Tag Archives: coping with pregnancy loss

Our Story

A letter to my baby

December 27, 2025

Hey buddy,

Somehow, six years is starting to feel like a lifetime away.

I think of all the versions of myself that have come and gone since then, but nothing is the same as the person that woke up on December 27, 2019.

You were my hope. I saw so much in those 11 weeks we were together (6 that I knew about); our future was set. I was so ready to be your mom. But the week leading up to that day, I also saw it all slipping away. It was like a nightmare in slow motion. I tried to shake myself awake so many times, convince myself that it was just my anxiety talking. But in think deep in my heart I knew I wouldn’t hold you. And I never will.

I wish I could hold that version of myself. I wish I could go back and observe how I walked through that day – how I called out for your Mima (my mom, your sisters gave her that name. I wonder if you would have started the trend…) because your dad had just stepped out. How the moment I saw the red I knew it was over. How I called my OB’s office to be met nonchalance, no chance to save you. How your dad came home and took over for Mima. How he held me as I changed clothes and fell into him crying out how I couldn’t do this.

I was right and wrong. I lived it. I survived it. The week after was a lesson in advocacy for myself, my health, and most importantly, my family. That week of losing you slowly and painfully made me into the mom I am today, the one I got to be for your sisters. The one I still hope I am for you.

But I was right when I said I couldn’t lose you. I never will.

A couple of weeks before your sister was born, I had a dream that she was fused to my bones. I woke up knowing that this was the hold you and your siblings would have on me. You are so much a part of me and my every day, you’re just far away. It is so strange to miss someone who was once fused to you. I am quite literally missing a part of me, and I haven’t been the same since you left.

You were so small when we lost you, but your impact has been far greater than I could have imagined. Mommy loves telling stories, and while it’s hard, yours is my favorite to tell because it proves you were here. A lot of people know about you, isn’t that cool? And you help people go through tough times, because their families know they’re not alone. You are doing so much good in a world you spent a small amount of time in. I’m so proud to be your mom and I will never stop talking about you.

I love you, sweet boy. Say hi to your great-grandparents for me and tell them I said thanks for taking care of you.

Love you always and forever,

Mommy

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Stillbirth

Katlyn’s Story

Evelyn Grace

This is us: Katlyn & Stephen, married in 2019.  We already have a son, Landon (now almost 13), from my previous marriage.  We knew we wanted to expand our family & shortly after the wedding we found out we were expecting.  However, on NYE 2019, we unfortunately suffered a miscarriage.  I was 11 weeks along.

After we had time to grieve this loss, we wanted to try again.  We struggled to conceive at first and started to meet with a fertility specialist when miraculously, it happened on its own!  We made it to the 2nd trimester and felt some relief as the risk of a miscarriage dropped.  We then made it to the 3rd trimester and were preparing for her arrival.

It was the week of my 37th birthday and I was at work. That day, the ladies surprised me with a baby shower.  I remember feeling off and thinking I hadn’t felt Evelyn move for a while.  So, after the shower, I went to my car, had something cold and sweet to drink and reclined the seat waiting to feel her kicks, which didn’t come.  I called my doctor and they suggested I head to the hospital to get checked.  I called Stephen to have him meet me there.

Once we got into a room, a nurse searched for a heartbeat and called the doctor in for assistance.  He held my hand and delivered the worst news we could have ever expected.  “I’m sorry, but there doesn’t appear to be a heartbeat.”  They gave us some time to process this news and call our families.  Keep in mind, this was during COVID & they were not allowing more than one support person to be with you.  We asked if we could have our parents come to grieve with us and they said of course, we will make it happen.

The next steps were to move us to a delivery room and start the induction process to deliver our daughter.  Once Evelyn arrived on 4/16/2021, we got to hold her and so did our parents.  She was a beautiful girl.  She was 4lbs 3 oz and was a healthy baby.  However, the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck several times.  Had it not been for that unfortunate incident, she’d be with us today.  We never got to see her eyes or hear her voice, but we knew she was perfect.

After delivering Evelyn, the L&D staff dressed her in an outfit, wrapped her in a blanket, and placed a teddy bear in her bassinet.  We got to spend the night and part of the next day with Evelyn.  I sang her songs I used to sing to her big brother and cuddled her for as long as we possibly could.  Before we left, they also gave us a memory box with locks of her hair, newborn photos they took of her, a handprint keepsake, a pillow her precious head lay on, and more.

We asked our Reverend to come baptize her and pray for us.  It was incredibly emotional, but something we wanted to have done.  What came next seemed so standard and customary, but we just weren’t even thinking of it.

We needed to purchase burial plots and a grave marker for our daughter.  My mom’s side of the family has a section at our local cemetery where my grandparents and aunt are currently buried with several other spots saved for family members.  We were lucky enough to get plots within eyesight of them.  It was a sense of relief knowing she would be close to them.

During the days following our loss of Evelyn, the Teddy Bear and memory box the hospital gave to us meant more than we could ever imagine.  I was able to find the exact bear online and purchased it for Landon so he could have something to hug as well.

