The Hardest Moment of My Life
August 21, 2025, 11:05 pm.
My son was delivered, deceased.
The second hardest moment of my life:
Wondering if I would even get to bury him.
Many of you know, and many of you don’t, so I will start from the beginning.
I was hoping that at the end of this month, I would be announcing the arrival of my son in January 2026. Instead, I am announcing the death of my son on August 28, 2025.
And yet, this story also brings me to one of the most grateful moments of my life.
Walking Through Loss
It is time.
You’re there, in a hospital bed.
You’re greeted by polite nurses.
You wait on your husband to arrive—probably speeding to the hospital.
The IV is placed, but they can’t find a vein, so they try again.
The epidural is given, and you hear the scratching of your own vertebrae in your skull.
Vitals are checked every 10 minutes.
Just like any other woman who enters the labor and delivery ward.
You wear the same gown.
You endure the same pains.
You go through the same motions.
But you don’t get the same ending.
You don’t go home with that perfect baby, wrapped and crying with perfect lungs, perfect fingers, perfect toes.
What you get is the unbearable task of trying to bury that perfect baby.
The Questions No Parent Should Have to Ask
I held my son in my arms. Wrapped up just like any other baby.
My son, Jobe.
Legs still numb from medication, wishing my mind and my heart could feel the same.
And I asked myself—
How do I even start?
Who do I call?
Where do I begin?
Then came the words no parent should ever hear:
“Would you like to leave your baby with us?”
No.
“What would you like to do?”
Bury Jobe.
They handed me a pamphlet. Options:
$100–$350 for cremation (not including burial).
$1,200–$2,500 for a burial.
I understand cemeteries must cover costs. But what I don’t understand is this:
How on earth do parents pay for this?
Does the single mom have a trust fund?
Do the newlyweds still have wedding savings?
Does the recently widowed mother have a life insurance policy to fall back on?
A Lifeline
I was “lucky.”
I had a friend who had walked this road before. She connected me with the Archdiocese of Mobile.
After waiting what felt like forever, I received a call back:
“Have your priest send me a message, and we will take care of the rest.”
And they did.
The plot.
The grave marker.
The paperwork.
Everything.
Because of them, Jobe was buried.
My church valued my baby. They said:
“This boy deserves a resting place.”
And they put their money where their mouth was.
But here’s the hard truth:
I was “lucky.”
What About the Others?
How many women and men have had to leave the hospital with empty arms because they needed to make a house payment?
How many have left their child in a facility—never to be seen again—because they couldn’t afford the cost of burial?
Far too many.
So yes, I consider myself lucky. My son was buried.
A Call to Action
If it had not been for two dear friends who had suffered the same loss, Jobe might not have been buried.
That reality weighs heavy on me.
So this is my call:
Talk to cemeteries about setting aside plots for stillborn and miscarried babies.
Ask funeral homes to create a fund to cover caskets.
Encourage memorial sites to help with grave markers.
A single person cannot carry this burden, but a community can.
Because of this, we are going to be creating a 501(c)3 organization to ensure that financial worries are taken care of and the legal matters are handled for the parents who lose their children due to miscarriage or stillbirth.
This is how we step in for “the least of these.”
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”
(Matthew 25:40)
The Most Grateful Moment
August 28, 2025, 10:00 am.
My son has been buried.
Jobe.
