Tag Archives: coping with pregnancy loss

Miscarriage

Toni’s Story

Kingston

Nothing can prepare you for these words: “I’m sorry, but your baby doesn’t have a heartbeat”.

In January 2021, we announced our pregnancy to the world via social media. We found out in December that we would have another addition to our incredible family. We were shocked, excited, amazed and so happy. We went to an 8 week ultrasound and saw the most adorable little baby with a PERFECT heartbeat. It made all of the doubts disappear and bring everything into reality. Our children were so excited, especially my son, Elijah. He prayed for over two years that we would have a baby boy. The past two Christmases he has put “baby brother” on his Christmas list.

Needless to say, this was going to be the best Christmas gift EVER! On February 8th we went to get our second ultrasound. This time the baby would be quite a big bigger, 12 weeks and 3 days to be exact. It was finally our turn to go back into the room to see our precious gift! We all got settled and the room was full of excitement and anticipation. I held a small screen in my hand and my baby girl was laying next to me, while the other two kiddos were sitting with their daddy watching on the TV. She began to show us our baby, the baby was PERFECT. All three kiddos were so excited. The smiles were big and hearts were full. Then I heard the words that no one ever wants to hear, “I am sorry, but your baby doesn’t have a heartbeat.” My heart sank, I immediately felt like time was frozen and my world stopped spinning. Her words replay in my head over and over, even to this day.

Ryon came over to comfort me, The kids were all crying and confused. We prayed as a family and then began to walk the hardest road I’ve ever had to walk.

I carried our sweet baby for almost a month after finding out I wouldn’t get to meet them this side of Heaven.  On March 3, 2021 I had a D&C. It was the most excruciating decision I’ve ever had to make. I left the hospital empty handed, but I know that he/she is in the arms of Jesus and that one day I’ll get to meet my 4th amazing child.

Our hearts are grieving but we want you all to know that God is still good. He’s never changed during this whole process. He is a loving father and he’s close to the broken hearted.

We appreciate your prayers as we move forward toward healing and restoration.

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Miscarriage

Reese’s Story

Feijãozinho

In March of this year, we finally received the gift we have been waiting on so long. Positive pregnancy tests! I cannot begin to tell you the immense joy emanating from simply seeing two lines on the pregnancy test. For the last few years, I was riddled with anxiety and sadness from just getting negative results, but now it was finally happening. 

We first saw our baby “Feijãozinho” in our 7 week scan on the 29th of March. A wee little baby. A tiny blip in my tummy. Our reality was unfolding beautifully and our love grew more and more for this wonderous miracle. We had another scan in our 8th week and we heard Feijãozinho’s heart beating for the first time. I have heard heart beats constantly in my nursing career but trust me when I say that it was the most beautiful heart rhythm I have ever heard: strong and promising. My husband woke me up in the mornings by nuzzling my stomach, I fell asleep to him talking to Feijãozinho. We started planning for the future that had been our heart’s desire for the longest time: a future where I am Mamãe, João is Papai, and we have our baby Feijãozinho. Our weekends were filled with going to baby fairs, going to maternity shops and choosing car seats and buggies. Every waking moment revolved around our child. Our love, hopes and dreams have all been placed in a baby-shaped basket.

We went around in a baby haze, continuing our daily routines but very mindful of the precious cargo we were carrying. I received my first appointment at the Coombe for May 6th. I left work on May 5th wishing my colleagues a lovely weekend and telling them excitedly we’re seeing the baby the next day for our 12 week scan.

We had no clue as to how our reality would change the day after. The morning of the scan, I was sending my friends and family photos of my baby bump. I went in the Coombe, got through my booking appointment, had my bloods taken, then rang my husband to meet me in the Maternity scanning department. I remember feeling irate as all the ladies who arrived after me got called in first. It might have been the Universe’s way to try to spare us from the pain a few minutes longer.

We went in and did our routine checks. The sonographer located the baby but fell into a deep silence. After a few seconds, she ran the color flow.

