2024 Walk to Remember — Opening Remarks

Good morning, everyone. Welcome. My name is Caitlin, and I am Milo’s mom. I’m here today because on November 7, 2018, doctors told me that my son had passed away and would never breathe a breath of his own outside of me. I was 33 weeks pregnant and planned for an induction just a couple weeks later due to my own medical concerns. He was born the next day, on November 8, 3 pounds, 8 ounces, and 18 inches long. The first time I saw him, face to face, hugged him, kissed him, sang to him, and read him his book, Where the Wild Things Are, he was already gone. 

That’s just one story about Milo. But it’s not the only story. He is not just the tragedy that happened to him. 

 If I may, I’d like to tell you one of those stories. 

 During my pregnancy, I was on home oxygen—a constant, high stream of oxygen through a nasal canula, all day and all night. That plus the high risk pregnancy felt exhausting and overwhelming and inescapable. Only one time a day did I have a reprieve: I could remove the oxygen tube when I was showering. So it started one of those days when I was feeling exhausted and overwhelmed, I got in the shower and I said aloud to Milo, “I really wish my Grandma, your great-Grandma, was here to help me through this.” My late grandmother, Joan, also used home oxygen, and she was still a total spitfire. And I just started telling Milo all about her. 

That time, that break from the oxygen, as I found peace, and he tumbled and kicked and threw his body around and I’d feel an increasingly large fluttering, like a school of fish, so I’d know he was there, listening, that time became ours. Every day I’d pick a friend, an aunt, a cousin, or even our family dog, Hank, and I’d tell Milo all about them. I’d always end with “and they already love you and they can’t wait to meet you.” 

 I don’t say that in sadness because it’s not what came to be. In a lot of ways, that’s exactly how it came to be. When Milo was born, he was already tall, like his dad. He had the same reddish brown hair as my brother, his uncle. His mouth was a mirror image of mine, down to the tiny little cupid’s bow. And sure enough, when I held his feet he had the same funny little toes as my father passed down to me, that his little sister June now has. 

 When I first saw Milo, I saw generations of my family in him. And now, I look in the faces—and feet—of my family, and looking back is Milo. 

 My husband Stuart and my daughter June are here with me today. My dog Hank can’t be trusted in crowds, but I know he’s sending love from home.  

And I look around and I see all of your family members, friends, and other loved ones here standing in support to all of my fellow parents. I thank you, because you all are the people who help us keep our children alive in our hearts and our minds and our everyday lives. 

 To you all who stand in support: You are going to make mistakes. You are going to say the wrong thing. And parents, you know this is true, and you know that sometimes that’s going to hurt, and you understand that as part of our journey. But people like you, who are here today in support and strength, I am so grateful that all my fellow parents of loss have you. It’s the people who say nothing, who don’t try, that hurt us the most. Like all parents, we want to and need to talk about our kids. 

 I think it’s really important to highlight that today isn’t just a walk, but we are here today to say our children’s names. Please, to everyone standing here in support of your family and loved ones who lost their children, the best advice I can offer is to say their names. Acknowledge them even when there isn’t a special day of commemoration. Help us feel the love for our children all around us, because I promise you, there isn’t a day—barely a moment—that goes by that we don’t think of them. Talk about those happy moments, because, like Milo, none of your children are just the tragic thing that happened to them. 

 To my fellow parents, what I hope for you is that you can reach out and find community in this loss, even here today. Since 2018, I’ve met so many people who also lost their children. People who innately understand what I’m going through without me having to explain. People who understand when I’m furious at myself, at the universe, at the doctors, at anyone and everyone. When I’m devasted or traumatized. When I feel guilt, when I find humor, when I laugh and cry at the same time, when I want to talk and when I don’t. I know that these relationships are what dragged me through. They gave me life through understanding, for listening to all the stories I have about Milo and telling me all of theirs. I believe I wouldn’t be here today, wouldn’t have my incredible daughter, June, without finding that community. I can’t hope enough that all of you have the same. As they say in our little terrible club, I’m so sorry for what brought you here today, but I am so glad you came. 

 I want to thank the organizers for letting me talk about Milo today. Please feel free to come to me, especially if you are new to this loss, to talk to me about your child. Today I walk for them and hear their names, too.

Thank you. 

- Caitlin White