A JOURNEY OF LOVE, LOSS, AND HOPE

I remember the night it all changed. Shayne was just six days old when a hunter's stray bullet, fired from miles away, pierced through his head while his father held him in his arms. A mother’s worst nightmare came true in an instant. The world, once bright with new life, fell into darkness. From that moment, everything was different. My world was forever altered.

Shayne fought for his life from the very beginning. His eyes, both lost to the damage, left him blind. He was fed through a tube, and we spent months in the ICU, watching our baby struggle, not knowing if he would survive. But against all odds, he lived. He lived for three beautiful, challenging years.

Even though he was blind and needed constant care, Shayne brought light into every room he entered. He had a spirit that defied all the odds stacked against him. He loved music—his playlist was a constant companion, playing 24/7, whether I was with him or when his nurses stayed up through the night to help care for him. His favorite song? "Living on a Prayer." I can still hear it in my heart, a reminder of the strength he carried, even when his body couldn’t.

Our days were full of adventures, even though he couldn’t see the world the way others could. Every Wednesday, we went to an amusement park and on Tuesdays, we went to the public pool. We visited the zoo and museums, and even though he couldn’t see, he felt the world in his own unique way. He cooed and danced when he smelled the elephants, his little hands reaching out to touch the air that carried their scent. When we went to the aviary, he made bird noises, delighting in the sounds and scents around him. He loved the smell of fresh-cut grass, and he’d giggle when he heard the soft chime of wind chimes in the breeze.

But then, on a trick-or-treat night in 2017, everything changed again. Shayne wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed home while his sister, Gabriella and I went out. After the night’s festivities, I hooked him up to his feeding tube, but soon, he threw up. His temperature spiked to 105°F. I called an ambulance and rushed him to the hospital, but by the time we arrived at Children’s Hospital, we learned he had bacterial meningitis for the third time. Three days later, we were told he had no brain activity. We made the heartbreaking decision to remove him from the breathing tube on November 1st, 2017. Shayne died in my arms, in the arms of his father.

The loss was overwhelming. The world became a blur. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. My body, broken by grief, couldn’t even function. I breastfed him until the very end, feeling the weight of each moment, each breath. For two years, while Gabriella was at school, I stared at the wall. I cried. I screamed at God, feeling the weight of losing a child. It was the kind of pain that never quite goes away, the kind that becomes a part of you, woven into your very being.

But somehow, a few years after Shayne’s death, I found my way back. One night, as I scrolled through Facebook, I saw an ad for Seton Hill University. It was an invitation I never expected to find, but I applied. I was accepted, and I went back to school, unsure but hopeful. The university became my escape, a way to reclaim a part of myself that had been buried under layers of grief. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. I needed something outside of motherhood, outside of the heavy grief that had consumed me for so long. I made it onto the Dean’s List every semester. I joined the Social Work Honor Society. I realized that, even in the depths of loss, I could still find purpose, still find my place in the world.

In 2006, I had started working with the homeless, but when Shayne needed my full attention, I took a break from that work. Years later, when I returned to it, I became a mental health counselor. Now, I’m a case manager for supportive housing at a men’s shelter. Helping others—seeing people succeed, seeing them find hope in their own brokenness—fills me with joy. It’s a strange kind of healing, watching others rise when you’ve been knocked down yourself. But in that work, I’ve discovered my own strength, my own resilience. It’s also shown me that I’m not alone. I’ve found community, I’ve found purpose, and I’ve found healing.

And in many ways, my marriage has grown stronger too. We’ve learned to weather storms together, to support one another in ways we never expected. Grief has a way of pushing people apart or bringing them closer, and somehow, we’ve learned to walk this path together, hand in hand.

I keep Shayne’s memory alive in every way I can. In our local park, there’s a swing and a bench. When I visit, I touch the swing’s chains and know that he’s there with me, in the wind, in the earth beneath my feet, in the soft light of the setting sun. It’s in these quiet moments that I feel closest to him. I tell his story to anyone who will listen. I share about my beautiful boy—how he lived, how he fought, how his life mattered. I post about him on social media, spreading his light to those who may not have known him but who can still carry his memory.

Shayne’s life, though short, gave me a different perspective on the world. It taught me to value what truly matters: love, kindness, and compassion. People came forward during our hardest moments—donating, reaching out, offering support—and their kindness has given me faith in humanity. I know that when the world feels dark, there are still people who will shine their light, just as Shayne did. I carry that light with me, every day, as a reminder that we can still find good in the world, even when it feels like it’s slipping away.

But even with all that, my journey is far from over. There’s still so much work to do. I need to spread awareness about the dangers of accidents, particularly those involving stray bullets. I need to ensure that the world understands the struggles of families with medically fragile children. Shayne’s story needs to be told—not just for his memory, but for the countless others like him.

Shayne attended pre-school at the Western Pennsylvania School for the Blind, an incredible institution. There, he was surrounded by love and care, and his teacher, Miss Allison, was a gift to us. She saw him for who he truly was, not defined by his blindness or his medical struggles, but as a child with infinite potential. She treated him with dignity, with respect, and with love. The school gave Shayne the chance to learn and grow in a way that was tailored to his needs, and it was there that I saw the importance of advocacy for children with special needs. The support we received from those educators and the entire community of the school will forever be in my heart.

This journey is about more than just remembering Shayne. It’s about helping others, making sure their voices are heard, raising awareness, and pushing for change in our communities. Every step I take forward is for him. Every person I help through my work, every hand I hold, every life I touch—it’s all because of Shayne. He gave me the strength, the courage, and the motivation to keep fighting, to keep pushing for a better world. His life, his struggles, his love—it’s all still here with me.

I know I will see my son again. I believe that with all my heart. I hold onto that belief with every breath I take. It’s what keeps me going when the pain threatens to swallow me whole. I carry that faith in my heart, knowing that one day, when the time is right, we’ll be reunited. Until then, I will close my eyes and feel him with me. I will live for him. I will live for Gabriella. I will keep moving forward, sharing his memory and his love, because his story isn’t over. His love is with me always, and I know one day we will be together.

Until then, I carry him in my heart, and I carry on. And with every step, I will keep his light shining for the world to see.

I’m Stefanie Iverson—a wife, a mother, a bereaved mother, and a social worker. Each of these roles has shaped the way I see the world and the stories I feel compelled to tell. Writing has been a quiet companion through joy and heartbreak, especially in navigating grief and the resilience that follows. My work is rooted in the lives we live every day—the tender, complicated, and deeply human moments.