It was after that she said the words which broke my husband and I: “I am sorry but your baby has no heartbeat..”

I had to wait a week to get another scan done and I am not going to lie, there was this little voice of hope in the back of my mind wishing for a different outcome. Doctor Alex and rANP Sinead unfortunately confirmed what we already knew. I was then faced with a decision whether to wait for my body to expel the fetus naturally, take medication that will induce labor, or go for surgery. I went for the latter.


Today marks the day that our angel baby was physically separated from my body. There is a feeling of finality around the whole experience and a lingering wistfulness around the loss but my heart remains hopeful. Before I went into the hospital, I whispered to our angel baby to look after me. Feijãozinho sent nurse Joanne in St Gerard’s Ward, nurse Rita and Kuya Alfred who held my hand in the OR until I went under. I woke up to my kind and empathetic nurse, Patience, in the recovery room. Feijãozinho pulled through and looked after his Mãe and I know our baby will always be with us and that he’s being minded by his Lolo Ato & great grandma Mayet.

I look at my husband and who has been rock through this whole ordeal who never fails to give me as much affection as I want with a smile on his face. I know that my broken heart mirrors his but he has bravely put his own needs over mine and has been looking after me like a trooper. I couldn’t have picked better husband and my love grows for him deeper from all the challenges we have been through.

Our baby has gone to heaven now but we will forever be his parents. We cannot wait for the day that we get to meet again, but until that happens, we pray for the strength to carry us through every day while hoping and praying for a healthy Earth-side baby.

This is our story that I am sharing to the world as no parents should suffer the loss of their child in silence. I am 1 in 4 & I am 1 in 8.

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Stillbirth

Megan’s Story

Gwendolyn

My partner and I were so excited and surprised to find out we were expecting our first child in September 2021. We had a relatively smooth first trimester, and elected to do NIPT testing which revealed we were having a girl and our daughter had a 50/50 chance of having Turner Syndrome (monosomy x). From that moment, we were determined to learn all that we could about Turner Syndrome and prepare for our child. We were told that she probably didn’t have it because up to that point her ultrasounds had been good. We decided to move forward with an amniocentesis, and were seen at 16 weeks. It was at this ultrasound we first learned our sweet Gwendolyn had a large cystic hygroma, hydrops, and all of her long bones were measuring short. These are all symptoms of Turner Syndrome. We chose not to move forward with the amnio because we didn’t want to increase risk of harm to Gwen, and we were determined to make it to have a living baby. 

Fast forward to 21 weeks, and we had Gwen’s anatomy scan and fetal echocardiogram, and we were told this would be a two hour appointment. Pretty quickly into the ultrasound, it was determined that Gwen’s condition had worsened significantly. Gwen’s cystic hygroma had grown to include her head, neck, back, and arms. Gwen’s hydrops around her heart and abdomen had increased in size and due to her positioning, the tech couldn’t complete the scan in its entirety. About 15 minutes into this, the tech stopped the scan and said she was going to get the doctor. I will never forget this horrendous interaction with this doctor. They came into our room and said due to low fluid around Gwen (she was absorbing all of the amniotic fluid) and her large cystic hygroma, they did not think additional time would benefit the scan, and so it was ended. Essentially, the doctor proceeded to tell us everything we’d heard before and could tell us nothing hopeful about our beloved daughter. 

The next week we had our first appointment with our MFM specialist. During that appointment we were asked if we were hoping Gwen would pass on her own, and I instantly said yes. It was evident after our last scan we would not be bringing Gwen home. We had been so determined not to terminate! We wanted our daughter. During this appointment, after exploring the risks, we decided the best thing we could do for our baby was TFMR. This gut-wrenching decision was made with nothing but love and a desire to prevent our daughter from suffering. 

On 2/7/2022, we arrived at the hospital for the procedure knowing we would be admitted after to start induction. On 2/8/2022 Gwendolyn Faith was born.

