Here, Cheryl describes the family's final hours with Billy, the son they lost to SIDS, and the hope that began to bloom just hours after his death.

Our beloved son, Billy Darnell, Jr, was born November 1, 2007, in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Often called "Little Billy" by Mommy and Daddy, or "B" by his two-year-old big sister, Avery, he was our second most precious gift from God. Billy lived a healthy, happy, full five months before suddenly and silently slipping away while asleep in his crib Saturday morning, March 29, 2008. He died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). There were no warning signs, and there remains no explanation for the heartbreaking death of our little boy. With so many hopes and dreams shattered, we simply couldn’t imagine how life could possibly continue. We moved back to Dallas, Texas, to heal near family. Below are the details of our story.

March 28, 2008, was a typical Friday for us. Avery (2 yrs) and Billy (5 mos) had just awakened from their naps, and we decided to go out for one of our favorite dinners- chicken fajitas at On the Border!

While Avery and I were exploring the ladies’ room as part of Avery's new-found fascination with potty training, Bill was playing with Billy and watching our son charm every waitress who passed by. He vividly recalls Billy grasping Daddy's thumbs while he rocked him playfully in his infant seat. Bill had no idea at the time that it would be the last interaction he would have with his son, the last time he would hear Billy heartily giggle at Daddy. 

When we arrived home, Bill set Billy in his carseat in the doorway of the bathroom so the baby could laugh at his sister playing with bubbles in the bathtub. After bathtime, Avery wanted to sit in her pink chair for the bedtime story, and Billy cooed along as he laid on his Boppy beside her.  

Bill had eagerly set to work downstairs emailing photos to family from our Easter weekend trip to Moab, Utah, and Montrose, Colorado. We got some of the very best shots of the four of us overlooking the Canyonlands National Park and Arches National Park. We didn't realize at the time just how much we would later treasure this precious family time together.

After getting Avery in bed, it was Billy’s turn. On my lap in our “big blue chair” (as we affectionately called our nursery recliner), he tried to wriggle away from getting his fingernails clipped. I didn’t want Billy to scratch his head and face while he slept. The poor little guy rarely sported an unmarked forehead. I rocked and sang to my little boy as he nursed in the quiet, peaceful, dim light of his room. He fell asleep for a little while in my arms, and I cherished that quiet time with my sweet baby as I always did. Soon Billy awoke, wanting to snuggle close and nurse a little bit more. It was quite a long, drawn-out feeding session. But now I’d give anything to have held him all night. I gently placed him in his crib where he gazed with those beautiful blue eyes at me and sucked on his paci while I prayed over him.  

Bill came to bed fairly late after sending the photos out to family. He checked on Billy and Avery at 1:30 AM, admiring his soundly sleeping little ones.  

At 5:30 AM, Avery cried out wanting to go potty. “Oh great,” I thought, just wanting to turn over and go back to sleep. When I asked her if she “really” needed to go, she whispered, “Yes! Get a M-a-M. And ‘sitcher.’” She did in fact use the potty, but I told her the M&M and sticker would have to wait until morning. 

Just forty-five minutes later, around 6:15 AM, Billy awoke crying. Following his schedule, I tried to calm him without feeding him. He quickly closed his eyes and sucked on his paci again, and I quietly slipped out. The crying started again, and after ten minutes, I returned to settle him down. He took his paci again and grabbed my wrist with his little hands as I stroked his soft, sweet face with my hand. He looked absolutely precious and peaceful. As I slowly pulled my hand from his grip, I replaced it with his little, soft, blue doggie blankie that he liked to hold. Billy cried a few more minutes, and I waited to go back to sleep until I knew he had calmed down and gone back to sleep.

Avery awoke around 8:00 AM, so I got her up for our family tradition of Saturday cartoons in the bed with Mommy and Daddy. Bill recalls awakening to the sound of Avery munching her Cheerios next to him. Then I went to awaken Billy to nurse.

The most devastating moment of my life awaited me.

There lay my son, with the appearance that something was horribly wrong. My active little guy, the light sleeper who would often awaken as I tiptoed nearly silently into his room to check on him, did not stir at the creak of the door, the sound of my footsteps, or even at my desperate cry of his name. Picking him up and embracing his lifeless body protectively against my chest, I ran, shocked and frantic, into our bedroom.

Bill recalls the next moment as his horrific nightmare. He remembers me crying out, “Bill!  Bill!  He won't wake up!  Billy won't wake up!” The sight of my terrified face and the limp, ragdoll-like appearance of our son was imprinted forever in his mind. He jumped out of bed and ran toward me and Billy, screaming, "Billy!  Billy!", his desperate attempt to wake our son.

