The baby had been born too early. Before the lungs could breathe on their own, before the baby could live outside the womb. The baby was a girl. She had died only moments after birth, in her mother's arms, as the mother had requested.
When they called me into the room, she still held her, bundled in a newborn blanket adorned with blue and purple elephants. The father hovered over them, his hip pressed against the side rail of the hospital bed, looking concerned in equal parts for his baby girl and for his exhausted wife, whose body had forced her to go through the grueling labor process despite her knowing the baby wouldn't survive.
"I think we're ready," the mother said. The team had given them the option to either leave the baby in the room when the mother was discharged or have me take the baby before they left. They had decided to have me take the baby. They said they couldn't bear to be the ones to leave her. I'd told them to take as much time as they needed, and to let me know when they were ready.
"Okay," I said, pausing in case they changed their mind. I wanted to give them that space. I could do that, at least. I had been feeling so helpless against their grief-struggling with what to do or say, how to express my sympathy without it seeming trite. Earlier, I had said, "I'm sorry for your loss." I had regretted the words instantly. Despite my good intentions, the phrase had felt so cliched, so impersonal. I knew that no words could lessen the unexpected heartbreak of losing their little girl. But still, I wished there was something I could say, or do, that might make a small difference. Finally, I said, "If you're sure you're ready, can I put the baby in the bassinet? Or would you rather do it?" The bassinet had wheels. I'd use it to transport the baby to the cold room.
As the mother held out the bundle to me, the father began fumbling with his cell phone, trying to load the camera feature.
"Do you want me to take a family picture first?" I asked.
The father said yes, and at the same moment, the mother said no.
I waited, giving them a moment to process each other's responses. Then I offered, "I could take a picture of just dad and baby." He nodded, taking the baby from mom. He held her proudly in his arms as I took the picture.
The mother watched us, and I recognized the look of longing that crossed her face. So, I cautiously suggested, "If you'd like, I can take one more. A picture of all three of you. And if you don't like it, you can delete it." The mother thought about it for a moment, and then nodded, handing me her cell phone. I angled the first picture so that only the bundle could be seen and not the baby inside, lovingly held by the parents gazing down upon her. In the next picture, I angled it so that the baby's small hand was visible, peeking just outside the blanket.
"One more," I said. In this one, the baby could be fully seen. In some ways, not resembling a full-term baby, but in others, painfully so. The smallest eyelids, closed sweetly. The curled and impossibly tiny fingers, ending in even impossibly tinier fingernails. The perfect little ears framing cheeks that promised to be chubby if she'd have been given more time to grow.
The pain was palpable in the energy of the room. The pain of the loss that they had already gone through, and the pain of the goodbye that was about to come.
The mother looked up at the father. Their eyes met, shining with shared grief. And despite the pain, the love shone so obviously between them. And their baby girl, still there for just a little longer, nestled comfortably between them.
This was the last time they would all be together.
These were the last few moments they would hold each other as a family.
I knew then there was nothing I could say or do that would ease their pain. But I could take this picture. I could capture this moment.
Just one more.