Category Archives: Our Story

Our Story, Pregnancy After Loss

Labor & Delivery After Loss

CW: mention of live birth, living children, birth trauma

My first daughter K’s delivery was peaceful, until it wasn’t.

I was almost 38 weeks and my water broke. I was contracting every 4 minutes and made it to the hospital in time. When I was triaged, I was 6 centimeters and 100% effaced. The next thing I knew, I was being wheeled to my epidural, put in an L & D room and given a popsicle while I waited for things to progress. 12 hours (and 2.5 hours of pushing) later, my daughter, my first earth-side baby, my rainbow, was finally coming into this world.

“I see some hair,” one of my nurses said.

My heart skipped a beat. All these months, years of waiting and I was finally about to see what my baby would look like. After a miscarriage at 10 weeks a year prior and months of trying to conceive before that, the journey to growing our family was finally coming to an end.

I would finally get to hold my baby.

I choked back tears, “what color is it?”

The nurse assessed and replied “I think it’s brown!” Tears streamed down my face. “Like me,” I thought.

“No, wait…” the nurse changed her mind, “blonde!” I cried harder. Even better. “Like my husband,” I thought. I couldn’t believe I would have a blonde baby.

I was having a baby.

A few more pushes and I felt the room stop. There was a silence and an intensity that grew. In that moment, exhausted and overwhelmed with anticipation, I felt myself separate from my own body, as if I were watching what came next from the other side of the room.

I felt an incredible amount of pressure. My husband wasn’t speaking. The feeling made me lose the rhythm of my breathing and made me sick. A scream climbed through my chest but nothing came out. What was happening? Was she okay? Why was no one saying anything? Could someone please say something?

And as quickly as the moment came, it went.

I was told my daughter got stuck, but she was okay and on her way. The process continued, everyone skirting past this thought as if it were a small hiccup in the day’s events. I followed suit and moved forward. Moments passed, people started to speak again, my breathing fell back into place and before I could manage to wrap my head around what had happened, my daughter was placed in my arms.

Crying,

Safe,

Here.

Finally.

—-

My care team had explained what happened in that out-of-body moment as a shoulder dystocia. A shoulder dystocia is described as an “obstetric emergency” where the baby’s shoulder gets stuck in the birth canal by the pelvic bone. This event can be harmless with some quick maneuvers by the doctor (as mine was), but has the potential to have dangerous complications for baby, such as nerve damage, bone fractures, and reduced oxygen. This isn’t including the side effects for birthing parents such as hemorrhaging, uterine rupture and separation of pubic bones.

At the time, I didn’t know any of this. I just knew it was a tough moment during delivery and moved on; my baby was here and safe, that’s all that mattered.

At my two week postpartum appointment, my doctor checked in as she “knew shoulder dystocias were traumatic” for both mom and baby, and even asked if my husband was okay. I wasn’t sure what to say – I truly thought nothing of it.

Later, when I asked my husband (who intended to stay by my head but was told to “grab a leg!” early on in delivery and couldn’t look back) if he saw her shoulder get stuck, he said he did. He shared it was a really scary moment and recalled the silence of the room. He told me how quickly the OB acted in a moment of crisis. He said K didn’t look good and – wait for it – that sometimes he had nightmares about it.

I couldn’t believe it. How had this been mentally affecting my husband for weeks and we were just now talking about the severity? How had we glossed over this event during delivery and our stay in the postpartum room? How had my baby faced this type of birth trauma and it wasn’t discussed further?

—-

Flash forward to March of 2023. I am pregnant again and at my first prenatal appointment. As early as I was, my OB brought up the shoulder dystocia again and said because I had experienced that, I could opt for a c-section to prevent another shoulder dystocia, or try to deliver vaginally again and hope the outcome was the same.

I was truly torn. For weeks, I went back and forth on what made the most sense. I had such a beautiful delivery with K; after so many months of fear and deep anxiety, I felt like my labor experience was the final moment of a marathon, sprinting to the finish with everything I had, because that’s what she deserved. It was empowering and beautiful. I will forever be thankful for that experience.

But as I continued to contemplate my options, I thought about Anthony. He seemingly may have nothing to do with this, but at the same time, he had everything to do with it.

When you lose a baby once, you never want to go through it again. You never want to go through it in the first place, but as we all know we don’t get the privilege of that choice.

Here, I had the privilege of a choice.

It came down to this: if I could prevent my daughter from going through pain or an unsafe situation, even if it was at the cost of my own discomfort and fear, I would do it a thousand times over.

I’m not afraid to admit, was terrified. I didn’t love the idea. Not that I judge anyone for having a c-section – quite the opposite. C-sections are no joke. Birth is no joke. But the whole process scared me. It was so different from my previous experience and there was so much I didn’t know (and if I’m being honest, didn’t want to know) going into it. The recovery, the pain, the sterility of it all.

But the thing I never questioned is why I was doing it – because the thought of losing another child scared me more than any operation. The pain couldn’t even come close.

—-

After much thought and consideration, I scheduled a c-section for October 24. The morning of, my nurses were prepping me for the OR. Among the IV pokes and vitals checks, they asked questions. When it came to why I was having a scheduled c-section after a seemingly routine vaginal delivery, I told them about the shoulder dystocia.