We were able to spend about 12 hours with Gwen. Leaving the hospital without her almost killed me. Thankfully, the funeral home we used quickly had her ashes to us days later. 

Unlike a lot of people I’ve met on this journey, we opted out of additional genetic testing and an autopsy—to us we already knew what was happening with Gwen. We felt no reason to continue testing when the outcome wouldn’t change. 

In the time since losing Gwen, life has honestly been difficult. My milk came in, and that was another hurdle to overcome. It dried up in about a week, but ultimately was a reminder she wasn’t home. All of the clothes and baby items we purchased sit untouched. We found a support group locally, and I’ve attended several group sessions online. I also go to individual therapy. 

My goal in writing this, is that those going through this don’t feel alone. I felt so isolated because I don’t know anyone else who’s been through this process. Making the “choice” for termination never felt like a choice. We simply wanted to promise our daughter she would never know suffering. We will forever be grateful for the time we had with our beautiful, perfect child. 

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Stillbirth

Chelsea’s Story

Theodore

A letter to our son. Forever our best Christmas gift. 

It took us 4 years & 8 months to be exact to get pregnant with you. But before you, I got pregnant naturally with your sister in January of 2020. She didn’t survive very long in my belly and we lost her on March 10th, 2020, we were so heartbroken. One year later your daddy & I did a treatment called In vitro fertilization to help us grow a family. So that’s how I got pregnant with you in April 2021. You were what people call a rainbow baby and we were so beyond excited but still had a bit of fear within us. We wanted you to be as safe as possible. 

At 16 weeks, I had a subchorionic hemorrhage which was significantly large. We were told that things could go either really good or really bad. Thankfully you were growing like a little weed and there was no more complications and the hemorrhage went away around 27 weeks. I was being closely monitored and I got to see you on the ultrasound every 2-3 weeks and then once a week towards the end. 

Chelsea Sowa

On December 15th 2021 at my 38 week scan, you had a perfect heart rate as per usual. Other than a little bit of extra amniotic fluid there was no sign of any threatening issues. You were a pretty big boy already so I was scheduled to be induced on December 22nd. We were so excited we were going to be able to show you off at Christmas. 

Little did we know our world was about to be turned upside down.  

In the late hours of December 16th I didn’t feel you kicking me, so I grabbed my doppler to see if you were okay. I instantly felt nauseous, the only heartbeat I was hearing was my own. Early in the morning on December 17th, your dad & I started our 2 hour drive to the nearest hospital. It was freezing cold but the sun was shining. We sat almost the whole time in silence. When we were 30 mins away from the city, your dad pointed out a tiny rainbow in the sky. When we finally arrived at the hospital, we went up to the maternal care unit and they took us in right away. The nurse put the monitor on me and searched for your heartbeat but couldn’t find it. The doctor came in and started the bed side ultrasound. We were all looking at the screen, sitting in silence. I couldn’t see a flicker of your heart on the screen but I still had an inch of hope that you were okay. Finally the doctor pointed to the screen, she spoke in the softest tone “so…..this is where the heart is, ”she paused and then continued with the traumatizing words “there’s no heartbeat.” 

Your dad & I broke down in disbelief. I looked at the doctor and through my tears I said “how?” At the time all she could say was “I’m so sorry, Chelsea”.

In the blink of an eye, the future with you was erased. 

They gave us some time and we gathered our thoughts as much as we could and broke the news to your grandparents & aunts. 

That evening I was induced and all we did was sit in the hospital room trying to grasp what happened. In some ways, I felt like we were there to bring you into the world and then I would realize we weren’t going to be able to bring you home.

On December 18th,  your grandparents & aunts came to visit most of the day. I wasn’t feeling much progress but once it was 24 hours they started doing a little more for me and then finally I could feel more stuff happening. It was nothing major so we were able to rest that night as much as we could. 

On December 19th at 6am, the doctor came in to break my water and by 8am my contractions were getting a lot stronger and then by 10am they were full force and I had to have a top up of medication. 

