Long, long before we ever knew Cody, we loved him. Before we ever saw him, with his chubby cheeks and shiny, black hair, we loved him. Cody is my son, my oldest son's little brother, my youngest son's big brother, my parents' grandson. . . . But we don't get to hug him and kiss him and sing to him and tell him we love him.

“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”
:: Kahlil Gibran

We will never see him laugh in a game of Peek-a-boo. We will never hear him cry to be picked up after a long nap. We will never see him learn to crawl, to walk, to talk, to write, to read. We will never hear him say "I love you!"

On Friday, August 13, 1999, Cody died in utero, three days past his due date. Though I in no way fit the "profile," I had a complete/massive placental abruption that caused my sweet little baby to suffocate. He had no oxygen. Our tie was broken. The doctors told us Cody probably died within minutes of the abruption, that it happened suddenly and that there was absolutely no way for us to have prevented it.

This Web site is for Cody. And for me and my family and friends and others of you out there who have lost a child or know someone who has. Keeping Cody's memory alive is extremely important to me because the more people know about Cody, the longer his memory remains.

More than seven years have passed since Cody was born still. His big brother, Ryan, is now 14, and they now have two little brothers, Lucas, who is three, and Atticus, who was born September 25, 2006.

Our hearts continue to mend. But we will never, ever forget.

Jo Hawke

Cody's tiny feet