“Oh, so was your shoulder dystocia traumatic?” They asked.

“You could say that.” I said.

“Did anything happen to your daughter?”

“No, she was okay thankfully.”

My nurse paused for a second, “so, why have the c-section?”

I was a little surprised at her question. As if she could’ve imagined the thought that went into this decision. “How much time do you have, lady?” I thought to say. Instead, I took a breath and said “I had a miscarriage with my first pregnancy. And when you go through that, you never want to risk losing a child again, ever. So, I felt like this was the best decision to get my daughter here as safe as possible.”

Her demeanor changed. She apologized for my loss and continued to prep me.

I don’t share this story to say my decision was right or “the best.” I think every situation, family, baby, birth experience is different and that it is solely up to the birthing parents on what situation would give them the most peaceful experience that every parent deserves.

I also understand that you can make EVERY CORRECT DECISION for your baby and they can still not make it. It doesn’t change the fact that you are an amazing parent that made every decision out of nothing but love for them.

That being said, it was in that moment – explaining myself to the nurse that would help deliver my third baby – that made me realize how much being a loss parent played into my decision. How truly every decision you make for your family after loss feels more monumental than before.

If I could’ve saved Anthony, I would.

If I knew K was in that much danger during labor, I would’ve fought for her. I suppose I did without realizing it.

This time, I knew I could protect P.

So I did.

Simple as that.

Because that’s what mothers do.

So yes, my c-section was planned.

I was scared.

I was unsure.

But I did it for her.

And I would do it again.

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Our Story, Pregnancy After Loss

Our Pregnancy After Loss

I never thought to write this story.

As soon as I had a second to process my miscarriage, I wrote down every detail. I didn’t want to forget the baby the world never got to meet. I wanted them to know he was here, even if it was just for a few weeks.

When I got pregnant with my living daughter, everything looked different. The way I shared with others, the way I monitored my body, the way I checked food labels, the way I held my breath every time I went to the restroom. When you are pregnant after you lose a child, you also lose your innocence.

I often encourage women and families to share their stories about their pregnancy loss experiences. These stories help others to know they’re not alone and that their babies matter. But what about pregnancy after loss stories? When I was pregnant after my miscarriage, I looked for signs constantly that this baby was safe. I felt manic, constantly assessing how I felt and wondering if today would be the day that I lose this one too – every day, for nine months.

My hope for whoever decides to read this is that you take parts of my story and know that the feelings you’re feeling are allowed. There is an AND that comes with pregnancy after loss.

Being sad for the baby you miss AND happy for the one in your belly.

Worrying about what could happen AND being excited about what’s to come.

Choosing not to buy anything AND creating a secret Pinterest board to design their nursery.

Honoring your baby AND honoring yourself in this next pregnancy.

——-

The morning of June 11, 2020, it was that time again.

I grabbed a disposable cup, my phone with the timer app opened and that dreaded box of pregnancy tests.

I sat with my husband curled up on the bathroom floor as we waited. I felt like I was going to puke; from nerves and from my newfound unexplained nausea that lasted from the morning until 4 PM…

It was positive. About 7 months to the day where I saw my first positive test.

My second positive test. My second pregnancy.

Here we go again.

—-

When you’re pregnant after a loss of any kind, you envision what you’ll do differently the next time. Not that what you do affects the outcome, but you simply know more than you did before. I chose to advocate for myself more.

I called my doctor’s office immediately after the test and requested an appointment and ultrasound. I also requested blood work at their earliest convenience. I wanted a full panel and then to check in again a few days later, to ensure my levels were increasing; a staple for a loss parent.

We were moving in a month, but this meant I had to return to the doctor’s office that royally mishandled my miscarriage for one month before we moved across the state. “I can do anything for 30 days,” I thought. Then I would never have to set foot in their offices again.

It was no surprise my request to have recurrent blood draws in order to check rising hCG was denied. This was to be expected from them. They didn’t take care of my baby the first time around, why give me the peace of mind now? I settled for a blood draw and early ultrasound and also set up another ultrasound an appointment with my new doctor where we were moving. This way, I would get a blood draw at 5 weeks, ultrasound around 7 and another one at 9 with my new doctor.

Early on, every time my symptoms ebbed, even for a moment, I was convinced this was it. Instead of enjoying the moment of relief, I told myself to batten down the hatches for another loss. Truly a roller coaster when you’re in fight of flight for 12 weeks.

—-

Going into my first ultrasound, in a pandemic, after loss…needless to say I had to go alone and it wasn’t fun.

P drove me and sat in the parking lot. I checked in and prayed so hard between feelings of wanting to puke (from my fancy *afternoon* sickness and also, nerves). I entered the room alone, the same room where I had been told there was no heartbeat and no baby almost 6 months earlier.

I remember seeing the baby and hearing the heartbeat. This already looked and sounded different than the first time. I just felt it. They printed the first of many pictures of my baby and I speed-walked out to the car to show P.

