Maxwell | A Place for My Stuff

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grief, loss, Maxwell, parenthood, SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome

Today marks the seventh anniversary of my son Maxwell’s death. He died in his sleep at a church day care around lunchtime on Monday, Aug. 14, 2006. He was two and a half months old.

The days after Max’s death were a blur of funeral arrangements, visits from friends and family, and lots of food. By Sunday, the last guests had departed, and my wife and I drove to Powell Gardens, a sprawling nature sanctuary about 45 minutes south of Kansas City. We sat on a bench overlooking the gardens and wrote down in a journal everything we adored about our son: how he looked, how he felt, his growing array of baby expressions and baby sounds. Then we walked a meandering path through the beautifully manicured trees and bushes, which were tended by scores of little yellow butterflies. We’d noticed those butterflies on previous walks over the week, as we tried to make sense of what had happened and contemplated what we would do with the rest of our lives. My wife saw them as a sign – God had put Maxwell in charge of the smallest butterflies, and Max was sending them down to us as a way of saying that he was okay and in Heaven now.

On the one-year anniversary of Max’s death, my wife prepared a large care basket for the workers at the day care, who had grieved with us and had done some nice things to honor Max, including building a small memory garden outside his classroom. My wife’s basket was filled with flowers and food and other goodies, and its centerpiece was a large, ceramic sculpture of a baby angel. We brought the basket to the day care on Aug. 14, and had a tearful reunion with Max’s teachers. They told us they wanted to put the angel sculpture near the garden arbor they had built in our son’s memory.

The next day, we got a phone call from the manager of the day care. As she walked into work that morning, she glanced toward Max’s garden and saw that the angel was covered with dozens of little, yellow butterflies.

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babies, fatherhood, loss, Max, Maxwell, parenting, SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome

Seven years ago today, our first son, Maxwell, was born just before midnight at the end of a very long day at Overland Park Regional Medical Center. We took him home three days later and were amazed at how old he seemed, already mugging for the camera during an impromptu photo shoot in his new crib. Sitting in his bouncy seat on the kitchen table, he often watched us intently, as if he were quietly taking in our dinnertime conversation. We wondered what he was thinking.

Our summer with Max was something of a blur, as the first few weeks usually are with a newborn. I remember a string of 100-degree days, having to wait until the early evening to push his stroller around the neighborhood, Max staring up at the big trees and listening to the eerie buzz of the cicadas. I remember watching him sleep through during a July 4th fireworks display, walking him around the yard so he could feel the cool blades of grass on his feet, I remember letting our dog, Keiko, give him a lick on the face. I remember holding Max and reading him Goodnight Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, Sports Illustrated, The New Yorker, and anything else to lull him to sleep.

That summer ended for us on August 14. Max went down for a nap at day care around noon that day and he never woke up. The medical examiner called it Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, which is a common diagnosis when a child under the age of one year dies for no apparent reason. Max was just shy of 11 weeks old.

My wife and I have grieved, struggled to understand, and blamed ourselves for Max’s death. Seven years have passed, and the pain is not as strong, but it is still there. Today, however, is one when we celebrate the time we had with our first son. We will remember Max by releasing some balloons into the sky as we do on his birthday every year, and as we did at his funeral.

Below are a few of my favorite photos of Max. Happy Birthday, little Boo. Mommy and Daddy miss you!