It was a Sunday morning at the end of September when Marianne snuck to the downstairs bathroom to take a test. It was positive. Everything we had ever dreamed about was finally happening. Instantly, we felt like we became Charlie’s parents.

Weeks before, we had walked the beach on our honeymoon discussing baby names - one for a girl and one for a boy. Although we always knew that if we had a daughter, Charlotte would be called Charlie.

Our pregnancy was picture-perfect, aside from the usual morning sickness and expected aches and pains. Each appointment, scan, and week went by flawlessly. Charlie was growing perfectly and taking the most adorable sonogram pictures. Her kicks were strong and constant. She already knew the sound of our voices and whose hand was whose. She was playful and feisty, and she loved buffalo chicken and ice cream. In the final weeks, she began measuring a bit big - Callahan genes, of course. We called her “Chunky Charlie”. A chunky baby is a healthy baby, right?

Charlotte “Charlie” Marion Krol was due on June 9th, 2022. After 40 weeks and 4 days of waiting to meet her, we headed to Stony Brook University Hospital the morning of June 13th with signs of labor. We couldn’t wait to start loving on her in person. We were already scheduled for an induction the following day, but with contractions beginning and Charlie measuring large, we were admitted early.

Labor was long and exhausting. Marianne pushed for nearly four hours. Despite the slow progress and concerns about Charlie’s size, no one escalated the situation or made a call for a C-section. When her water broke, meconium was present - a warning sign that Charlie was in distress. But no urgency followed.

Eventually, we made the decision ourselves to move forward with a C-section, trusting that this would bring Charlie safely into the world.

Marianne was prepped for surgery, and I was brought into the OR as things got underway. I remember hearing someone say “Delivery at 10:13,” followed by silence. No crying. But then - a sound. A small cry from Charlie. It would be the only one we would ever hear.

We held hands, cried tears of relief, and thought the hardest part was behind us. But just moments later, a doctor approached and said Charlie would be going to the NICU. They paused her bed beside me so I could tell her I loved her and rub her cheek.

Time passed. We kept asking for updates, but were told again and again that she was just getting settled. “Soon,” they said. “In 30 minutes.” Then an hour. Then no clear answers.

Eventually, a doctor came in and said words we’ll never forget: “We think it would be best if you came bedside.”
From that moment on, our world crashed down. Marianne’s nurses unplugged her monitors and wheeled her bed through the hallway to the NICU. We were brought just outside Charlie’s room, where we stayed screaming - crying - helpless - watching through the glass as doctors and cardiologists frantically worked to save her. 

Months later, we learned the timeline of Charlie’s short life here on earth. 

At 10:38 AM, she was placed on CPAP. Her heart rate was unusually high (around 175 bpm), and she required increasing oxygen support. But even as her condition declined, no urgent action was taken.

By 11:30 AM, Charlie’s heart rhythm began to show dangerous changes - wide complex beats and ST elevation, both signs of serious cardiac stress. Still, her care plan didn’t change. These abnormal rhythms continued for over 90 minutes without escalation of care.

Around 1:00 PM, while undergoing a head ultrasound, Charlie became bradycardic - her heart rate dropped dangerously low. But even then, no chest compressions were started. No epinephrine was given. When cardiology was called at 1:10 PM, they were told that although Charlie appeared to be in cardiac arrest, life-saving measures had still not begun. This delay is far outside standard neonatal protocol.

By the time a cardiologist arrived at 1:25 PM, CPR had finally started - but it was too late. Charlie had already gone far too long without oxygen. Her bloodwork told the full story: a pH of less than 6.88, a bicarbonate level below 6, and a lactic acid reading of 19.9 - nearly 10 times the normal level. These values indicated profound, prolonged oxygen deprivation.

Despite over an hour of resuscitation, she passed away in our arms at 3:02 PM. 

An autopsy later confirmed: severe hypoxic-ischemic encephalopathy (HIE) - brain injury caused by lack of oxygen - along with amniotic fluid aspiration. Both conditions can be survivable, especially when recognized and treated quickly. But Charlie wasn’t given that chance. 

When her autopsy report arrived, we reached out with questions - hoping to speak with those who had been there, who had seen her, who might help us understand what went so wrong.

We were informed that there would be no further meetings, and that “any doctor” could explain her results. When we showed up to the scheduled meeting, not a single doctor who had cared for Charlie was present. The staff who were there read from her chart and told us they couldn’t speak to what happened beyond that, they weren't there. Instead, patient advocacy told us “it’s time to move on.”

When we asked about one specific note - a nurse stating they “ checked on her” - we wanted to know why Charlie was left alone and unmonitored-  we were told, “you can’t believe everything you read in the notes.”. These weren’t answers. They were deflections. And they left us even more broken & more confused.

We share Charlie’s story not to point fingers, but to raise awareness. About birth trauma. About the importance of listening to mothers. About what can go wrong when warning signs are ignored or action is delayed. Charlie deserved better. She deserved swift, skilled care. She deserved a fair chance at life.

And while we can’t rewrite what happened that day, we will continue to speak her name, tell her story, and fight for the change that could save another baby - another family - from this kind of heartbreak.

Charlie should be here. And because she’s not, we’ll make sure her story is.