—-

We told our parents the day we found out we were pregnant. With all the changes we were about to make with relocating closer to them, we basically had to. Between my appointments, living with my in laws upon our move and having to paint almost every room in our new house (paint fumes = not kosher for preggos), we needed to tell them earlier, and honestly I’m glad we did. To have some support during this scary time (for so many reasons) meant the world.

Telling people was weird. Some people reacted the exact same way they did when we told them about Anthony; excited, screaming, jumping up and down. Others hit us with the hesitation, “oh. Okay then! Congrats…???!” I can’t blame them. I want to believe in my heart they were trying to be strong for us or themselves, I’m not sure which. But I’m not gonna lie – it hurt. I didn’t take any videos of telling people this time as I had with Anthony’s pregnancy…I guess I’m not sure I believed it either.

—-

I handled our second ultrasound alone as well. While the first one definitely sent me reeling, this one felt some symbolic and more of a milestone – 9 weeks was when I bled with my first pregnancy. To me, this was the threshold for which my body could maintain a pregnancy. Everything was fine until the expiration date of 9 weeks and 6 days.

Much to my surprise, my new doctor entered the room with a calm and respectful demeanor. I shared my worry about being pregnant after loss to which she said “oh, well let’s not make you wait any longer then” and proceeded to set up the ultrasound equipment before moving on with the rest of the appointment. Compassion. What a concept.

And there she was again. My little baby…dancing.

Yep, you read that right. She was dancing. She would not stop moving. I giggled at her tiny moves and teared up. I think the doctor proceeded to ask me questions or make comments about how good the baby looked that warranted a response but I was speechless. Grateful is an understatement.

But that relief only goes so far.

Between every ultrasound, it would come in waves. The high from seeing the baby and confirming everything was okay, to the next few days riding the high down, down, down until I convinced myself it was all too good to be true. Doubting I actually felt sick or wondering if I didn’t feel movement yet because she stopped moving and I was just too inexperienced to notice. What kind of mother was I?

This was the self-talk going through my head for 18 weeks. Not the most healthy, and also, not true at all. My awareness can ironically be attributed to the fact that I was noticing these changes and was, in fact, had more self-awareness of my mind and body than I ever had before.

——

My pregnancy didn’t feel real until the day of my anatomy scan.

We walked into the scan in the busy medical building. P was excited and ready to see this baby again as he had with my NT scan. I was excited…and also so nervous I could puke.

It was that weird time no one tells you about. During your first trimester, you know everything’s okay because you’re sick. Third trimester, you feel kicks. Beginning of your second trimester? Good freakin’ luck, your guess is as good as mine.

I didn’t want to use a doppler for two reasons: user error and worst case scenario. The last thing I needed was to misuse a piece of equipment meant for a medical professional and find myself in a panic in the ER twice a week. Also, if there wasn’t a heartbeat…at home on my couch without someone to give me answers isn’t where I would want to be in that moment.

All this to say, I was still waiting to feel kicks. I had felt tiny little turns here and there the weeks prior but wasn’t sure if that was it (it was). I didn’t know if she was okay and I hoped and prayed she was.

This was also the scan where we would find out the gender. I wanted them to tell us right away and, much to my dismay, my husband felt differently. Surprisingly, he wanted to do a big gender reveal. I purchased a plastic basketball to be stuffed with gender specific confetti that he would dunk and explode. This all felt very anti-feminist to me – the phrases “gender is a construct!” and “we will love this baby no matter what, so what’s the point?!” echoed through my head. He laughed and asked me to humor him, so I did. We invited our families over for a party the day after our scan.

During the scan, the ultrasound tech was very kind and again, didn’t waste time finding the baby. There she was, dancing again. Except this time, she was huge! The anatomy scan wasn’t what I expected either. Getting to watch your baby move in your belly for a straight 20-30 minutes…a loss mom’s dream.

The ultrasound tech shared that she was going to take pictures of the reproductive areas next so if we didn’t want to know, we needed to close our eyes. My husband obliged and, as much as I hate to say it, I kept mine open. I thought maybe if I just so happened to see it, he couldn’t be mad, right? I mean I waited nearly a year for this…well, truthfully, my whole life.

“No seriously,” the ultrasound tech laughed, “I’m doing it now.” I closed my eyes too. Dang lady, way to call me out.

After the appointment, we made a quick trip to Target for the party the next day. I suddenly felt very invested, very curious. My incessant fear for this pregnancy was absent as we picked out some plates and napkins and a quick “baby” banner as we shopped. What was this feeling? Trust? Excitement? Whatever it was, it felt kind of good.

We got home and P went upstairs to do the bills. Again, this feeling took over. I grabbed the sealed envelope they sent us home with and held it up to the light. I quickly saw what looked like a “y” shape and threw the envelope down. That was it then, right? Did I see that or make it up? A boy?! A boy! I smiled and walked over to the new 3D ultrasound hanging on the fridge.

A boy.

His little face.

…his dad’s face.

There have been very few moments in my life when I have truly screamed out loud.

I let out a noise that I didn’t even know I was holding in. A cry? A yelp?

And out came the fear I had been carrying for 18 weeks. For 9 months since I lost my son.