I could not imagine not having my Evie Bear with me. It’s something that made me feel close to her and gave me so much comfort.  It got me thinking…what would we have done without these items from the hospital?  What would other families do?  What if the donations they receive from local knitting groups who supply hats & blankets stop?  What if the donation of infant clothes runs out?  I know I would be lost without them.

I decided to put a post out on social media announcing we would be accepting donations of Teddy Bears to drop off at the hospital or if they couldn’t get a Teddy Bear to us, they could make a monetary donation to the Family Additions department at the hospital in Evelyn’s name.  I didn’t expect so many teddy bears.  The hospital was so appreciative & moved by our gesture.  With the amount of money that was donated, they added her name to their Wall of Remembrance.

This got me thinking further, of how we could help.  Our goal is to turn Evie’s Teddies into a Charitable Foundation & make sure families have the resources they need to help them grieve; whether it’s memory boxes, teddy bears, or funds to help with counseling or burial services.  The possibilities are truly endless.

Time has passed & life was moving on.  We had a then 10-year-old that needed us & we needed him, more than ever.  So, we filled our days with baseball, traveling with family, visiting family and fun days!  It was just what we needed.

We traveled to DC with my parents, who had never been there before, and my Dad got to shade his cousin Jimmy’s name from the Vietnam War Memorial.  Then we traveled to Long Island, NY to visit Stephen’s brother and his wife.  It was our first time there together as a family and it was amazing.  We got to spend time at the beach and go on a boat ride.  On our way back we stopped at Gettysburg since Landon had never been there.  It was hot, but still had a good time together.  For my brother’s birthday, he wanted all of us to go to Caddy Shack for the day to ride go karts, mini golf, and more.  Nothing heals the heart better than being with family.

Then, our prayers were answered and we became pregnant!  We were so happy, yet absolutely terrified because of what we just went through.  My OB group was so supportive & reassuring us that they know how we feel & will do everything they could to give us a piece of mind along the way.

Once we reached the 3rd trimester, I had regular appointments, non-stress tests, and growth scans.  We literally got to see her grow and hear her heartbeat so often.

April 28th, 2022 ( a little over 1 year since losing Evelyn) we welcomed Eliana Louise into our life and she was a blessing.  The name Eliana is Hebrew for “my God has answered me”, it couldn’t have been a more perfect name.   We have told Eliana about her sister, that she is our baby in heaven.  We have taken her to visit Evelyn’s grave and we have read her stories about Heaven.  This is all in hopes that she will know of her sister, just like her brother does.

It’s now Fall 2024 and we are expecting another baby girl to arrive in December, God willing.  In the meantime, we have been working closely with our hospital with sharing our story and our hopes of creating this foundation.  

My hope for all of you is to know that you are loved, you are thought of, and we are hear to grieve with you.  Nothing can ever replace the loss of your child, but grieving together and sharing their stories is comforting, at least to me.

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Miscarriage

Courtney’s Story

Abel Faith

I was so excited, after months of tracking and months of negative tests, it finally happened.

Steven was still at work when I found out. So I kept it to myself for the day. I put a shirt on my daughter that said “Big Sister” that I bought months before (and hid from Steven) right before Steven got home.
We surprised him when he got home from work and we were both so ecstatic.

Late in the night several days later, I had severe cramping and nausea and started to bleed severely. I sat on the toilet, crying my eyes out because I knew what this led to since I have experienced a miscarriage before (I had 3 chemical pregnancies before my oldest, with my first being the most severe bleeding). Steven held my hand and I cried, thinking we were losing our baby right then and there. I had cramps the rest of the night, but the bright red bleeding eventually stopped.

The first thing the next morning, I called my doctor and asked if I could be seen by somebody that morning because I was bleeding the night before. The receptionist told me a time and I then called up my neighbor to ask if they could watch my daughter (my husband had work that day). I dropped my daughter off and went to my doctor’s office.

I ended up seeing a midwife I hadn’t met before there that day. She asked me several questions about when my last period was, when I got the test, what the bleeding was like, how the cramps felt, etc. I also had already given a urine sample and according to my last period, I also shouldn’t have tested positive for them either.
She told me that bleeding could be normal in early pregnancy but still wanted to check on things. She thought I was further along than my last bleeding (period). They took some blood to check my HCG levels and had me come back in a few days to get another draw to see how it was progressing.
I also shared that I felt what I described as “early pregnancy flutters” but knew it couldn’t be that because I wasn’t far enough along. But I would feel a lot of swishing around especially when I lay down.

I was a nervous wreck for the following few days. Originally, Steven and I wanted to keep the news to ourselves as long as possible, because no matter what, due to our previous experiences, this pregnancy was going to be mentally, emotionally, and physically taxing on us both. We needed time to process it ourselves. I reached out to my parents, because they lived close by, and explained what was happening and ask for help to watch my daughter.

Two days later, I went into the office again. This time for only a blood draw. I got a call later that day from the midwife with the results. My HCG went up, but not enough to show it was progressing how it should. The blood draw also showed them that I was further along than originally thought and they would be able to find the baby on ultrasound. She asked me if I was able to come in within the hour for an ultrasound.

