Late in the afternoon, a nurse practitioner using very blunt language practically ordered me to get to Toronto "immediately." I raced home to grab my passport, but on the sidewalk, my knees buckled. "How could this be happening?" I had held Pearl two days before and she was doing so well in every respect. I jumped into a cab, not knowing which airport or which airline I was going to, still trying to convince myself that a slim chance still existed that this would be a close call, and that the doctors would turn this around. However, my body began to have visceral reactions. "We are trying to stabilize her for transport to another hospital for emergency surgery," followed by "we are unable to stabilize her, get here immediately."

Frantically, I scrambled like a madman to get back to Toronto from New York. Barely making it on to the last flight out, I landed in seat 15B of a half empty plane drenched in sweat, unable to sit still; in my mind, I kept repeating the words "please not this," in my hands I held my head as if to prevent my brain from exploding. I was unable to think of anything but my tiny, defenseless daughter. It was the longest 55 minute flight I ever took.

As soon as the plane landed, my Blackberry vibrated. A foreboding text message from my sister contained no information about little Pearl, but said: "The Police will meet you at the airport and bring you to the hospital." That text message ended all my hope in one instant. There could never be a good reason for a police escort in such a circumstance. The police whisked me downtown, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Doctors knew they were down to minutes for poor little Pearl and wanted to get me there "in time." But little Pearl was pronounced dead just after 10 p.m. My sister and brother-in-law were with her at the time. A moment later, I burst into the Neo Natal Intensive Care Unit, fighting an overwhelming sense of panic, but by then it was all over. It seemed like the entire staff was just standing there waiting for me to come through the door. For the first time, I did not stop to "scrub in". I was lead to Pearl's incubator, where a crowd of nurses had formed. Temporary screens gave some measure of privacy. My reaction though when I saw the screens was gloomy: screens up meant either a mom was breast feeding, or a baby was very sick. These were bad news screens. Just like the bad news phone calls, and bad news police escort that preceded them. I stared at Pearl, bundled up and looking as though asleep, lying in my sister's arms. I realized she was gone and that in that instant I had lost my daughter. I just stood there staring at her. It was incomprehensible. I know the whole time we spent in NICU after I arrived was extremely brief, but when my gaze fell on Pearl's peaceful, still face time stopped having meaning.

I immediately went on auto pilot. The next few days I tried to understand what had happened, how this "silent killer" called "NEC" for necrotizing enterocolitis had killed Pearl in just a few hours. The more I tried, the less anything made sense to me. 28 and a half week old preemies have a 98% chance of survival. That very statistic had given me so much hope on April 19. Now I felt that it served only to mock me. Heartbreak spread quickly. Only seven months before my mother, Pearl, was killed by another acronym, ALS, the dreaded, incurable Lou Gherig's Disease. The death of baby Pearl who had been named after my mother thus hit us all hard; my father especially, as he repeated, almost muttering the words that he had now lost "two Pearls." My brave sister and brother-in-law had been seated next to Pearl before my arrival, watching one futile, invasive medical intervention after another, until finally there was nothing left that could be done. I could be consoled knowing that they were and that she was not alone, I knew they had suffered greatly from the experience. Pearl, as it turned out, was lost to us hours before her official death. NEC had advanced so rapidly, her entire body was filled with infection. No amount of antibiotics could save her. From the first moment it was identified, she did not stand a chance. Last Friday she was buried along side her grandmother, in what had to be one of the most sad and most unexpected internments imagineable.

In twelve days of life, Pearl did bring joy to us. She was adorable, and strong. She was responsive and quite happy to be taken on out, even as early as Day 3, for a "kangaroo cuddle" on my chest. I can't imagine that I'll ever forget this experience. The pictures you see above were taken the last time I held her, on Sunday April 29.