This was real. And this baby was mine.

___

My shock continued when P dunked the basketball and pink confetti exploded all over the concrete.

A girl?!

A girl.

The “y” I thought I saw was a drawing of two baby feet. That’s what I get for being nosy.

I never thought I would have a girl – my husband’s family is full of boys and I only have one sister along with two brothers. The odds were not there. But this baby liked to prove everyone wrong already, huh?

My baby girl.

It was finally real.

___

Throughout my second pregnancy, I told myself an incredibly irrational narrative. That every time I had an ultrasound, it wasn’t actually my baby safe and healthy in there, they just uploaded a recording from someone else’s pregnancy and at some point toward the end when I started to feel comfortable, the doctor would throw the ultrasound wand and yell “gotcha!” and it would all be a big joke. The tech would laugh and throw off her gloves and turn off the machine. I would lay there, holding my belly thinking “I guess that makes sense. Why would I have ever been so lucky?” These are the lies we tell ourselves to survive this journey, the intrusive thoughts we endure. I know how ridiculous this sounds, but I felt it to my core every single time I had an appointment. Why not me?

___

For the rest of my pregnancy, I had days of calm and excitement and days of deep fear and denial. The weeks leading up to the birth of my daughter were filled with so much anxiety.

We set up her crib, and I texted my friends with instructions of where to hide it in our house if something went wrong.

I washed her clothes and tried not to get used to the smell.

We installed her car seat and I hoped she would get to use it.

All of these things and more, loss parents don’t take for granted.

___

Shortly before I went into labor, my group of friends asked how I was doing. I wrote this response and saved it:

“It’s like my entire life is about to change and I can see these beautiful moments happening and I can almost feel how it will feel to hold her and it makes me want to burst but then I think of how difficult it will be and how I know myself and how hard I will be on myself to take care of her and I want to protect myself and her from those hard scary moments. And then I worry about my marriage. And COVID. And how all the classes I took are fantastic but also seem like a lot of info to live up to. 

I also think about the honor it will be to just have her here and ALIVE and to be able to get in the car, put her in the car seat and take her home. That is such a privilege and something we never got to do with Anthony. And it still scares me that it won’t happen. But I can feel that it will? It’s very bizarre.

I also have this deep sense of connection to her already. I had a dream she was infused into my bones (weird, I know) and that is the best way to describe how I feel. She is a part of me. And she understands me. Sometimes I’ll think “she hasn’t kicked a lot recently” and she’ll move. This feeling is terrifying and the most beautiful thing.”

___

My water broke 5 hours after Super Bowl LV. I was shocked by the amount of peace and I power I felt as my husband rushed around me, packing last minute things. I contracted and almost smiled through it. It was almost time to meet her.

My labor was (thankfully) relatively uneventful. While I was pushing (for 2.5 hours) one of the midwives said “I see some hair!” I asked what color it was and they said it looked brown. I started sobbing because I knew she was almost here. I was so ready. A few pushes later the midwife changed her mind; “oh, actually maybe it’s blonde! It looks lighter now!” Cue the sobs again. All these months, years of waiting were coming to an end. 

At 3:58 PM on Monday February 8, 2021, I finally got to hold my baby.

Even 2 years later, I look at her in amazement that she’s here. One day, she’ll know how much I longed for her to be here. One day, she’ll understand why we pray for her brother every night. And one day she’ll understand why my love for her runs deeper than any love I’ve ever known in my life; she was and still is, my biggest dream come true.

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Our Story

A letter to my baby

December 2022

Every year, near the anniversary of my miscarriage, I write a letter of some sort. The first year, I was pregnant with my now-living daughter and made a video for her. Last year, I wrote it to my pre-miscarriage self. This year, I was in a space where I was able to write a short letter for Anthony, my baby that died during pregnancy at 10 weeks and 5 days.

___

Hey bud,

It’s been 3 years since you started to leave. I can’t believe it’s been that long, and at the same time, I feel like it’s too short – I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.

Even in those early moments, you felt familiar. People will say “oh, at least you were only 10 weeks.” Have you ever met someone that changed your life the instant you met them? I met you when that test came back positive, and I was forever changed.

I knew you when you were the size of a blueberry. Small and fragile, but with a beating heart. You reminded me to slow down, eat what made sense (the pancake and gummy candy addiction is still here by the way – how did you instill that in utero???) and embrace the moment. Yes, I worried about you, but isn’t that what a mother does?

And yet, at the same time I was celebrating and sharing, I knew. I knew that deep down, you wouldn’t be here for long. I asked the questions, I followed the rules, I listened to their platitudes; “just relax. Everything is fine.” And yet, I knew. I just didn’t know when.

When you left, what I didn’t know was what you were leaving behind;

A strength I didn’t know I had.

Pain I couldn’t wrap my head around.

And a legacy that would be used to help others for years to come.

When people say “at least you were only 10 weeks,” they don’t know.

They don’t know what it’s like to carry a child and then feel them slowly and painfully leave you. Wanting so badly for them to just hang on and know there’s nothing you can do.

They don’t know how it feels to start over from an already long journey. You’ve come so far, but you’ve got so far to go.