I was so anxious driving to the doctor. I just felt like something was wrong. I had bad anxiety (which isn’t completely abnormal for me) about the pregnancy from the moment we decided to get the IUD out and try to have a baby. I told my doctor the day my IUD came out, “I just feel like something bad will happen. I know it’s because it’s all I ever have known.” I was reassured that it was okay to feel that way but to remember it is a new pregnancy and new baby so it could be a different experience.

In the following months of trying to conceive, I would tell my husband constantly, “I just feel like something horrible will happen. I feel like we are going to have a stillbirth or another kind of loss. I just feel like that is what will happen.” I knew this was my anxiety talking because I was scared to experience preeclampsia or the NICU again. My oldest was born at 35 weeks, had growth restriction and I developed preeclampsia with severe features, so I was so scared of it happening again. I knew getting pregnant again was putting myself in the exact same position that brought me so much trauma years ago. We both were willing to roll the dice, but hoping for the best.

I didn’t have to wait too long to be seen. Looking back, it’s probably because they suspected something was wrong. I saw the ultrasound tech before the midwife. She led me into the ultrasound room. I laid back and took a deep breath as I watched the TV screen in front of me.
Because I had an early ultrasound before in my life, I knew what I should see if things were okay. But there was nothing there. I still silently hoped I was looking at things wrong, but deep down I knew there was something wrong. The tech spent a lot of time searching and taking pictures but was silent. She eventually told me she needed more pictures of my ovary and was going to use the over-the-stomach ultrasound wand. I thought it was odd, but didn’t know what to really think.
Eventually, she told me the midwife would speak with me about the ultrasound and helped me wipe up all the goo and led me to a room.

The midwife came in, her expression was soft with her eyes full of empathy. She explained I had a 4 cm cyst in my ovary that appeared to be bleeding. And my uterus was empty. She said they couldn’t find a pregnancy. She suggested it could be either an ectopic which was typically in a fallopian tube but could be in the ovary, or the cyst was secreting HCG. I stared at her blankly. And asked, “So I’m not pregnant?”
She paused and explained the symptoms of an ectopic pregnancy and asked if I had any other bleeding besides the initial bleeding or other symptoms. I told her no. It was the end of the work day, so she asked me to come in to the next morning to speak to the doctor but if anything changed to go straight to the ER and report I have been monitoring at the clinic for a suspected ectopic pregnancy.

The next morning I went to the office but the doctor wasn’t there so they took some more blood work. They told me again if something changed to go to the ER but they would call me once the doctor was back from surgeries. I was finally called to come in that afternoon. I called up my parents to ask to watch my daughter and my husband and I went to the office.

We didn’t wait long, I was taken back almost immediately. Doctor came in with a nurse and explained everything cut and dry (which is one of the things I love most about him– he tells it how it is).
“You have what we call pregnancy of unknown location. All we know is it isn’t the uterus. The cyst has started to burst, which is what the blood flow was on the ultrasound. And I suspect the pregnancy is in your tube, which is an ectopic pregnancy, based on your HCG levels and the ultrasound.” He later explained that it was possible it was a ruptured ectopic pregnancy and that the treatment for ectopic pregnancy he recommended was surgery.

“Okay.” was all I said.

He explained how the surgery would go. It would be laparoscopic with 3 incisions. If my tube was too damaged, he would take it out but would try to keep it and he would do a D & C to make sure everything was out and recovery would be about 6 weeks.
I nodded while slowly putting the pieces together, “Oh like this is happening today?”

He nodded. “Yes, like right now.”

I then burst into tears, and in between sniffles tried to explain that my daughter’s birth was an emergency surgery too. His eyes were very kind and said, “Surgery is scary. I would be more concerned if you weren’t scared.” The nurse chimed in, “This surgery will be in a more controlled environment and it’ll be an outpatient procedure.” I nodded shaking, and they handed me tissues before leaving for a moment to get the paperwork that needed to be signed and done in the office and call the hospital to let them know I was coming.

I called my parents and quickly explained we would be longer and that I was going into surgery at the hospital and that Steven would call with updates when we are done. Quickly, we signed the paperwork and drove over to the hospital.

Once we were there, everything happened so quickly. Within minutes of arriving and getting to the right place, I was taken back for surgery. I was crying so hard but everyone there was so kind to me and was comforting me. Telling me it was okay to be scared and sad.
The next thing I remember, I was in recovery, the nurse there wasn’t the kindest and I was still a little groggy and kept talking about a baby and she said, “it wasn’t a baby see?” And brought over my tube that was taken out in a container and what looked like a baby in the late first trimester inside the tube. I just accepted that she didn’t believe a baby that early was really a baby and instead “products of conception”. My doctor gave Steven photos taken during the surgery and we could see it all. He mentioned to Steven he was surprised I wasn’t in more pain because my tube almost ruptured and the cyst was large and bleeding into my abdomen.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. We got home and my parents brought over my oldest and we settled in and talked a bit about what happened. I cried a lot that night and just felt in disbelief. I was in pain, but mostly due to all the cramping and bleeding associated with a D & C.