Just before 12pm I knew I was getting close to having to push. I was at 9cm, the Doctors and nurses started to get ready. At 12:02pm I started to push and at 12:27pm you were born. 7 pounds 14.6 oz,  21 inches of pure perfection. 

When I held you, I looked at you and waited for you to cry, but you didn’t. All I could think of was “how can my baby be this perfect and not have a chance at life?” 

We spent only 26 hours of being the family we waited 5 & a half years to be but it was the best 26 hours of our lives. We took that time to enjoy as much as we could because I knew going home was going to be the hardest. 

It’s been almost 3 months and we still have no answers as to why this happened. So I guess you really were just too beautiful for earth. Even though our Christmas wasn’t what we expected it to be, you made us feel a love we’ve never felt before. Your name means gift and even though you’re not physically with us, you were our little miracle & you will forever be our best Christmas gift. We love you so much Theodore Joseph.

Chelsea Sowa
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Stillbirth

Blaire’s Story

Nora

Our first daughter was born in October of 2016. I naively thought that it took “forever” to get pregnant with her, it took 3 months (insert eye roll here). It was a very uneventful pregnancy that ended with a somewhat eventful delivery. My water broke at 36 weeks and 6 days and our beautiful daughter made her Halloween debut. Fast forward through postpartum depression, moving 12 hours away from our support system, the death of close family members, and 2 years later, we decide we are ready to try for a second child. This is where our long journey to Nora begins.

In early 2019, I got pregnant and then went through a missed miscarriage. I got positive tests, faint ones, but still positive. My period was over a week late so I made an appointment with my doctor for the first ultrasound. About a week or so after that I started having bad back cramps that my doctors office dismissed as just normal pregnancy pains. The next day, I started bleeding heavily and ended up in the emergency room where I was told my HCG levels were very low and they could not find anything on the ultrasound. This was my first experience with the world of miscarriages and it was devastating. To make matters worse, when I followed up with the OB/GYN I was seeing at the time, she told me that no one really looks into the cause of miscarriages until you have had three. 

In 2020, I had my second and third miscarriages – these were also early. I made an appointment with my OB/GYN to discuss the fact that it had taken quite a while to get pregnant again and I had just had 2 more miscarriages. I was 33 at that point and worried that my age may be playing a part in everything. At that appointment, I expressed my concerns and was thankfully taken seriously by my doctor. She ran as many tests as she was able to and then referred me to a fertility specialist when all of her tests came back with no answers.

Through fertility testing, we were diagnosed with secondary infertility. What a frustrating world to be in. You’re told that you should feel lucky that you have one child at least, and everything happens for a reason. I hate that phrase. Yes, I am so lucky to have my daughter, but I also feel like my family isn’t complete yet, and would love to give her a sibling. 

Our fertility doctor suggested we try IUI and was pretty confident that we would get pregnant that way. We did three medicated rounds and finally got pregnant. I went in and got it confirmed via a blood test on a Thursday and was told to come back Monday to make sure my HCG levels were rising. By Saturday, I was not getting positive digital tests (yes, I continued testing at home, because I was paranoid it wasn’t going to stick) and by Sunday, I was bleeding. Monday’s blood test confirmed my fourth miscarriage. It had been 2-2 ½ years of trying and the miscarriages were just taking a toll on me mentally. I told my husband that if our next round did not work, I didn’t know if I could keep going. 

Round 4 of IUI was next and what do you know, it worked. I got a positive test about 4 days early and the lines just kept getting darker, I couldn’t believe it. We went in at 6 weeks to get our first ultrasound and saw baby’s heartbeat. I still couldn’t believe it. We also found out I had a small hematoma and I was put on pelvic rest until the next week when they would scan again. At week 7 the hematoma was gone and you could see the little heartbeat fluttering strong. I was released to my regular OB/GYN and scheduled my first appointment with them. We were so excited and started telling our family and close friends when we were about 8 or 9 weeks along. 