They don’t know that I knew you. And of course I did – you’re my son.

I never met you, but I know your heart. Because it beat close to mine.

You were so small, but are doing such big things.

I am so proud to know you.

Merry Christmas, Anthony. I love you.

Love,

Mommy

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Our Story

Our Story

Part 3 of 3

Life Without You

Preston and I opted to have our baby’s remains put in the new cemetery plot for the hospital network. While we knew our baby was gone, we felt that having a final resting place for our son suited the harsh situation we were facing. We were thankful we had that option and looked forward to finding closure visiting the plot with the service promised.

I contacted the cemetery the Monday after my procedure to get information. They gave me a cookie-cutter response, and when I asked when my son’s remains would be sent to the plot, they instructed me to call the hospital and speak with them.

I was connected to a woman in the nursing supervising station who assured me I would be contacted when my son’s remains were sent to the plot once it was finished. This option was brand new and was still getting finalized at the time. When I hadn’t heard in a few weeks, I called the supervising station again and they told me that she “wasn’t who I should speak with” and connected me, a mother who just lost her baby, to a nurse in maternity. 

You read that correctly.

I reluctantly tried to leave a message with that nurse with no returned call. Not that I was surprised. Why on earth would an L & D nurse have the time to speak to a woman wondering where her baby is? They have babies to deliver. I, on the other hand, did not.

I followed up with the hospital weeks later and asked to speak to this mythical maternity nurse apparently in charge of this plot. The woman who answered told me I couldn’t speak with her because she was “busy with a mom that is in labor, awaiting delivery!”

Gut-punch. 

I hung up, feeling my heart start to race in frustration. Why would no one answer my calls? Why would no one call me back? Why would I be calling about a cemetery plot for pregnancy loss and someone would think it’s okay to talk to me about a baby being born?

I want to say that I called the hospital every day, and that I was “that mom” that asked to speak to the manager and did everything I could to ensure I would know the second he was sent over. But I didn’t. I was grieving and trying to get back to my normal routine, which helped tremendously. But, I also trusted what people told me. My entire pregnancy, I relied on the professionals that were dedicated to doing their job and trusted their word. 

A month later, I called the cemetery to find that our baby had been sent to the plot and buried a month prior along with a bi-annual service, and no one had contacted me.

My son had been buried for a month. And no one told me.

—

That weekend, defeated and hurt, Preston and I swallowed our pride and went to the cemetery. After more phone calls, we were finally told where we could find the plot at the cemetery 30 minutes from our home. We stopped to pick up flowers and quietly made the trip.

The large cemetery spanned for miles up a hill. Snow was melting from the unusually sunny February day. Our shoes squished in the slush as we made our way to the “infant section.” 

As if searching for the plot of your miscarriage isn’t enough, walking through an infant cemetery is, to put it lightly, brutal. Small graves, small spaces in between. My heart ached. There were too many. 

We began the task of scouring the ground for the plot that “belonged” to us. While we were looking, a mini-van drove up. The automatic doors opened, and out spilled a family with many small children in primary-colored jackets with security blankets and stuffed animals in tow.  Their mother, slinging a diaper bag on one shoulder and holding a toddler on her hip called to the crew, “okay guys, say hi to your brother.” A little girl ran up to the tiny grave and touched the stone. A little boy ran around in the open grass, too young to understand where he was. I choked back a sob.

We continued to walk up and down the rows, holding our breath for the moment we would find the plot and our son would be found. His only presence on this earth outside of my own body.

The plot wasn’t there.

—

Months passed. Again, I had to step away. More calls made. More frustration. More pleading to the hospital to do better by the women and families. They tried to make up for lost time by having a special private service with a Chaplain in Anthony’s honor. We were going to be moving across the state by then. Too little, too late.

It wasn’t until I called one more time to check before we visited on Father’s Day to find that the grave had been marked. Again, no one was notified. I was told 15 other babies had been buried there. That’s 15 families, mothers, fathers, siblings, grandparents that weren’t given closure.

—

Throughout this experience, I begged for someone to listen to me, but no one did and I will always wonder why. The people I trusted, the medical professionals, strung me along with low-impact reactions when most moments warranted more.  

No one listened when I worried about his low heart rate at his first ultrasound. 

No one listened when I worried about the lack of development. 

No one listened when my symptoms stopped. 

No one listened when the ER ultrasound tech couldn’t find the heartbeat. 

No one listened when I tried to contact these “professionals” the week before our diagnosis. 

By the time I felt heard, it was too late. No one could save him. This, and many other reasons, are why I felt compelled to create this online community; so that women and families going through loss felt less alone, but also to cultivate conversions about loss and the silent pain that comes with this journey.

Do you know how difficult it is to call a hospital – multiple departments, multiple people just doing their job (and most of the time, their job is not to answer phone calls from a grieving mother) – searching for your “leftover tissue?” When in reality, I was searching for my son. I knew he was sitting there for months on end, and I wanted him out of there.

Can you imagine losing a family member, trusting the funeral home with their earthly body just to find out that they buried them without letting you know? The funeral happened, they were lowered into the ground, and you weren’t invited?

