I’m sorry, but I didn’t know.

Sep­tem­ber 9, 1984 and it’s about 2:00am. You woke up for an unusual feed­ing, you nor­mally slept through the night. You were such a good baby. There we were, I remem­ber it so well. I’m rock­ing you, you’re drink­ing your bot­tle and I’m talk­ing to you. I was telling you how much I loved you when sud­denly you stopped eat­ing and gave me the biggest most beau­ti­ful smile I had ever seen. You were so pretty. It def­i­nitely was the most pre­cious gift any­one has ever given me. That moment is burned into my mem­ory and when I need it, it shows up. Thank you.

Sep­tem­ber 10, 1984, I’d been to the laun­dry mat so I had clothes all over the liv­ing room. I laid you down for the night, but you didn’t like it and were cry­ing upstairs while I was down­stairs fold­ing away. Your dad’s mom told me about 30 times over the last 6 weeks, “If you don’t let her lay and cry you’re gonna spoil her!” I’d give just about any­thing to have not taken her advice that night. Finally, you stopped cry­ing so I sneaked upstairs to check on you; for over a week I’d had an obses­sion about check­ing to be sure you were breath­ing while sleep­ing. You were fine so I went back to fold­ing clothes.

Sep­tem­ber 11, 1984, 6:30am the alarm goes off. I hit snooze and laid there with your dad until 7:00am. I rolled out of bed and before my foot touched the floor I knew some­thing was wrong. I bolted over to your makeshift bed in our bed­room. I wanted you near me so I had you fixed up in our room. How ironic, I wanted to get to you quickly if you cried dur­ing the night and needed me.

There you were, face down on the flat pil­low I had on top of your baby mat­tress so you’d be com­fort­able. I picked you up and turned you over; imme­di­ately every­thing slowed down to barely mov­ing, it was as if time was lit­er­ally stand­ing still. Our voices got louder and dragged out; our move­ments slowed down so much it’s hard to com­pre­hend even today. It was just like some­thing out of the movies. Time really does stand still.

“Oh my God Rob! Call 911! She’s not breath­ing!” I imme­di­ately started CPR but it was so awk­ward on the water bed, I wasn’t think­ing. I’m pretty sure I tried CPR with you on my lap too. I kept telling myself, “Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm! Think, think, think! You know how to do this! You learned in 10th grade! Oh my God! Stay calm! Don’t panic!” I laid you on the floor alter­nat­ing breaths and tiny lit­tle pumps on your chest; I didn’t want to hurt you. Then as I picked you up, a gur­gling sound! “Yea! I saved you! You’re breath­ing!” No, it was the fluid built up in your lungs. Dev­as­ta­tion set in once again. There’s the fear, I was so afraid. “God, stay calm! You panic, you lose her! Breath!”

I’m still unable to believe how many dif­fer­ent emo­tions, thoughts, and actions or processes a brain can do at the same time. It was so odd how many of them were hap­pen­ing at the same time. All at full capac­ity, at the same time. I was fully aware of every moment, every emo­tion, every action. How is that pos­si­ble? If I hadn’t expe­ri­enced it, I’d think it was impossible.

Your father, your poor father. Stand­ing against the door try­ing to relay infor­ma­tion and instruc­tions between 911 and me. His fear, his panic. I remem­ber feel­ing so sad for him. If I didn’t save you, if I lost you, if I didn’t make you breath again…how would I tell him? “It’s up to me! I have to save you! Breath! Why the hell do you feel like a Stretch Arm­strong doll?”

I should have known it was too late, you’re beau­ti­ful lit­tle face was a gray­ish color, your eye­lids were pur­ply blue just like your lit­tle lips. The pink­ish maroon­ish spots on your face should have told me too. Your fists were so tight I mis­tak­enly thought that was why your lit­tle fin­ger nails were pur­ple. My mis­take. Noth­ing made sense. You couldn’t be dead, that was impos­si­ble. “Breath! Don’t panic! Fast tiny pumps! Breath! This can’t be hap­pen­ing! Let’s wake up now! Let’s wake up! Let’s wake up! Breath! Oh God, please breath Britt! Why do you feel like a Stretch Arm­strong doll?”

I grab you up and rush down­stairs to the couch, breath­ing for you the entire time. How did I not fall down? I didn’t want you to have brain dam­age when the medics got there and made you bet­ter. It seemed like an eter­nity for help to arrive; I’m sure it was just a few short min­utes. I can still see the paramedic’s face. It was obvi­ous later he knew it was too late; you were gone. I screamed at him, “Why are you tak­ing so long? Why are you mov­ing so slow?! HURRY UP! Do some­thing!” He quickly real­ized I hadn’t accepted it yet and jumped into high gear. It didn’t mat­ter though, you were gone. I took you back and just sat there help­less. I’d never felt so much pain. I’d never known a heart could feel that way. I just sat there rock­ing you. Hug­ging you. Kiss­ing your lit­tle face. Telling you how much I loved you and beg­ging you to come back.

I don’t know how long I sat there, and I don’t know when the police arrived. I didn’t care, NO ONE was gonna take my baby from me! Not even the police! Those poor cops, it took them quite some time to con­vince me to let the para­medic take you. I didn’t want to let you go…I’d never get you back. The inevitable hap­pened and I handed my lit­tle bun­dle of beau­ti­ful joy over. I fol­lowed the medic out­side and stood behind the ambu­lance while they placed you inside. The medic climbed in back with you and shut the doors. I stood there, watch­ing the ambu­lance drive away, with my baby girl. Dead.

Life with­out Brit­tany has been a night­mare in more ways than a per­son who has never lost a child could ever know. It was espe­cially hor­rific over the first year after she died. Imag­ine spend­ing a life time try­ing to for­get such a hor­ri­ble day. It’s been tor­tur­ous to say the least. I’ve learned to live with it and feel lucky I don’t feel the pain daily. July 25th through Sep­tem­ber 11th I’m a grouch and even a bit bitchy the closer 9/11 gets. Thank God I have the mem­ory of Brittany’s smile from that night. It’s always been there when I need it.

I hate Stretch Arm­strong Dolls. I hate car­na­tions, the smell reminds of my baby girl in a coffin…I HATE CARNATIONS!

“If I had just 5 min­utes with you today Brit­tany, I’d hold you close, rock you, and give you tiny lit­tle kisses all over. I wish I had known I only had you for 6 weeks and 6 days. I would have cher­ished every sec­ond and done things so dif­fer­ently. Mommy loves you so much. Thank you for the 6 weeks and 6 days. Thank you for being my baby girl. Thank you for the smile. Thank you for watch­ing over your brother and sister.”

“I’m so sorry, but I didn’t know.”

Brit­tany Nic­hole Far­row
July 25, 1984 — Sep­tem­ber 11, 1984
God Bless…I miss you…you are my heart…I will never forget.

Infant CPR, learn it.

SIDS Resources

• SIDS
• Reduc­ing the Risk of SIDS
• SIDS Net­work
• SIDS “Back to Sleep” Campaign
• CDC
• SIDS NY Health