Bill then called 911, and I began administering CPR as Bill ran to unlock the front door for the paramedics. He then rushed back upstairs and took over trying to revive Billy. In my memory, in efforts to not frighten Avery, I was calmly but repeatedly praying, “Jesus, please…Jesus, please,…Jesus, please.” Bill recalls it very differently. “That’s part of my trauma, Cheryl,” he says. “You were SCREAMING it." I had no idea. Nothing short of guardian angels and the hand of God Himself can explain how Avery sat up on our bed through all of this, slowly and peacefully snacking on her Cheerios.

The paramedics arrived a few minutes later, and Bill remembers the fireman rushing into the room to take Billy. Bill faced the ultimate act of "letting go," having to place the hope of the life of his son in the hands of this trusted stranger. The paramedics did all they could to save our son. They rushed him to Memorial North in Colorado Springs, the hospital where we, just five months earlier, had joyfully given birth to our precious Billy. The emergency room I had entered, joyfully expectant to deliver our son, was the emergency room we again entered to meet the doctor who humbly declared, "Your son did not make it."

We entered a sterile room, with our son bundled in the same kind of soft blanket that he was swaddled in as a newborn. Only this time, he was lying lifeless on a bed in the middle of an empty room, not in a softly padded basinet labeled with the exciting statistics of his birth weight and length. Completely unaware that anything was wrong, Avery looked upon her brother and exclaimed, “Oh….B!  B’s sleeping!” A kind nurse took Avery to another room where our good friend Angela eventually arrived to occupy her with some semblance of “normalcy.”

We spent the next few hours holding our son, sobbing, and trying to make sense of what was actually happening, or rather, what had already happened. Bill held Billy for most of our time with him, rocking him in utter disbelief and consuming sadness. 

I hardly could hold Billy. My baby who naturally cradled in my arms laid straight and stiff, as the pain of my engorged breasts reminded me every minute of my inability to ever nurse my son again. I just had the most difficult time holding what didn't even seem like my Billy. With his spirit already with Jesus, it wasn't my Billy anymore.  

Myriads of people came in and out of the room: nurses, detectives, chaplains, cops, other hospital personnel….not one whom we knew at all. Then two pastors from our church arrived. We'd never met them before, but the next several minutes seemed like we were among lifelong friends.

It may seem unbelievable, but this is where healing and hope first entered our story.

The words and encouragement spoken by these men were clearly not just empty platitudes, or convincing theories spouted by well-spoken men to make us feel better. I remember thinking then, as I still think now, “How in the world was I able to stop crying for a moment, and even smile at one point, as I held the chilling, stiffening body of my lifeless son in my arms?”

I certainly didn’t know it at the time, but this was the planting of the seed that has grown into who we are and what we do as SIDS America.

When it was time to say our final goodbye to Billy, it was so tough to leave, to go home without him. With our hearts shattered by the knowledge that we were about to kiss his little chubby cheeks for the very last time, we asked for a moment alone with our sweet son. Standing on either side of him, we laid our hands upon his little body, told him how much we loved him and how much joy he brought us. We prayed over him and thanked God for the time we had with him.

We then reunited with Avery, who was coloring and watching cartoons. We sat down with her and explained that Mommy and Daddy were okay, but that we were very sad. We told her that Billy could not come back home with us. He was with Jesus now, which is a great place to be and it makes us happy to know he's safe. At two years old, she seemed very concerned to see us cry. We assured her that it was okay to cry, that we really were going to miss B, but we were going to be okay, and she would be okay.

After answering the detective's questions and filling out paperwork, we just wanted to go back home. We made arrangements for Avery to go play with friends. Our dear friend Angela, who took care of Avery at the hospital, drove us home. In shock, feeling lonely and sad, still trying to process, and unwilling to accept what had just happened, we laid in our bed in the quietness of our home, waiting for our family to arrive from out of state.

Ours is just one account illustrating the devastation SIDS brings to families. We launched Little BIlly's SIDS Support, now SIDS America, on Billy's first birthday, November 1, 2008. Time has begun to heal our wounds, though it seems it will never dim our memories. Please know that while we still often feel intense sorrow in our hearts, we do not grieve without hope. We are healing, and God has already begun to reveal His greater purposes through Billy's death to us. God is restoring our joy, and He has been with us every step of our journey. He is faithful, and He has instilled within us a peace that passes all understanding. We are incredibly blessed, and we want to share the blessings and hope we've been given.