I struggled to mourn. I shared publicly pretty quickly because with my oldest we kept things private which was not helpful at all. I wanted and needed all the support I could get. We had a lot of support which was so nice. Neighbors and friends dropped off meals, sent flowers and gifts and just kind messages. It felt so nice to feel supported and love during the worst part of my life.

There wasn’t a burial or a funeral. I don’t have a headstone to visit or really any proof that my baby died. I had a positive pregnancy test. And pictures of the surgery with my baby in my tube. We named our baby a few days after surgery so we could have a name to remember our baby by: Abel Faith.

All I wanted to do was lay in my bed and cry. My bones ached with depression. I felt so empty but yet so silly for grieving so hard. Not only was I grieving my baby, I was grieving what was supposed to be my last pregnancy and my hope for a better experience. That loss was unbearable.
I carry my baby in my heart always. I will always wonder who my baby would’ve been. Would I have a girl or a boy? What would their laugh sound like? I miss all the things I never will know about my baby. I didn’t lose just a baby, I lost my child who I will ride a bike. I will never see my baby try out sports. I will never my child see graduate high school. And that loss is heavy.
I recently gave birth to my rainbow baby girl, who I actually had a few weeks before the anniversary of my ectopic pregnancy loss. She has healed my heart a lot and I feel so lucky to have gotten her in my arms. However, many seem to forget about the baby I had before and forget that it really was a baby. I may not have a grave to visit or pictures to show, but my baby mattered too. There is one that came before.

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Miscarriage

Sharna’s Story

Hello beautiful souls, 

My name is Sharna Southan. I am an Angel Mum & a rainbow mum.

Today, I want to share my story with you, starting from the beginning.

I always envisioned having a family. 

As one of four children, I didn’t want a big family myself, but I always dreamed of having one or two children. In my twenties, I believed that getting pregnant would be easy. I assumed I’d get married, have sex, fall pregnant, and start my family without any issues.

After trying to conceive for a couple of years, I began to see cracks in my perfect plan. On paper, I seemed like the ideal candidate for motherhood: fit, healthy, a non-smoker, with a stable job, a loving husband, and a home. 

Yet, I wasn’t getting pregnant. The well-meaning advice from others to “just relax, it’ll happen” was increasingly frustrating.

We decided to see a fertility specialist. After a few cycles of medication, I finally found out I was pregnant. I was overjoyed. 

In that moment, everything changed. I was going to be a mom; my future plans revolved around my baby. 

We got confirmation from the doctor and scheduled an ultrasound.

Because my periods were always irregular, we didn’t know exactly how far along I was. We went to the ultrasound appointment full of excitement. 

After an uncomfortable wait with a full bladder, the ultrasound technician said they couldn’t see anything and needed to do an internal ultrasound. 

Then came the life-altering words: “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”

The room fell silent, and I felt everything drain away. 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. 

I turned to my husband and cried, and he just held me. 

A senior technician confirmed that the pregnancy had stopped growing at seven weeks.

We were shuffled back into the waiting room and then to the doctor, who explained that I would start miscarrying naturally at home. 

We went to my mums after the appointment, for support. Her cry is still etched in my mind. She grieved my loss so heavily!

The Doctor told me to expect a heavy period. 

What happened next was far from what she described. 

I experienced severe contractions and bleeding to the point of passing out. 

My husband was frantically Googling my symptoms. 

By Monday, I was in such bad shape that my doctor called an ambulance to take me to the hospital, which was 45 minutes away.

The ambulance officer, who had helped me before during epileptic seizures, was like a guardian angel to me. I felt my dad, who had passed away when I was 19, had sent him to look out for me.

At the hospital, I was met with blank stares as I explained my situation. I was admitted to the emergency department and given pain relief for the contractions. 

For the first time, a gynecologist mentioned that one in four pregnancies end in loss. 

Despite this statistic, I felt completely alone. 

The nurse in the emergency department was kind, she had a lovely sense of humour and tried to make the situation bearable. My husband stayed with me the entire time up until surgery. 

I was prepped for a D&C (dilation and curettage). 

The nurse told me I would be fertile within the next few months, but in my medicated state, I didn’t respond. 

Later, I wondered why she would say that—it wasn’t helpful at the moment.

I woke up alone in recovery and was sent home, feeling utterly empty. This all happened in 2017, and it remains one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. 

I was fortunate to have a supportive family to help me heal and recover.

When I got home, I was left to navigate the grief, heartache, physical & emotional changes & challenges on my own.

If you know someone going through a similar experience, please don’t say, “just relax, it’ll happen” or “you still have time, you’re young” or “at least your loss was early.” Instead, learn to be there for them. 

Sit with them, acknowledge their experience, and even if you don’t know what to say, simply say, “I’m here.”

Thank you for listening to my story. Remember, you are not alone.

If you ever need me, I am here!

Connect further with me:

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Stillbirth

Holly Ann’s Story

Magnolia

My name is Holly Ann: a wife, mama, daughter, teacher, photographer, Swifite, lover of tacos, iced coffee, and all things pink. Another title I have that I had no idea would be such a large part of my life is griever.

Holly Ann Abel

You see, grief is something I used to be a stranger to, but now know all too well. I’d like to open up my heart and share with you my journey of both grief and hope.

