The Sunshine Fund

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The Sunshine Fund The Sunshine Fund seeks to provide small moments of “sunshine” and acts of kindness through gifts to various individuals, charities, organizations, etc.

that contribute to, or directly support, families and children experiencing infant/child loss. The Sunshine Fund was created in memory of Noelle Starr Arpin. Noelle was born on September 13, 2015. In her short week here, and since then, both she and her family benefited from many organizations and individuals, through their support, contributions, and need to keep Noelle's memory alive. While Noelle was in the hospital, her care was provided by top-notch medical providers. Of note, Noelle’s nurses, provided far more to Noelle and her family than they learned in medical school. Because of Noelle’s nurses, she was able to go for a walk outside, dance with her parents in a private space, get a haircut, create beautiful masterpieces of footprints and handprints, read stories, and so much more. Because of this impact, one effort of the Sunshine Fund is to honor and support aspiring pediatric and/or NICU nurses through a scholarship funded in part by the Sunshine Fund. Both Noelle and her Family were also touched by NILMDTS, Molly Bears, Robby’s Rabbits, Anabella’s Angels, Avery's Garden and more. All of these amazing organizations supported Noelle and her family during their most difficult time. The Sunshine Fund commits to making regular contributions to organizations, individuals, etc. that support children and families experiencing loss or illness.

Another wonderful organization to support. We will be going to their event in November. Who would like to join us?
09/22/2026

Another wonderful organization to support. We will be going to their event in November. Who would like to join us?

I got the gift of carrying Noelle for 9+ months. Kevin got the gift of all those extra moments with her once she was her...
09/22/2026

I got the gift of carrying Noelle for 9+ months. Kevin got the gift of all those extra moments with her once she was here.

He got to see her first. He stroked her hair, talked to her, and held her finger. He rode with her in the ambulance and stayed by her side at the new hospital. While I was across town, or tethered to an IV pole in my room recovering from a C-section and the infection I had, Kevin was there with her.

Kevin had a much more front-row view of the devastation of that week, but he also had so many more quiet moments with her. She squeezed his finger countless times—a feeling I will never know. It seems like she reserved that especially for him. A small piece of her that belonged only to him. Something he could hold onto that no one else ever could.

I find myself coming back to Kevin’s words often to help me remember those days with her. As hard as these memories are for me to live through, he did a beautiful job capturing her life and the moments we were given with her in his book.

If you want to know the full story of our seven days with Noelle, from a father’s perspective, I encourage you to read his words. The proceeds from his book go back to NonProfit (infant/child loss or illness).

But more importantly, reading his book will help you know Noelle a little more. And it will give you a glimpse into the experience of a father walking through the unimaginable loss of his child.

Thank you to each of you for reading along this week, for hearing me recount my seven days with Noelle, and for making space for her story. 💛

Sunday.Sometime after midnight, in the very early hours of the morning, a doctor came in to see me. It appeared the shot...
09/20/2026

Sunday.

Sometime after midnight, in the very early hours of the morning, a doctor came in to see me. It appeared the shots had worked. My fever had finally broken, and I was told I could be discharged later that day.

I was excited at the thought of leaving the hospital, but nervous about being away from your care team. We had talked about the possibility of bringing you home with us. We could continue the medications that were keeping you comfortable, while being in a space we had created for you.

But it seemed like you knew I was okay, and you were finally ready.

A few hours later, it became clearer than ever that you were nearing the end. I climbed out of my bed and walked over to the hospital bed beside me, where your dad was sleeping.

I crawled in beside him and woke him. We brought Noelle between us. She took a shallow breath and relaxed into our arms. We waited. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The minutes continued to tick by.

This time, there was no gasp.

Finally, we each kissed her. And then, slowly, we handed her to one of her nurses, who promised to hold her just a little longer for us.

That was the last time we saw or touched Noelle.

Later that day, I climbed into the backseat of my father-in-law’s car carrying a small purple box filled with her keepsakes. No baby buckled into the carseat beside me. No idea what to do or how to move forward.

So I collapsed into the seat and closed my eyes.
In the silence, I searched for Noelle.

I searched for her face, the feeling of her curled up on my chest, the smell of her hair.

I still find myself searching for her in the world around me. And then I see her. Her perfect face. In the 9:13 that appears on the clock. The pink sky at sunrise and sunset. In the soft breeze that takes me back to that September day when we stepped outside the hospital. The cardinal that suddenly swoops across my path. In the big moments and in the ordinary ones. In all the beautiful things…

By Friday night, we were exhausted. We hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night in days, and my greatest fear was drif...
09/19/2026

By Friday night, we were exhausted. We hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night in days, and my greatest fear was drifting off and missing the moment she left us. Noelle’s nurse, Sue, could see how exhausted we were. She heard my fear and offered to sit across the room and hold Noelle while I slept, promising to wake us if anything changed.