I want to be clear that I know my son is in heaven. This grave he would be put in; it is not where I will feel him. It is not where I believe he is. It is not where his soul lies. It’s merely the only other home he has had on this earth, besides the one I made for him. And, let’s be honest, little man, mine was so much better, right? It had sour gummy worms and chocolate chip pancakes.

I always knew his story would be more than just a statistic. More than just some “leftover tissue” or “products of conception,”or “worst period ever.” He is, and always will be so much more. It is amazing to me how someone could be a part of you for such a short time but have such a permanent hold on you.

He is and always will be my Anthony. My baby. 

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Our Story

Our Story

Part 2 of 3

“The worst period ever”

Friday

That night, I felt more cramps, and the bleeding increased. I got off the couch to make my way into bed and ran straight for the bathroom. Suddenly, blood was coming at an alarming rate along with intense cramps. From 9:00 PM until around 1:00 AM, I was bleeding non-stop, passing two large clots and shaking from the shock and blood loss. Funny, I never remembered any period of my life being this bad.

I spent that night on a sleeping bag with old towels and a puppy pad under me, my dog Stella curled up in the crook of my legs. 

___

The next morning, I had a text on my phone from my mom telling me she and my dad were on their way from Cleveland. I also had a missed a phone call from my NP to confirm the miscarriage. When I called my NP back, instead of a greeting (and an explanation of why I hadn’t heard from her all week), she told me I had a miscarriage and that I should stop eating. “Um, I’ve had 3 sips of coffee, can I still drink that?” “No,” she said, “you’re going to have a D & C today.”

 I was confused because I had already passed so much blood and had pretty bad pain the night before. Wasn’t I close to being done? She had no idea the night I just had…maybe if she had asked how I was first? (Just a thought!) Nonetheless, she needed to speak with my OB to make sure I still needed the procedure. “Don’t eat until I know,” she said as she hung up the phone.

I think it’s important to note that I called my doctor’s office immediately on Monday morning to follow up after my ER visit in Cleveland. After a lot of back and forth simply asking to speak to this same NP that called that morning, I was given an excuse every day of why she couldn’t make it to the phone. My information from my ER visit was never sent to my doctor’s office, most likely because of the confusion with my last name,  just like I knew would happen. And the worst of it all, I spent a full week not knowing if my baby is okay.

45 minutes, 2 defeated phone calls to my parents and Preston and no food later, they called back to say, yes, we did need to do the procedure, “today.” 

“Okay, I can do that. But can you please answer some questions I have first?”

My NP sounded annoyed as I asked the questions I had been waiting to ask for a week. I had been left in the dark and experienced one of the worst moments of my life, the least someone could do was answer my questions. I learned later her shortness was due to her wanting to get me scheduled that day so I didn’t have to wait the weekend. Lucky me?

___

“Name, birth date, D & C.”

Friday

They got me in at 1:00 PM and just as Preston and I rolled up to the hospital, so did my parents. I had never had any surgery done before and with the lack of what to expect, I was nervous. I got signed in and follow a nurse to a pre-op room.

Once I got undressed and they took some information from me, they let Preston come back. A woman, I think her name was Katie, was very kind in explaining everything a  few steps at a time. In fact, everyone was fantastic that day.

I was thankful to finally have people that cared in my corner. Unfortunately, it all felt a little too late.

Katie gave me some forms to sign and asked me to take off my jewelry. This included taking out my belly button ring, something I hadn’t done since I got it on my 18th birthday. “Oh well, I guess I was going to take this out anyway when my belly got bigger…” I thought.

Katie pulled out a final form and her demeanor changed. “This decides what you would like to do with the leftover tissue from today.” I scanned the form with check boxes next to these heartbreaking options

“leave at hospital,”

“death certificate,”

“burial.”

Burying my son.

As I sobbed, she comforted me and gave Preston and I time to decide. She also mentioned that a new addition to this form was to put the tissue in a mass plot in a local cemetery for the pregnancy losses from the hospital and surrounding hospitals. We decided on this option.

All day, whenever I met a new member of this team of people performing the procedure, they had me say my name, date of birth, and why I was here. So all day, I repeated my name, my birth date and the letters “D & C.” It didn’t hurt any less every time.

I remember them putting a green mask on my face, and the next thing I knew, I was in a new room with a nurse asking if I was okay because my blood pressure was high, as if I knew a reason for anything that had just happened. 

Once I was cleared, they let Preston back to see me. Apparently, I still had 70% of the tissue left, so I was glad this wasn’t all for not. I went home that night, and it was all over.

Well, kind of.

___

“The day they took my baby from me.”

The day of my D & C was harder than the day we found out we were miscarrying. That was the day they took my baby from me.

I wasn’t alone for 2 months and that day, I felt more alone than ever.

Except, I really wasn’t. The amount of support and love I received from people, especially once I shared my story, blew me away. I had researched miscarriage even before Preston and I started trying to conceive and all you heard was people saying the wrong thing. People sent texts, phone calls, messages on Facebook, gifts. I couldn’t believe it. The love people had for someone they had never met was incredible. It made me love those people even more.