My husband and I, high school sweethearts, were celebrating our third wedding anniversary when we found out I was pregnant with our first baby. The two lines on that pregnancy test brought so much excitement. We were expecting a baby girl and landed on the name Magnolia Eloise. Every ultrasound and every appointment were as normal as could be, and our sweet girl was healthy. I was eight months along and we had just put together the crib and began decorating the nursery. Everything was going as planned, until it wasn’t.

Holly Ann Abel

I’d like to share with you my writings of those intimate moments when grief crept into my life for the very first time.

It was a quiet drive to the hospital after hours of not feeling her move.

When we arrived, a nurse prompted me to change into a gown. I wonder now if behind her kind eyes she had an inkling my world was about to collapse. Babies shouldn’t stop moving. She knew that, but I didn’t.

She placed the doppler gently onto my belly and the room fell silent. A second nurse entered the room and then a third followed as they exchanged concerned gazes while desperately searching for a sign of life.

Quiet tears streamed down my face as I fixated on the ugly wallpaper that lined the ceiling. Seconds felt like hours as I pleaded with God for everything to be okay. Please God, let her be okay.

I turned to one of the nurses and asked if it was normal to take this long. She gently put her hand on my shoulder as she paused and shook her head. “No.”

And even though I heard her words, I held onto a false sense of hope that the doppler was broken. It had to be broken.

We waited on an ultrasound to confirm the results we had been desperately waiting for. The screen was tilted just enough for me to see a flat line where zigzags of life once appeared, and in that instant, I knew she was gone. That moment was followed by the words that I can still hear to this day:

“I’m so sorry. There’s no heartbeat.”

The nurse announced our fate through tears of her own as she wrapped her arms around my husband.

I watched the two of them, strangers before this moment, sob in each other’s arms over the life, over the future, over the baby that we lost seemingly in a matter of seconds.

I felt as if I had left my own body, my mind too numb to feel; almost as if my heart had stopped alongside hers.

Soon after receiving this devastating news, we were presented with two topics that should never be discussed together: giving birth and funeral arrangements.

My mind couldn’t wrap around the idea that my womb now knew both life and death.

And after the worst phone calls of my life, telling the people we loved most that the baby we had all been anxiously waiting for was gone, I couldn’t escape the reality that despite wanting to crawl into a hole, I had to prepare my body for delivery.

As I laid in the hospital bed preparing my body to deliver my baby whose heartbeat had unexpectedly stopped, the overwhelming emotions of fear, sadness, and confusion washed over me. I had never given birth before, let alone to a baby who would never take her first breath.

Yet, even in the midst of unimaginable pain both emotionally and physically, there was still a part of me that was eager to meet her.

It’s almost as if I had memorized every inch of her little body as she kicked away inside me all these months; the way her hand would caress the inside of my womb or how her tiny feet were strong enough to make my belly protrude in certain areas.

I felt like I knew her so deeply even though I’d only seen her in black and white pictures through scans on a screen. Our souls felt so interwoven, so connected.

Though nothing could have prepared me for what was to come, I began the journey leading up to the heart-wrenching moment where I’d get to hold her in my arms for the very first time.

Holly Ann Abel

After laboring for over 36 hours, Magnolia’s body entered the world, but her soul did not.

As she was placed on my chest, I had never felt more love than in that moment and yet simultaneously felt the crushing weight of grief, coming to the realization that she would never open her eyes, that I would never get to hear her cry, and that the chance to watch her grow up was ripped away from me so suddenly.

But through the tears, through the devastation, through the darkness, I still felt so fortunate that she chose me to be her mom. As I caressed her cheek, and wrapped her tiny fingers around my own, the world I had known before came to a halt and changed forever.

I soaked in every detail from the taste buds on her tongue to the smallest fingerprints I’d ever seen, in awe that my body could create such a perfect angel, and confounded that it couldn’t bring her safely into the world.

Though hardly weighing anything, holding a baby in my arms that I’d never get to take home felt astoundingly heavy.

And as much as it hurts to relive the pain of walking out of the hospital empty-handed, I’d do it all over again just to get that time with her. 

Holly Ann Abel

You can learn more about Holly Ann at www.bloomlikemagnolia.com.

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Miscarriage

Claire’s Story

How can you miss someone so much who you never really knew?

I lost my baby early at 6 weeks. At first I was relieved, then I was devastated.

I was 20 when I got pregnant, a college student, just lost my virginity, and not in a stable relationship. 

I was worried at first of how I could afford to support a child. Then I thought about what a miracle it is that I could create this tiny life. I decided that I would be willing to drop out, get a fulltime job, and do anything I could for this baby. 

The dad? Not so much. He wanted nothing to do with the child he helped to create. I told him I needed help and received none, I think the stress led to my early miscarriage. 

My baby would be about 3 months old now. She (I like to think it was a baby girl) would be able to feel my heartbeat and know her name when I say it to her. I never knew her well and yet it’s like I lost part of myself, like there’s this empty hole in my heart where that love existed. I want to grieve and yet don’t know how when there is nothing to bury, when there is no sign that this little human existed.

I know this story is different from others here: it’s not in a family, I wasn’t trying to conceive, and there is no happy ending. 