Blaire Graniero

I cautiously started to plan for baby’s arrival, we had a due date of February 11th 2022. I still couldn’t believe I was pregnant! I wouldn’t let myself get too excited though, because I was scared it was all going to end. We found out baby was a little girl and started thinking of names. My husband and daughter were so very excited. Then, I started spotting around 11 or 12 weeks. I thought for sure it was the end. I went into the office for another scan to see what was going on. Come to find out, I had another hematoma and was put on pelvic rest again. When I went back for a follow up ultrasound at 15 weeks, we were told it was gone. I was relieved and let myself finally get excited about baby girl. We started getting out all of our baby stuff and set up the room for her, I got the registry going, and we started narrowing down names and finally landed on Nora Blake. Everything felt right.

Blaire Graniero

My next appointment was for our anatomy scan at 19.5 weeks. Covid was ramping up again and my doctors office changed their policy about who was able to come into the office. Children were no longer allowed, and on that particular day we unfortunately didn’t have anyone to watch our daughter, so my husband wasn’t able to go. I was nervous for some reason, but everyone assured me that everything was fine and it was just my anxiety. But deep down I just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

During my scan I noticed that Nora wasn’t moving around all that much, but she had a strong heartbeat so all was fine. I told myself there was no reason to be anxious. Then the ultrasound tech started scanning her heart and kept scanning her heart. I tried to not pay attention to it too much and asked her if I had an anterior placenta because I wasn’t able to feel her move much. She responded that she would answer that in just a minute because she needed to keep checking for something really quick. She then told me that there didn’t seem to be a lot of amniotic fluid and she was having trouble taking some measurements, she needed to go get the doctor to double check.

Cue instant fear and tears. I was so scared in that moment, and alone. The few minutes that she was gone felt so long. Finally, my nurse practitioner came in and looked at everything. When we went back to the room I called my husband in tears and told him that something was wrong, I didn’t know what yet, but something. When she came back in the room she explained to us that there was not much amniotic fluid, there may be a hole in her heart, they can’t find her bladder and she’s also measuring two weeks behind. She was going to refer us to the high risk OB group and her nurse would try to get us in as soon as possible.

We were able to get in two days later and were met with the absolute worst news. Anatomically, Nora appeared to be fine, but there was no measurable amniotic fluid and she was incredibly small. We were told that she most likely would not survive because at that point I was only 19 weeks and a few days. We could terminate the pregnancy or continue to be monitored weekly to see if there was any improvement. We chose the latter. At that point our doctor’s best guess was placental insufficiency, she just wasn’t getting what she needed to grow, and unfortunately, there was nothing anyone could do.

Every week, we made the 45 minute drive to see our doctor and get another set of scans. Every week Nora was alive, but with little to no improvement. Every week we didn’t know if we should be hopeful or not. Every week we left our appointment with so many more questions. But every week was one more week with her, so we tried to enjoy it as much as we could. 

At one point, around 22ish weeks, we started talking about the possibility of her maybe being able to survive and receive medical intervention if I went into labor, but only if she had finally grown. Unfortunately, the scans showed that wasn’t the case. And then doppler scans of her umbilical cord and liver started showing signs of reversal. We were told we probably had a couple of days left. Nora had other plans though because she held on another week.

At 23 weeks we went in and were surprised to see her still alive. That probably sounds awful to say, but we were truly shocked when we would go in each week and she would have a heartbeat. At that appointment, her dopplers showed a complete reversal of blood flow. She was not getting anything at that point and her heartbeat was starting to slow. We made an appointment to come in the next Monday rather than Wednesday to check and see what was going on. Our daughter’s fifth birthday was quickly approaching, so we wanted to know what was going on before that.

On Monday, we went to our appointment and during my triage with the nurse, we discovered my blood pressure was high. I thought it was probably because we were anticipating Nora not having a heartbeat and all the stress of the last few weeks catching up to me. She had me sit for a few minutes and checked again; it still had not gone down. Our doctor was worried that I may be starting to have preeclampsia and told us that it was time to be induced. I was 24 weeks now. We checked into the hospital at 10:00 that night and I was started on Cytotec around midnight.