This was a nightmare of an experience and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. However, the peace I felt, and still feel, that our Anthony is safe with our grandparents and lost loved ones is so strong. He was no longer in danger with me. All he ever knew was the love his father and I had for him and the home I made him. The hurt I feel that he is gone will live with me for the rest of my life. I know I will see him again and meet him someday, but I will never understand why I wasn’t meant to meet him in this life.

Part 2 of 3.

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Our Story

Our Story

Part 1 of 3

Two days after Christmas, I was rolling meatballs in my mother’s kitchen. 

I let my mom sit down after entertaining my family for the past few days on our visit to Cleveland. My parent’s house was full for Christmas and unfortunately, it didn’t feel like Christmas at all. My brother and his family weren’t able to come in and my sister had been in the NICU with her newborn daughter. I was sad to have pieces of our family missing, but smiled at the thought of my own little family finally coming together – I was 9 weeks and 6 days pregnant.

I was washing my hands after finishing the meatballs to look around and find a rare moment; I was alone. My sister-in-law, four nieces, nephew and my mom had all retreated elsewhere from the kitchen. I took a deep breath and sighed into a smile as I dried my hands in the unusually silent moment.

And then, I felt it.

I hurried my steps as I walked to the restroom. “Think about every time you’ve gone to the bathroom thinking it was this. It’s not this. It can’t be this.”

Sure enough, there, on my bright pink underwear, was blood.

Surprisingly, I didn’t panic. In all the moments throughout my 9 weeks and 6 days of pregnancy where I imagined this fear coming to life, I pictured panic. I pictured screaming. I pictured pain. But that day, I felt nothing. I had a flashback to my first period happening in this very bathroom. What did I do then? What should I do now?

“MOM.”

My mom burst through the door and I cried, “Mom, I’m bleeding. What do I do?” over and over again. She hugged me and her voice cracked as she apologized over and over, “oh honey, I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry…”

This is where I began to mourn a loss that hadn’t even happened yet. Mothers just know.

My husband Preston had just left the house. I picked up my phone to call him, “I’m bleeding. You need to come home.” 

My heart began to race as I called my doctor’s office. I was met with the voice of a nurse on call, exceptionally less concerned than I, even after sharing the information that would inevitably change my life. “Since it’s a Friday, you should probably go to the ER…but this happens a lot in pregnancies. It doesn’t mean anything is wrong.” 

This was the same contradicting calm I was met with when I had messaged the office a few days prior to share that my nausea had essentially disappeared. The “home stretch to the end of the first trimester” they called it.

Nothing was wrong. But it didn’t mean everything was alright.

“You’re still pregnant!” 

Saturday

Preston came home and went to our suitcase to get me new underwear. As I was changing, the reality of the situation hit me. Our baby was in trouble, and there was nothing I could do to save him. I crumbled on the floor as I tried to slip my legs back into my jeans in between sobs. “I’m not strong enough for this,” I cried, shaking my head. “Why is this happening to us? What did we do? I can’t do this.” He held me up as I sank lower to the floor.

Preston drove me and my mom to the ER. When we checked in, they had me put in my social security number. My maiden name popped up in their software because I had been there before in my childhood. I asked them to change it, fearing it would interfere with them connecting my results from the day to my doctor’s offices in Dayton. They reassured me they would change it at the end. The beginning of a long string of lies and miscommunication.

The ER was packed due to the flu that was taking over that season. Many people in masks sat waiting in the large room. I thought about how my doctor warned me against the flu while pregnant and the precautions I had taken to avoid it – I had done everything right. Why was I here?

We waited for 45 minutes before I was seen. They slapped a tag on my wrist and sure enough, there was my maiden name on my ID. I rolled my eyes. That’s not my name,I thought angrily. A nurse took my vitals and then drew blood to check my levels. She chose a random spot on my arm that I knew wasn’t the best choice, but hey, this isn’t my job. The blood was stopping and starting into the vile “huh. That’s weird!” she exclaimed as my arm pulsed. This hurt. That spot was the site of a 4 inch bruise leftover from the whole event that wouldn’t fade until weeks later. An ugly souvenir, and a fitting one.

As we waited for the next step, an ultrasound, my mom and I talked to pass the time. I even managed to laugh when something interrupted our conversation on the hospital intercom: Brahm’s lullaby played in light, child-like tones. Somewhere in this same hospital, a baby was being born. I cradled my stomach and cried.

When it was time for the ultrasound, they pulled out a wheelchair. “Is this really necessary?” I asked. Apparently, it was. They wheeled me, Preston following, to another end of the hospital to the obstetrics wing. It seemed like a horror movie – being Friday evening, a lot of the lights were turned off and no one was there. It was also exceptionally cold. I shivered for both of those reasons, and at the thought of what could be looming in this ultrasound.