When the sun rose Saturday morning, we woke to Sue sitting in the chair, rocking Noelle.

Thursday and Friday were all about squeezing in as many memories as possible. But today was different. Today felt more ordinary. Time seemed to slow down.

That afternoon, we went outside and wandered the courtyard for a few hours. I spent much of the time sitting on a bench with one of Noelle’s nurses, talking about the future. About how we would honor and remember her. We even started planning her first birthday celebration.

Kevin wandered around the courtyard with Noelle tucked into his arms.

For a few hours, the hospital disappeared. There were no monitors. No doctors. No conversations about what was happening. Just a family spending an afternoon together.

When we went back upstairs, I squeezed in a nap while Kevin rested with Noelle on his chest. He read her a story. Quite terribly, I might add. Read-aloud fluency is not his thing. 😆 As he read Mickey and Friends: Kitten Sitters and fumbled his way through multiple words, I burst out laughing.

And there it was. Another ordinary moment. A dad reading to his daughter. A mom laughing at her husband. A baby resting on her daddy’s chest. It was perfect.

Later, Kevin went to sleep and I took over the evening shift, holding Noelle close. Her breaths began to drift farther apart. The pink in her skin slowly faded to blue.
And each time, I found myself counting minutes. One.Two.Three.Four. Then she would gasp and begin breathing again.

I could feel things changing. But Noelle was strong. She was a fighter, and she wasn’t quite ready.

In the quiet darkness, there was nothing left to do. So we just laid there. Her on my chest. My arms wrapped around her. Our hearts beating together, just as they had for nine months…

#

Thursday night, we invited family and a few close friends to meet Noelle—and, ultimately, to say goodbye.After a few sho...
09/18/2026

Thursday night, we invited family and a few close friends to meet Noelle—and, ultimately, to say goodbye.

After a few short hours of sleep, we woke Friday knowing the day would be about making memories.
We were determined that all Noelle would ever know was love. So we pushed the sadness aside and focused on squeezing a lifetime into the time she would give us.

We gave her a bath and her first haircut. We made handprints and footprints and captured the perfect fingerprint that would eventually become the pendant I wear around my neck every day. We sang. We danced. 📷 Your Newborn Photographer came and captured our family exactly as we were. We watched the sunrise through the window beside her bassinet. We snuggled—a lot. We took turns holding her, laying her on our chests and closing our eyes as we drifted off together.

Her breaths slowly began to spread out. Each time, we wondered if it was her last. We would wait. Count the seconds.And then she would take another breath.

The nurses explained that this process was different for every baby. That Noelle was strong. That it might take longer than we had anticipated. After hours of this and seeing the agony on our faces, our nurse offered us an escape.

“Let’s go outside.”

We hadn’t known that was an option. It wasn’t really. But they made it one. Another wonderful gift our nurses gave us.

So we swaddled Noelle, gathered her into our arms, and walked right out the front door of the hospital.

The warmth of the September sun hit our faces. A soft breeze blew. We walked through the courtyard. We took pictures. We watched the sunset with our daughter in our arms. And somehow, she was still giving us more time.

Later, we would bring Noelle back to my room. We had a family dinner, read books, and took turns snuggling throughout the night.

We had been told we were saying goodbye. But Noelle wasn’t finished giving us time. So we squeezed every second we could out of it.

Every breath.
Every cuddle.
Every song.
Every moment.
A lifetime, packed into one Friday.

Thursday. Noelle had finished rewarming in the early morning hours. After three days of cooling, her body was finally re...
09/17/2026

Thursday. Noelle had finished rewarming in the early morning hours.

After three days of cooling, her body was finally returning to its normal temperature. She was scheduled for two tests that would help the doctors understand her brain function and the extent of the damage.

Your dad had stayed with you the entire night—holding your hand, watching you, and watching every response as your body slowly warmed.

When he came to me that morning and told me about some of the responses he had seen, I did my best to hold onto hope. Convincing myself that you were coming home.

The cooling treatment had kept us from being able to hold you. For three days, I could only touch your hand, stroke your hair, and kiss your sweet face.

But now, there was nothing in the way.

So I held you.

And it was the best feeling I had ever experienced. I had carried you for 40 weeks and 6 days. The two of us, together, for all those months. And then, so suddenly, I couldn’t feel you. Couldn’t hold you. Couldn’t bring you to my chest.

Getting to hold you again felt like being reunited. It brought a sense of calm and peace that I desperately needed. And in my heart, I knew you could feel it, too.
I relished every second with you until it was time for us to separate for our tests.

I expected challenges. I knew there would be an impact from everything you had endured. But I never imagined sitting in a hospital room with two doctors across from us, telling us that our daughter would not survive.

The damage to your brain was extensive.

Our world shattered.

There was immediate, unimaginable sadness. And then, somehow, determination.