At 9:52 am on October 26th, Nora was born. She unfortunately did not survive labor though. She was so small, but she was a little person. She had a head full of hair already and looked just like her older sister. Immediately after delivery, I was started on medication for preeclampsia. Then we got to hold Nora for as long as we wanted. The hospital staff were so kind. They brought us a memory box that had a small blanket, some hats, an angel gown, a tiny cloth diaper and a few other things. They also took pictures of her, got her handprints and footprints, and allowed us as much time with her as we needed. 

On the 27th, I was discharged. I thought everything up until that point was difficult, but boy was I wrong. I had to finally face the reality that I was leaving the hospital without my daughter. I had to be wheeled past all of the postpartum rooms, and then on the way out of the hospital going to the parking deck I passed a new mom and dad getting a picture taken with the newborn. It was a punch to the gut. I had a 45 minute drive to get it all out of my system and pull myself together enough to go home and then tell my almost 5 year old that her baby sister was no longer alive. 

The next few weeks were incredibly difficult as I navigated still being a mom to a living child, having preeclampsia and constantly monitoring my blood pressure, and dealing with typical postpartum issues. We still had no answers after those first few weeks. The physical exam of the placenta only revealed that it was small and it showed some calcification, but nothing major, and Nora’s autopsy revealed that while she was very small, she was perfect in every other way. I started going back to see a therapist and trying to work through the fact that I may not have an answer to why everything happened and how to move forward. 

A few days before Christmas, we finally got an answer. The pathology report on my placenta finally came back and it revealed that I have something called Massive Perivillous Fibrin Deposition. The very basic explanation is that there was a bunch of “gunk” around the villi on my placenta and it prevents blood flow. It is an extremely rare condition and there is very little known about it. It appears that it may have a pretty high recurrence rate and there is no known cure to prevent it from happening. I am glad to have an answer, and to know that I truly did nothing to cause this. It is a scary answer though, and we do not know what things will look like moving forward, but for now it can help us get a little bit of closure. What I do know right now is that we are a family of four, and even though Nora is not physically with us, she will always be known and have a presence in our lives. We hope to be able to share her story with other families so they know they aren’t alone, because a journey like this definitely feels isolating and lonely. 

Professional photos courtesy of 84W Photography.

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Miscarriage

Emily’s Story

Hazel

It’s no surprise that 2020 was a difficult year for me as well as many other people. In October, my grandfather was diagnosed with Covid and four days later he died.

I found out the Friday before Thanksgiving that we were pregnant, and I was actually kind of shocked because it had taken half the amount of time to get pregnant as it did with our son. I am a religious person and I most definitely thought that this was a gift from my grandfather to us, something to get us through the heartbreak and a baby that we had hoped and prayed for.

 A week after I found out that I was pregnant, confirmed by blood test, I had started to have some bleeding. I didn’t think that anything was out of the ordinary considering that I had had bleeding with my previous pregnancy. I had an ultrasound done to confirm everything was okay around six weeks and two days and was told that I would follow up in two weeks for another ultrasound. Those weeks were stressful leading up to the next ultrasound but I truly believed that everything was going to be okay. The night before my ultrasound I found out that our son was a close contact of a Covid positive person at daycare and would be quarantined through December 26. That was devastating because the thought of even gathering for Christmas was off the table at that point. I knew that I had to go to the ultrasound. I knew that I needed to have it done or else I would go crazy for another week and I wasn’t a close contact. 

I went to the ultrasound and the ultrasound technician was making small talk with me asking me about my previous pregnancy, what I was doing for the holidays, small talk. Once she was finished she told me that she had to have the radiologist take a look at the images because it was a follow up ultrasound. I remember thinking that this was strange because the last ultrasound they called me to let me know the results. I also just had a feeling something was off. Call it “mom intuition,” if you will. The radiologist came in and looked at the images. The ultrasound technician gave him my gestational age and he took a look again. He looked at me and said, “There is a little baby in there, but I’m so sorry there’s no longer a heartbeat.” The fetal demise was most likely five days prior. These are words you never forget.

