's about the day that I was suddently rushed to the hospital and gave birth to my son prematurely. We were told, prior to his birth, that he had very little chances of surviving, and that if he did, he would be blind, have cerebral palsy, etc. etc. Leo was born alive but died in my arms 1 hour later. Shortly after we were asked by the social worker if we had thought about funeral arrangements. WTF! No one goes into labor & delivery thinking about funeral arrangements! We spent the night in the hospital, holding the cold body of our dead baby. This was our only chance to talk to him, sing to him, cuddle with him. He slept in our room. I woke up the next morning and tried to warm up his little body. We took many pictures of him. He was starting to turn blue. In the afternoon, it was time for us to leave. We had to hand our baby to the nurse who was going to send him to the morgue. We left the hospital without our son, crossing paths with happy parents taking their healthy babies home. We headed home and planned a funeral for our son, called our friends & family to inform them, put Leo's crib and all his things away....The next days and weeks and months were a nightmare. Grief strikes you when you least expect it. It sometimes manifests itself as anger, jealousy, pure evilness. It's comforting and ugly at the same time. You feel powerless, weak, broken, empty and guilty. Oh so guilty.

The second story is one of love. It's about the day my son Leo was born. He came much earlier than we expected. Was he that much in a hurry? Was he impatient like his mom? He was born fast, it wasn't a difficult labor. We knew that we wouldn't have much time with him, so we held him and studied him intensely. He smiled at us - he really did. He kept putting his fingers in his mouth and that made us laugh. Leo was also very hairy. He had my big eyes and his dad's chin, long eyelashes and the cutest little nose. He was perfect, so perfect. His fingers were thin and already had nails on them. He was small, but increadibly beautiful. Like most parents, we immediately fell in love with him. I instinctly knew when he took his last breath, but that didn't stop me from stroking his cheek and admiring this perfect little being we had created. Yes, his life was short, but it was far from meaningless. Leonardo taught us the value of life. He made us parents. He taught us the meaning of unconditional love and made me realize that love continues to grow, even when your loved one is gone.

When I tell people my son died, most feel uncomfortable - 'OMG dead baby alert, what do I do?'. But when I think about Leo, I don't think about him as a dead baby. I think of him as my son, a son that has taught me so much and blessed me with his existence. What I went through is, of course, increadibly hard and painful...but it's not a heartbreaking story. Quite the contrary; it's a story about the deepest and purest love imaginable.