Two Months In

Grief, gratitude, and the people who showed up.

For years, I have jokingly imagined and practiced my winning Oscar or Grammy speech — thanking my dog, my husband, my mom, coffee, maybe throwing in a joke or two, and of course, keeping it short and sweet before the orchestra starts playing me off the stage.

What I never practiced though, was how to tell people that my son died. And even today, I don’t think I’ve figured it out.

I am still writing Teddy’s story, and I look forward to sharing it. But first, I want to take a moment to thank my support system, and give you glimpses into the past two months.

If you’re reading this and wondering what happened, let me paraphrase. On November 1st 2024, after 30 hours of labor and an emergency c-section, our son, Theodore Joseph Latorre was born. He died 28 minutes later, after his heart stopped beating. We still don’t know why.

The hours and days that followed were dark. I was recovering from major surgery, but I was also coming to terms with the fact that my son — the one I grew and carried for nine months — was gone. Just a few hours after he died, I found myself Googling “adoptions near me,” determined to leave the hospital with a baby in a car seat.

Grief is weird.

So many thoughts swirled in my head: should I go back to work on Monday? If I do, I’ll have to first ask my boss for my job back. Can I have a glass of wine yet? Does that make me an alcoholic? Will my family want to meet their grandson/nephew, even though he won’t open his eyes?

A few hours of restless sleep later, I sent a flurry of texts — some to my Pilates studio, some to former coworkers, some to friends in faraway countries, and even to an ex-boyfriend. “Hey, baby didn’t make it. I’m recovering from an emergency surgery. I’ll reach out in a few days.” The words felt cold, almost callous, but I wanted to be unemotional, matter of fact. I was still in shock, unsure how people would react.

Grief feels like being thrust into a club you never wanted to join, a club whose members you can’t even identify. I was terrified of telling people, afraid they’d minimize my loss. Because Teddy was a baby, and there were no tangible memories of him beyond the time I carried him, I worried people would think my grief was small and insignificant. That they’d offer a quick, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” and move on.

But then, the messages came flooding in. Texts, Facebook DMs, DoorDash gift cards, hospital visits, voicemails. It was overwhelming, but I felt seen. People were validating my loss, they were sharing in my pain.

I don’t remember much from my days in the hospital. What I do remember is who showed up. Family, friends, doctors — hugging, listening, and sitting in silent solidarity. I remember my sisters arriving, asking to hold their nephew.

When we got home a few days later, cards were already in our mailbox. Handwritten letters from friends and family telling us of their sadness and love. I felt held.

In the days that followed, as we made cremation and funeral arrangements, a meal train was set up by a cousin. Home-cooked meals on our front porch every few days felt like hugs on days when I could barely stand.

A moment that stands out: we received a knock at the door. My family had left, so the house was feeling empty and quiet. A delivery driver stood on our steps holding a bouquet. “Flowers for Theodore?'“ she asked. It was the first time I had heard his name spoken by a stranger, a moment I will never forget.

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The past two months have been filled with family, friends, food, holidays, movie nights, IRL and virtual support. I am so incredibly grateful to each person who has reached out — who has called, sent a text, delivered fuzzy blankets, cooked meals. Thank you for sharing in our pain.

Thank you for asking how we are doing, knowing that we are heartbroken, devastated, and lost — but opening the door for us to talk if needed. Thank you for encouraging a sense of normalcy and calm. For sending Instagram posts about celebrity gossip, and for making us laugh even on the hardest days.

I have so much more to say, letters to write, and stories to tell. But none of it would be possible without my community. To my family, friends, former coworkers, Lagree instructors, baristas, mail carriers, dog trainers, neighbors, doctors — thank you.

With love,

Teddy’s Mom, Savannah