The ultrasound technician was really sweet and she told me she already had Covid and if I wanted to take off my mask I could. She told me that I could get dressed when I was ready and she would go talk to the doctor and see what the next steps would be.  I got dressed and attempted to use the phone in the ultrasound room to call home and tell my husband that I would be a little bit later because the baby was dead.  After some time the technician came back and said my doctor was out on vacation through the new year and a different doctor would see me.  

I had to sit in the waiting room because there were no empty rooms for me to wait in. I’m sure that way it would’ve felt really long regardless of how long I actually waited but I waited roughly 30 minutes in the waiting room bawling my eyes out. Near pregnant women, new babies. When it was finally my turn, the medical assistant wanted to take my weight. I asked her if it was really necessary. She added that I could pass but it would be charted as a weight refusal. I told her I found out my baby is dead and you want to take my weight. She told me she didn’t know why I was there as I was just added to the schedule and that she was sorry. 

I waited in the room. I don’t know how long for the doctor to come in. I wasn’t on the schedule and clearly they fit me in. I don’t recall much of what he said except for it’s very common, and there’s nothing I could’ve done that caused this. He told me that when you have a miscarriage you basically have three options: you can wait and see what happens, take medication to cause you to miscarry or you have a surgical procedure most commonly known as a D & C. He went over all the risks of all of three and honestly, I was scared to death and I was sitting in a room all by myself having to make these major medical decisions without anyone that I know and trusted to confide in. Partly because of Covid and the thought of being in a hospital for surgery scared me as well as the risk factors I chose to wait and let it happen on its own.

A week and a half later I went in for repeat lab work to measure the progress of my hCG dropping. It was still at 40,000 units. I really just wanted to talk to my doctor that I knew and trusted about all of this. He did call me back once he returned to work and it was decided we’d have a follow up appointment in a week. Because of Covid, it was a virtual visit and my mental state was spiraling.

I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop crying. I kept thinking that maybe they were all wrong. I felt like my body had failed me again by not letting go of this baby.

We decided that we would take the medical management route. That day, I picked up my prescription and I would take them on Saturday. My doctor wanted me to be off of work for two weeks. I thought one week would be enough time and I had a bonus day off for Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

I had to take the pills every four hours until they were gone. The first two pills I had to stick up my vagina and would repeat that until I started bleeding. The pills were a hexagon shape and I could feel them scrape me inside as I put them inside. An hour later, I started to bleed. The pain was so excruciatig. Anyone that tells you it’s like a heavy period has clearly never had a miscarriage before. While I was given pain medication, I didn’t take it as it makes me feel weird and I don’t like that feeling.

I found a text message recently that I had exchanged with one of my friends and described the pain I felt the day of my miscarriage to feeling like death. It’s kind of fitting because part of me did die that day.

I scoured the Internet for 2-3 weeks trying to figure out when it would happen and what it would feel like, how would I feel, what would I experience and was left with little to no luck. I felt so alone physically and was alone except for my immediate family because of Covid. I think that’s part of the problem with miscarriage, that we feel so secluded.  Unless you’ve had one you don’t understand what we go through and will go through for the rest of our lives. I knew of people that had experienced pregnancy loss before me and I didn’t think it was a big deal. I know now that I was very wrong. 

It was a couple of months after the fact that I felt very strongly about how I was treated as a patient in my encounter the day I found out and in subsequent lab visits. I felt that the system was flawed within the hospital. I had completed the survey after my visits but never had heard anything from anyone regarding my concerns. That bothered me and it wasn’t until I read a book about baby loss and the writing prompts in the back asked what you wanted to change post loss. This experience was what I wanted to change. I couldn’t have my baby back but maybe we could be given some dignity and compassion while we are having our hearts ripped out of our body. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I thought nothing would happen because how could I make any change happen.

