In memory of Ohrin Samuel "Samwise" James Preslar

In Memory of Ohrin Samuel James Preslar 

My son, Ohrin Samuel James Preslar, was born on December 28, 2002. I was living in California at the time with my then-husband—a man who was not Ohrin’s biological father but tried to fill that role as best he could. He was deeply abusive, and though I won’t linger on him, his actions played a part in why my son is no longer here.  

Oren was born at 35 weeks, just shy of full term. I had been traveling back from California—where my then-fiancé had been stationed in Ridgecrest—before he was dishonorably discharged from the Navy due to a personality disorder and his violence toward me. We arrived in Arizona just before the holidays, though we hadn’t yet told our families we were moving back.  

To this day, I don’t remember why I went into labor early. I only recall the bleeding, the rush to the hospital, the contractions they couldn’t stop. They gave me magnesium, a common treatment to halt premature labor, but I was allergic. It made me violently ill—so much so that I was retching up bile. The medication didn’t work, and after 22 grueling hours, Ohrin was born.  

He spent six months in the NICU. Though he did well overall, he came home with an apnea monitor because of his sleep apnea. He was too small and weak for vaccinations—including RSV, which, at the time, didn’t even have a vaccine available. I asked about immunizations, but the doctors insisted we had to wait until he was stronger.  

Because he was unvaccinated, Ohrin caught RSV multiple times. Eventually, it developed into pneumonia. He was hospitalized at Banner Desert for weeks—two, maybe three—before coming home again. For the most part, he seemed okay. But his apnea monitor stopped working, and Western Medical gave me endless trouble about replacing the parts. They argued it wasn’t broken, that we didn’t need new pieces, and dragged their feet while my son’s safety hung in the balance.  

The day Ohrin passed—May 6, 2003—is etched into my soul. I’m Pagan and deeply spiritual, and I believe that was the day he crossed into the spirit realm. That morning, he woke up happy. My husband and I were watching a movie with him, playing, laughing. He babbled, and we joked that he said *Mama*. He crawled for the first time. All these little firsts—precious, fleeting moments I now realize were his last gifts to me.  

But he had been crying more than usual that day. No matter what we did, he struggled to gain weight, and his cries were near-constant. I think now that it was just his body failing him. Still, I remember his smiles, his bright spirit.  

At the time, we were living in my sister Trista’s garage. We’d moved him to my mother-in-law’s living room because the garage wasn’t safe—too cold, a space heater too risky for a preemie. Looking back, I wish I had done more. I was 19, ignorant, influenced by the same reckless mindset that plagues so many today—anti-vaccine rhetoric, distrust of medicine. I didn’t treat his illness with the gravity I would now, post-COVID. I didn’t wash my hands enough, didn’t shield him enough. The guilt lingers.  

That afternoon, I put Ohrin down for a nap with his bottle. He was sleeping peacefully when I left to take a walk, needing air after the stress of the day. Twenty minutes later, I returned to feed him—only to find him not breathing. I rushed downstairs, screaming for my husband, who performed CPR as I called 911. The ambulance claimed they stabilized him, but at the hospital, I learned he was DOA.  

I held him one last time, talking to him, begging him to wake up. A grief counselor came, along with a priest who told me last rites weren’t necessary—that Oren was already at peace. My family, a mix of Mormon and Irish Catholic/Orthodox, arranged a military-style funeral for him. His casket was draped with a flag; relatives performed a 21-cap-gun salute. He was buried at my Aunt Sharon’s feet.  

Days later, a Western Medical representative arrived with Oren’s supplies. In my rage, I nearly attacked him—my family had to hold me back. Later, I apologized, knowing it wasn’t his fault. But grief is a monstrous thing. Someone once told me, *What would you fear more—a 300-pound man who thinks you stole his bread, or a 100-pound woman who knows you killed her child?*  

Oren would be 23 now. His sister and I sometimes laugh that they’re *Irish twins*—because for a few months each year, their ages overlap (her October birthday, his December). It’s a small thing, but it matters.  

Every year, I watch *The NeverEnding Story*. His name was inspired by  the symbol on the cover of the book the Auryn though I misspelled it as *Ohrin* and later embraced the *O* as a nod to Odin.  

I miss him. Every day. And if there’s one thing I want others to take from his story, it’s this:

 **Vaccinate your children.** RSV, pneumonia, preventable illnesses—they steal lives. Oren’s didn’t have to be one of them. **The Importance of Vaccination: Protecting Our Children from RSV**  

Respiratory Syncytial Virus (RSV) is a common illness, but for infants—especially premature babies like Oren—it can be deadly. What might seem like a mild cold in older children or adults can quickly escalate into bronchiolitis or pneumonia in fragile newborns. RSV is the leading cause of hospitalization in infants under one year old, and for preemies or immunocompromised babies, the risks are even higher.  

When Ohrin was born, there was no RSV vaccine. Today, we have options: maternal vaccines given during pregnancy to pass on antibodies, monoclonal antibody shots (like nirsevimab) for newborns, and new immunizations for older infants. These advancements could have saved him. But misinformation and vaccine hesitancy still cost lives. Some parents dismiss RSV as "just a cold," while others avoid vaccines out of unfounded fears. I know that mindset—I once shared it. But grief has taught me the truth: vaccines are not a political choice. They are a shield.  

Delaying or skipping vaccinations leaves children vulnerable. Had Ohrin been stronger, had the RSV vaccine existed then, had I known better—he might be here today. I share his story not to dwell in guilt, but to plead with other parents:

 **Do not wait.**

 Trust science over fear. Protect your babies in every way you can, because viruses like RSV show no mercy.  

If you’re pregnant, ask about the maternal RSV vaccine. If your child is eligible, ensure they receive their doses on time. If someone tells you "natural immunity" is safer, remember:

 nature is unforgiving. My son’s life was cut short by a preventable virus. Don’t let hesitation or misinformation steal yours.  

Oren’s legacy is love—but it must also be a warning. Honor the children we’ve lost by protecting the ones who still have a chance.