The ultrasound tech emerged from an empty room and seemed nice enough at the start. She calmly guided me with what to do, even though this wasn’t my first rodeo. She did an abdominal one first (which was actually new to me), and seemed unphased when she couldn’t find anything there. Then it was time for the transvaginal one. The room was quiet as she muttered undecipherable comments under her breath. She seemed anxious, so I stopped looking at her and looked at Preston. The look on his face is something I will try to forget for the rest of my life. A mix of confusion, hope, pleading, pain – all of it, in the handsome face I love. My sweet husband, looking for his son. I closed my eyes.

Still, the tech kept on mumbling. I didn’t understand why it was necessary to speak when all that was going to come out of your mouth was a whole lot of nothing that would help us. We asked about the heartbeat, and she said she wasn’t “getting one,” but again, she seemed unphased. I asked her, “You can’t tell us anything though, right? Until we talk to the doctor.”

“No, uh, I can’t,” she said nervously, “you know, not until the doctor sees the scans and, uh…you know, stories like yours, they don’t tend to have a happy ending…”

I sat in disbelief. She left the room so I could go to the restroom to change. I sprang up, “did she just tell us we miscarried? Is that what just happened?” I couldn’t believe the lack of professionalism, the lack of sensitivity to this matter. 

We waited for another hour before we started to get impatient. I approached the front desk and questioned if we could know anything. The nurse at the front desk tried to be cool and level with me and tell me about my “quants.” “You’re at 19,000, do you happen to remember your last numbers?” I was at 25,000 a few weeks prior. They were going down. He gave me a disappointed face and told me about support groups on pregnancy apps I could join.

Was my baby still here or were people already mourning him and I was the last to know?

After a few more hours of waiting, we spoke with a doctor that told me I had a subchorionic hemorrhage and a “threatened miscarriage.” I was told to be on complete pelvic rest, no heavy lifting, and to give myself plenty of rest. He went into details of what could go wrong, rightly so, as I needed to know and my head was already there. However, the details stopped after what the pregnancy would be like. He told me if I did miscarry, it would feel like “the worst period I’ve ever had.” When he left, Preston hugged me and said, “this is great news. You’re still pregnant!” Then why did I feel like someone just gave me a death sentence?

—

“Happy New Year”

Tuesday

Back at home in Dayton on New Year’s Eve, despite still being in the dark, I decided to be positive. I hadn’t bled since the day at my parent’s, I wasn’t in pain, and I was still pregnant. Preston and I ordered take out from a ton of places all over town. I sipped on Welch’s sparkling grape juice in a plastic champagne glass and wore a “Happy New Year” tiara paired with my yoga pants and t-shirt. “Take my 10 week picture, please!” I asked Preston, handing him my phone, forcing enthusiasm. When I asked him to take another one, he groaned. “This might be the last one I take, just take it.” He did. And it was.

Around 11:30 PM, I went to the bathroom and noticed some spotting. This was to be expected, but it bummed me out nonetheless. The clock struck midnight and it was 2020. We kissed, wished each other a “Happy New Year,” and went to sleep.

Wednesday

I woke up the next day with what felt like the first day of your period. I was tired, cramping, and bleeding. Not enough to be that “worst period ever” level, but enough to know that something was up. Preston took down all the Christmas decorations while I delegated from the couch (one perk to this “no heavy lifting” thing) and he bought a subscription to Disney plus. I sat on the couch watching Disney movies all day, using a heating pad to ease the cramps, snuggling my dog.

“The house don’t fall when the bones are good.”

Thursday

“So, I’m sorry, there’s just…nothing there. There’s no baby.”

The medical table paper crinkled under me as I took a deep breath. A breath I think I had been holding since the day rolling meatballs at my mom’s. I nodded, “okay.”

After some more apologies on her end, I asked what would come next. She said it would get worse within the next few days. She turned the screen to show us my empty gestational sac. Then it occurred to me, “so, where did the baby go?”

“Unfortunately,” she said, “it probably just dissolved into the tissue and was passed.”

I started to tear up “so, basically, I flushed my baby down the toilet?” I felt like I was going to be sick.

She told me again that it would get worse. When I asked her to clarify this time, she said the same thing; “the worst period you’ve ever had.”

She shared her condolences again, the first of many times this would happen in the coming weeks, and let us have a moment together. As soon as she left the room, Preston hugged me and, strangely, apologized to me. As he buried his head into my shoulder and cried, I heard “The Bones” by Maren Morris playing on the radio in the hospital. As I held my husband in the empty ultrasound room with my empty gestational sac on the monitor, I heard “the house don’t fall when the bones are good.” I closed my eyes and hugged him tighter. “We were meant to be parents,” I heard myself say, “we will be parents.” I said it as if I believed it myself.

As I pulled out of the hospital, I still hadn’t broken down. All I could, selfishly think about was what would happen next? What would this pain be like? What will my body go through? This was soon replaced by this overwhelming feeling; he needed a name. And it needed to be Anthony. I held on to this, and held on to the peace I was feeling. Even then, I knew this was a blessing and that he was safe, even though I still believe the safest place would have been with me.

That night, we watched Cinderella on Disney plus and I finally let myself cry. She sang “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” and I pictured myself as a toddler singing this song (albeit, poorly) to a Disney Princess cassette tape. I wondered if I would ever see my daughter or son do the same.

“No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing…”

Part 1 of 3.

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