But I think it’s important: not only to help myself to heal but to make it known that not every loss is one that’s easy to understand. Not every loss is one that makes sense to other people. I hope this can also help bring a bit of awareness to it and hopefully a bit of comfort in solidarity with others who have gone through something similar.

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Stillbirth

Mari’s Story

I remember writing our life story a few months ago, and reading it now, I see the progress and the setbacks. I read about the hurt and the pain I went through and still do but with a different perspective. This is our story because it is my husband and I’s story, not just mine. 

Everything I had dreamed about and prepared for fell apart. December 21, 2022, was the day I died while still alive, if that makes sense. I am a 30-year-old female who lives in California. I am married to my high school sweetheart, and we have one beautiful dog named Bella. Our 2022 had been a rough year in general, with work and personal lives, but everything was turned upside down, more than it already was, on October 21, 2022. I had a routine appointment with my OBGYN every year since I was diagnosed with PCOS at 18. During this appointment, my OB was conducting an intervaginal ultrasound, and to our surprise, I was roughly 12 weeks pregnant. Shock has to be an understatement. The panic started to settle in, and the fear of the unknown also started. 

How is this even possible? First, I have had a period every 28-33 days, been on birth control, and even on other medications to help with the PCOS. The baby’s heartbeat was great and was measured at the needed measurements. As I left that office, I was nervous about telling my husband. We had not talked about when we would start trying for babies, and this, by far, was not the best time either. He was leaving his job and starting a new one. This was the same day he was scheduled to be done at the old job. I went home, dressed, and left for a concert my girlfriends and I had tickets to. I would have to talk to my husband after. 

When I told my husband, pure panic and shock came from him. He was nervous and lost. We both knew we were being careful, so he exhibited the same shock I felt. I remember him trying to make light of the situation with comments but was still lost. It took a few days to settle with the idea of what would happen. 

Fast forward to November 12, when we received the NIPT results and our baby’s gender. We did not want to do a gender reveal as we had not told our family yet since we were waiting for my sister-in-law to have her baby, and we also wanted to make sure our baby was okay. So while sitting in our garage and washing cars, we discovered we were expecting a little girl. I remember my husband always wanted girls, and I was happy. That weekend we told our families, and it was pure joy. For his parents, this would be their third grandchild, but for my parents, she was the first. We announced to the rest of the world that upcoming week and that’s when it finally hit; we were having a baby. 

The next few weeks, we spent picking nursery colors, themes, strollers, activities, and anything and everything we could think of. We had planned soccer for her as her first activity, Disney for her first trip to a theme park, and so much more. My husband showed excitement and was already getting called Dad at work. I was excited and knew that, at least for the next 18 years, I would not be alone again. My husband is a first responder and has very crazy work hours, so she was going to be my companion. 

December 16, 2022, everything changed. I got a call from the lab that my fetal protein was higher than usual. They gave me various reasons why it could be high such as twins, placenta problems, or the baby releasing the protein. I told my husband, and he was as scared as I was. I ended up in the hospital on Saturday due to my high blood pressure. While I was hospitalized, an ultrasound was performed. At the end of my visit, I was informed my baby was doing well and, not to worry, she was fine. That calmed us down, and I felt like I could breathe. 

Well, during our specialist visit, reality hit. My husband and I arrived at the center. Our appointment was at 8 am, and we waited for an eternity. When we were finally called, we were taken into a lunchroom with a genetic counselor, who asked every possible history question. I was confused about why we were being asked all of this. Well, the lab technician gave us the wrong fetal protein number. We were told it was 5.8, but in reality, it was 15.8, which a normal fetal protein for one baby is 2.4. My heart broke. I couldn’t answer anything; I was just so numb. I remember being pressured to complete some tests and procedures, but I would not consent to them. It was until my husband told her we would not consent to anything until we saw the specialist, even if we had to pay out of pocket. When we finally were done, we were placed in the waiting room for another 45 minutes, where all I saw were happy pregnant women coming in and out, and I started to feel like I was not going to be one of them.

Finally, we were taken back to the ultrasound room, where it all was looking good. The technician showed us our little girl’s head, hands, face, and heartbeat, and everything went quiet. She said, “There is a problem with the spine,” and that was the last thing she said. For the next 20 minutes, I lay there wishing it was a terrible dream. Well, the specialist came in and confirmed our worst fear: our baby would not make it. Our little girl has a severe spine problem that did not fully develop, and her little tummy never closed. My first question was about quality of life and what did that look like, and he said there wasn’t one. She would most likely not make it through delivery; if she did, it would be for a few minutes. Bringing her into this world was only going to cause her pain and suffering, as well as put my life at risk. His concern was the spine being a genetic problem, which we recently learned was not a genetic issue but rather a lack of development. Much more was discussed during the visit, but I can’t even begin to explain. The pain is what I remember and still feel.

The specialist left and gave us some time. I remember my husband helping me off the bed and just hugging me. All I could say was sorry to him. I felt so guilty and responsible for putting him and her through this. It has taken me a long time to feel less and less guilty, but I would be lying if I said the guilt was gone. We both knew what we had to do. As much as we wanted to be selfish and bring her into this world and hold her a little longer, as a parent, our job is to be unselfish and do what is best for our child. In this situation, we did not want to cause her more pain. 

