Get a great job—check. Meet an amazing man—check. Dream wedding—check. Buy a house, get a dog—check, check. Life felt like it was unfolding perfectly, one joyful milestone after another. Next on the list: have a baby. A positive pregnancy test after just one month of trying? Done. Life can feel effortless, like everything is falling into place. And sometimes, it is… until it isn’t.
At our 20-week anatomy scan, I was calm and excited, looking forward to seeing our little boy’s tiny fingers, toes, and face—the simple joys of pregnancy. But the next morning, my phone rang. It was my OB’s office, scheduling another ultrasound because they “had a hard time seeing his heart.” My doctor was out of the country, my husband had just left on a trip, and the office staff offered no explanation. I brought my mom and a close family friend to my second appointment, trying to brace myself for what might come.
“Do you know why you’re here?” the ultrasound tech asked as she set up the machine. “Oh, just a second look at his heart?” I replied confidently. Why would I worry? Nothing bad had ever happened. Her response shattered that illusion. “No,” she said gently. “Your baby has an abnormal heart, stomach, and kidney. I’m sorry no one told you sooner—I assume your husband would have canceled his trip if he had known. The doctor will be in shortly.”
I cried through the entire ultrasound but kept myself together for the amniocentesis. When I called my husband, I broke the news through tears, and together we promised to do whatever it took for our son. Our love, even in fear, held strong.
In the months that followed, we met every neonatologist, pediatric cardiologist, and toured the NICU as many times as possible. Wayne’s heart would require surgery, but for now, it was stable. His cardiologist believed the surgery would be needed around three months of age. Rick and I oscillated between optimism, grief, fear, and hope. Every appointment intensified our anxiety, but we clung to the belief that we would bring our baby home, no matter the obstacles.
At 38 weeks, my doctor scheduled a c-section. On January 23, 2018, at 7:55 a.m., Wayne Michael Watson entered the world. He cried immediately, a perfect, healthy sound. The NICU team took him for observation, but hours later, I held him for the first time, skin to skin. Tears streaming, I whispered, “I am so happy!” Our son was here, and for a moment, it felt like everything was right.
Then, at 3 a.m., a NICU doctor called our room. Wayne’s breathing was struggling, and he needed to be intubated. The morning passed in a blur as we stayed by his side. His oxygen levels dropped, and reality hit like a freight train: I was not taking my baby home. We whispered our love and pride to him, preparing ourselves for the unimaginable.
We reminded him of Grandpa Michael—his namesake—who had passed the year before and would be waiting for him in Heaven. I memorized every detail: the softness of his skin, the tilt of his head. Rick changed his diaper, washed his hair, and a chaplain baptized him. By lunchtime, it was clear he had little time left. The staff suggested moving him to our postpartum room, free from wires and tubes, so we could say goodbye.
The walk back felt endless, each step echoing like the rhythm of my breaking heart. I couldn’t look ahead, only straight at the ceiling to keep from collapsing under the weight of grief. When Wayne was placed in our arms, skin to skin, he sighed, as if relieved to be just with us. For nearly an hour, we held him, kissed him, and cherished every second as a family of three. Then he was gone, and the world lost its light. A piece of me will never return.
Wayne had a special spark. If charisma could be captured in a one-day-old baby, he had it. He looked just like his daddy, opening his eyes only for him. One of his doctors later told me, through tears, that Wayne had touched more people in his single day on Earth than many do in a lifetime.
Coming home from the hospital was surreal. Grief was overwhelming, but it also brought me closer to God, to the presence of Heaven. We found comfort in imagining Wayne with Grandpa, together and safe. A small miracle confirmed this: while we were at the hospital, my uncle toured the USS Alabama, where Grandpa had served in WWII. Among the names on a plaque, directly beneath Grandpa Michael’s was a sailor named Wayne. I wept, certain it was a sign.
In the months that followed, Wayne continued to send signs. His birthday, 1/23, appeared everywhere—numbers on clocks, license plates, even subtle patterns in the world. One day in my garden, grieving that I would never hear him say “I love you,” I prayed for a sign. Suddenly, our dog led me to a tiny hummingbird resting in the grass. I fed it nectar and held it in my hands. For a brief, magical moment, it felt as though Wayne was there, saying exactly what I needed to hear. Since then, hummingbirds have been a gentle reminder of his presence.
By fall, we were pregnant with Wayne’s sister. Though grief lingered, this pregnancy was wonderfully ordinary. At every doctor’s appointment, I cried at hearing “normal, normal, normal.” On the day of her c-section, I told Rick, “He will be with us—just watch for his signs.” In the OR, as I stared at the ceiling, a small sticker caught my eye: 1-23—Wayne’s birthday. I smiled, comforted, knowing he was watching over us.
Emily Joy was born on June 5, healthy and beautiful. We tell her every day about her brother in Heaven, who loves her deeply and watches over her. We just have to keep an eye open for his signs, little reminders of a love that never fades.