There was no way I was going to let the minutes we had left with you become only sadness. So in that moment your dad and I made a decision. A decision to focus on the love and the joy and making memories with you. I knew we had a lifetime of sadness ahead of us, and I couldn’t fathom spending my last moments with you in those feelings. Tomorrow would be a day filled with memory making. Tonight, we would go to bed broken hearted with a promise from the nurses to wake us if we needed.

Wednesday. Warming day.Noelle had been receiving a cooling treatment since shortly after she was born. Because she had b...
09/16/2026

Wednesday. Warming day.

Noelle had been receiving a cooling treatment since shortly after she was born. Because she had been deprived of oxygen at birth, her body was cooled to a hypothermic state to help protect her brain from further swelling and injury.

For three days, we waited while her tiny body was kept cold.

We knew she had been through something significant. We had seen some of the signs that told us there would be struggles ahead. But we didn’t know the extent of her injuries. We wouldn’t know until she was rewarmed.

So Wednesday was a day of waiting.

And hoping.

And praying.

The day moved slowly.

I continued to fight to get downstairs to see you as often as they would let me leave my room. The team caring for me still couldn’t seem to get the infection I had acquired during labor under control. Antibiotics and IVs seemed to fill every hour of my day, dictating when I could leave my room and when I had to return.

But whenever I could, I came to you.

We waited beside you. We talked to you. We told you we were there. We assured you that you were loved.

And we waited some more.

Because we wouldn’t know where things were headed until the next day.

So on Wednesday, we remained hopeful.

We had no reason to believe that hope was gone. We were fueled by love. Fueled by prayer.

Fueled by the belief that our baby girl was going to fight her way through this.

Wednesday was still a day where we believed we would bring you home.

September 15th. Tuesday. I settled into being a patient 4 floors above you. Counting the minutes between my antibiotic ...
09/15/2026

September 15th. Tuesday.

I settled into being a patient 4 floors above you. Counting the minutes between my antibiotic and IV drips, tangled cords and pump parts. I spent every minute researching the cooling treatment you were on, trying to begin building a milk supply for when you were ready, and texting with your dad who spent every second by your side in the NICU since I couldn’t be there.

It was agonizing…but nothing compared to the days ahead.

Knowing you were just 4 floors away, but being tied to the wall, awaiting the nurses to come every time an alarm beeped or my IV stopped. I thankfully had two incredible nurses between some really incredibly awful ones. But seeing Kim Diamond or Sarah Skillings show up on rotation left me feeling hopeful. They were so caring and kind and knew that while I was sick myself, I wanted, and needed to be with Noelle. Over the course of the week they made sure that both things were taken care of. They’ll never know how truly grateful I am that they were there that week.

Over the next day we learned more about the treatment Noelle was on and what to expect over the coming days. While we knew her injuries were significant, we had so much hope for her. We braced ourselves for what could be, but prayed that she would overcome any difficulties that might come her way as a result of her injuries. I believed with everything in me that when she was rewarmed a couple days later, we would be happily moving towards bringing our baby girl home.

Perhaps it was naivety. Maybe it was the ounce of hope that everyone around me shared that I bottled up into one giant prayer that everything would be ok.

We waited. Waited for signs. Waited for updates. Waited as your little body began to swell up from all of the fluids.

You squeezed your dad’s finger. And only his. Something I never got, but is a special reminder for him that you knew he was by your side every minute.

Tuesday was a good day. Westill had hope. We still had you. 💛

Your feet. And that full, dark head of hair.Those were the first two things I noticed when I finally got a picture of yo...
09/14/2026

Your feet. And that full, dark head of hair.

Those were the first two things I noticed when I finally got a picture of you.

After Noelle was born, she was quickly whisked away to the NICU for support. The team knew she needed treatment that wasn’t available at the hospital where she was delivered, so the decision was made to move her across town to a higher-level NICU.

Kevin went with her.

I was wheeled to a recovery room.

My memories of those hours are fuzzy. I remember being forced to stand up and walk to the bathroom. I remember my dad sitting across from me in an uncomfortable chair, watching me closely and trying to make sure I was okay. I remember the cries of newborn babies coming from the rooms around me.

And I remember wondering when I would finally get to see mine.

A couple of hours later, Kevin sent me a picture.

My first glimpse of you.

Those big feet. That full head of dark hair.

It would be much later the next day before I finally got to you. I fought to be transferred to the same hospital. There was a bumpy ambulance ride, an excruciatingly long check-in, and then finally, a wheelchair ride down to the NICU.

My first chance to see you.

My first chance to hold your hand.

After all those hours of waiting, I was finally there.

With you.

Seeing you for the first time filled me with joy, and love, and so much hope. I didn’t understand the extent of your injuries. So I just looked at you in awe. Wondering when we’d get through this and I’d be able to scoop you up into my arms and take you home.

I never could’ve imagined what the next days would bring.

Address

987 Cedar Swamp Road
Coventry, CT
06238

Telephone

+12035254785

Website

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