The next few days were just full of numbness and pain. We let our immediate family know what was happening and when our baby would grow her angel wings. Christmas Eve came and went. This was our favorite holiday, and it was now full of pain and suffering. My husband was so lost. I remember waking up in the middle of the night while he hugged me and held my stomach crying. The pain in his eyes I will never forget. The fear of losing his new job as he had no time off available to him, thankfully they were very understanding and have always believed family comes first.  

On December 27, 2022, the first part of the D and C was started, and I was already struggling. Because I was about 20-21 weeks, I had to get some assistance to dilate. The following day, I was admitted at 9:30 am. My husband stayed with me through the entire process. He held my hand, tried to make me laugh, and helped me sleep. And at 2:30 pm, I was wheeled away, and I said goodbye to my husband. I feared what would happen, but the pain in my husband’s eyes was the same pain I was feeling. I knew that when I woke up, my baby would be gone, and she was. I woke up at 4:30 feeling panicked, and all I wanted to do was cry. The nurse and anesthesiologist tried calming me down, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t until my OBGYN came in and handed me a piece of paper with my baby’s footprint and a recording of her heartbeat. That is all I will ever have of her. Next time you see your babies, hold them tight because some of us will never be able to do that. 

As time has passed, we have gone through a rollercoaster of emotions. I have received support from many and have heard nasty remarks from others. People who I believed to be close to me have said things that have hurt me as they could never understand. With the help of a therapist, my husband and I have been moving forward and grieving in the healthiest way possible. The way we grieved has been different. I grieved immediately and felt every emotion possible, depression, anxiety, hurt, suicidal thoughts, and so much more. But now, seven months later, I feel a little better. My husband did not hit the lowest point of grieving until recently, I feel it all started around May when I was due. Right now, I am trying to be there for him and help him through the same way he was there for me, unconditionally.  As a couple, we are the strongest we have ever been, which I am grateful for. At the moment, I do have good days and bad days. And on my low days, I try to remember what a dear friend told me “Your little girl forgot something up in the sky, and she will be back.” I pray she does. 

This experience has changed me forever. I will never be the same person I was before. As the days pass, I miss my little girl more and more, but I am learning to move forward. As we talk about trying for another baby, the fear of losing them is there, and I don’t think that will ever go away. My innocence of pregnancy has been taken away, and all it has left me is fear and anxiety. But even with it all, I pray and hope that one day, we will soon be blessed with a baby who can make it earthside healthy. I will endure anything I have to bring a child into this world because, at the end of the day, holding him or her and seeing my husband hold them will be worth any pain and suffering I must endure. 

Termination for medical reasons is what I am labeled as now. Growing up, I remember saying I would never have an abortion. I was one of those people. But it is true; you don’t know until you are in those shoes. Now, I am thankful I live in a state where this is possible. I am aware some people will not approve of what we did, but it would have been selfish of us to put our child in a position to suffer. I pray and hope one day, people will understand the pain we go through and have to endure. This pain will never go away. We are told to move forward and forget by very close people, but all I can say now is let us grieve our way. We lost someone who was very innocent and loved, with no explanation. We will forever have a piece of our heart missing. I want to thank those who have given us our space and been here for us, from family, friends, and employers. Having support has been a big part of our healing process. To my dear husband, thank you for being my support system and showing me so much love; if it were not for you, I would not have made it through this. Our little angel and I love you unconditionally. We will remember her and hold her things close and very tight until we meet again. 

KMT 12/28/2022

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Coping With Loss

A letter to my baby

December 27, 2023

Every year, near the anniversary of my miscarriage, I write a letter. The first year, I was pregnant with my oldest daughter and made a video for her. In 2021, I wrote it to my pre-miscarriage self. You can read the 2022 letter here.

Here is this year’s letter.

—-

Dear Anthony,

Hi bud. Today is four years since you started to leave. Four years since I knew something was wrong and no one listened. Four years since I cried for grandma (your sister calls her “Mima.” Maybe you would have too) because I saw blood. Four years since that awful ER visit where the ultrasound tech told us stories like ours “didn’t have a happy ending.”

And it didn’t.

But somehow, after four years of mourning you, carrying your sisters, and feeling the ebb and flow of this awful grief, I’ve been able to find joy again.

Don’t get me wrong, the missing you doesn’t go away. My heart still aches whenever I take out the Christmas decorations and think of how your dad packed them all up while you slowly slipped away. I still feel lonely when I’m surrounded by family during our yearly beach vacation, but am thinking of you on what should’ve been your birthday. I still run to the window when the sun comes out after a rainstorm, searching for a rainbow. Looking for a sign of you.

But the thing that has surprised me the most is the mother I’ve been able to become despite that grief. Despite the worry and frustration and waiting. It made me strong.

You made me strong.

You did this.

I will never understand why you couldn’t stay. I wonder when your sister K will start to wonder who you are, who this “Anthony” is that we pray for every night. Why we have books about babies that don’t make it earth-side and brothers who are angels. This year, she saw your ultrasound picture on the Christmas tree and asked. I told her I had another baby in my belly named Anthony before her. He was her brother. She said her usual “oooh!” and then moved on to the next ornament. I know the questions will continue (as they always seem to do with her) and I look forward to continuing to talk about you. I want them to know how special it is that they made it here. How wanted they were. All three of you were so, so wanted.

And you, my boy, are so, so missed.

I hope you saw me heal this year. Your littlest sister helped, I had no idea it was possible to be that calm during a pregnancy. Maybe you helped too.

But no matter how much I “heal” or how much time passes, I want you to know that the space I have in my heart for you sits right next to the space I have for those girls. All three of you changed me in a way I never knew possible.

I am a better person because of all of you.

I am still so grateful for those 10 weeks we had.

I am so grateful to know you.

And I love being your mom.

Love you forever,

Mommy

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Pregnancy After Loss

Life After Pregnancy Loss: Rachna

Rachna previously shared the story of the loss of her son, Rohan. This is another piece written by her of a more introspective look into her life after loss and her pregnancy after loss journey.

—-

The test is positive. I’ve been waiting for this moment for the last year. And even though I thought this moment would be “the moment”–the moment where my grief would at least be mellowed, and I could breathe a sigh of relief– it’s not.

I am in disbelief when I get my confirmation blood tests. I didn’t believe the ten pregnancy tests I took, and I don’t believe this test either.

My heart sinks when I start bleeding at 6 weeks. I demand an early ultrasound. I expect to see the worst, only to be told that everything looks perfect.

When I get the indeterminate results of my early genetic screening, I assume my baby has a high risk defect, even though follow up testing is normal.

I nearly break down when I am in the operating room at 13 weeks pregnant, feet in stirrups, a cerclage (cervical stitch) newly sewn into my cervix. The stitch that is somehow supposed to prevent the devastating loss I had last year.

I am frozen in disbelief at my 20 week scan, when my OB tells me to go on bed rest “just to be safe”. I essentially lay in bed for 8 weeks, scared that every shower, bathroom break, cough or sneeze is the beginning of another end.

A friend from college texts me that she is pregnant. I haven’t shared my news with anyone yet, and I am angry that she casually mentions her perfectly healthy pregnancy when she knows about the loss I went through. I block her texts and never speak to her again.

My heart fills with hope when I find out the precious baby I am carrying is another boy.  A boy who will never replace the one I lost, but who I am protecting with every fiber of my being in order to hold him alive, in my arms.

I have new strength when I make it to viability, further than I have ever been in pregnancy. It is immediately shadowed by worry. I just continue to count the weeks and days, looking up the statistics that my baby will survive if he’s born at 24 weeks, then 28 weeks, then 32 weeks…

There are moments of happiness, such as when I am allowed to go back to work. Yet my pregnant belly is also the prompt for heart-breaking questions like, “Is this your first?”

I find out my sister is pregnant too, three months behind me, happily buying things for her baby’s nursery, while my husband hides our necessary purchases in the garage, knowing even the sight of a crib may set off a panic attack.

I lay awake at night and try to feel my baby’s kicks, certain that there were more yesterday, and that something is terribly wrong.

The end of my third trimester should be celebratory, but I have more anxiety as time passes. It’s almost as if the further along I am, the harder it is to accept that if something goes wrong–this far along–I don’t/won’t/can’t have the strength to do it again.

It feels like I stop breathing.

I don’t breathe when I go in for the additional growth ultrasounds and heart monitoring I “get” to have because of my high risk pregnancy, I just wait to hear the words “I’m sorry” or “The baby’s not moving”. Those words never come, but I still wait.

I don’t breathe when I make it to 36.5 weeks and my cerclage is removed. The doctor shows me the thick band of surgical suture that has brought me this far, given my baby this chance, but I still don’t breathe.

I don’t breathe when I make it to my scheduled induction, in the hospital where I lost my first son.

And then, they lay my warm, wriggling baby on my chest, and I finally breathe. I cry tears of joy, then anger, grief, and fear. I cry every emotion I have felt in the last nine months–the last two years. Maybe that’s why they are called rainbow babies, because we experience the full spectrum of emotions while we grow them.

It doesn’t end there. Being a loss mom, there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about my lost son. I think about how I would have had two under two. How cute Rohan would look helping out his younger brother. How my family would feel complete.

I also spend some part of every day worried about my living son. Will he get cancer? Will he be in an accident? Will he get shot at his pre-school? Is this what being a parent is? Doing your best to protect your children, but reconciling with the fact that we live in a world where keeping them forever is not a certainty?

Pregnancy after loss is a special kind of hell. Everything is tinged with sadness and thoughts about “what may have been”. It’s just the way it is.

Shortly after I lost Rohan, I listened to a podcast about the idea of “meaning making” in grief. In the episode someone quoted, “Loss is what happens to you in life, meaning is what you make happen.”

I use Rohan’s loss to make moments of meaning with Sam. Enjoying his laugh, cheering on his first steps, gazing at his dimpled smile. I never shy away from holding him or kissing him, telling him I love him. I try to experience each moment fully–for the son I have and the one I lost.

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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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