After submitting my complaint to the hospital, a week later I received a phone call from the manager of the department wanting to find out more about my story apologizing for everything that happened. Over the course of a month or so I received three or four phone calls from her with updates on their improved protocol and steps that would occur when someone finds out their baby has died. I literally cried when I read the email of all the finalized steps that they had taken. Going so far as to have baby free rooms for patients to wait in. No one needs babies all in their faces during that time. Honestly, I was a little bit angry with everything. I wished somebody would have done that before I had ever had that experience, but was happy knowing that it would be a bit easier on those experiencing baby loss.

I connected with many miscarriage accounts on social media after my miscarriage. Many had said it would get better with time though it doesn’t feel like it now. I didn’t believe it and never thought I’d ever get out of this brain fog while the whole world continued on around me. Flushing your fetus down the toilet feels awful. I recall saying hello and goodbye and hesitating to flush. I was angry that I didn’t know that there was another way, that I could’ve done something differently.

Through my interactions with the hospital, I was connected with one of the chaplains. She was a lovely woman and the first person I felt true compassion and care for our situation and through everything I endured at the hospital. They do a communal burial of all the babies lost too soon (with parental consent). She allowed us to bury momento of our choosing even though our baby was not physically present. I finally felt that my baby’s was honored and would be remembered. The memorial service was perfect and touching and I cried through the entire thing. I wished I didn’t have to be watching it but was happy that someone finally was allowing us to grieve in a more normal way.

Shortly after this memorial service happened I had a dream. In my dream my grandfather was there and he was with a little girl.  He told me that he was now 97, four years older than when he died.  The girl was four years old and he explained that this was our daughter. We didn’t know if we were having a boy or a girl. Dreams are strange sometimes. I had no idea if this was a sign of a future daughter or our baby that had passed. It seemed more logical that because my grandpa was dead that this was our daughter that left us too soon. My husband and I decided to give her a name, one we had agreed upon shortly before my miscarriage. 

It’s a few days away from her “first” birthday. I’d give anything to have her here with us. But know she is smiling down on us, proud of the work we’ve done to make things better. My sweet Hazel, I hope you know how much I love you.

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Miscarriage

Lindsey’s Story

It was the last day of September.

The fall weather was attempting to come out, the bees were finally going away, I was two months into a new position at work that I loved, and everything was okay, until it wasn’t.

I knew it wasn’t when everything was red. Red and alarming. A color you don’t want to see in early pregnancy. My least favorite color. The sight of it made me dizzy. I grasped on to one tiny spark of hope that it was a fluke, and that maybe, somehow, everything would be okay. But it wasn’t.

In a whirlwind that felt like hours my husband was in the school parking lot to pick me up. Parents had already started arriving for dismissal and I remember leaving quickly and quietly, so as to avoid small talk with them.

Then there were nurses, pads, IVs, BP cuffs, ultrasounds. No answers. Just questions. The same questions on repeat. Don’t these people communicate with each other?
“How far along were you?” Their use of past tense in this question struck a nerve with me. It was tactless, and confirmed what I already knew to be true.
“When was your last menstrual cycle?”
“When did the bleeding start?”
More questions, more notes typed into my file.
What seemed emergent to me seemed like another day on the job here.

“Wait back out in the waiting room until we get a room ready” they said.
So I sat there, in a chair on top of my folded up cardigan because I had bled through my pants. I stood in line at the front desk to ask for a few more pads. Why would they send me back out here without one? I was embarrassed and frustrated.
I waited, anxiously, for the door to open and for them to call my name.
I started to accept the situation, that the baby I had grown to love was no longer nestled safe and snug inside my womb.

Why? “Don’t blame yourself” they say. This is difficult to do when you find yourself questioning every decision you could have, should have, would have done differently.

5 minutes turned to 20, then 20 turned to 40. The nursery chimes played on the hospital intercom to indicate that a baby had been born. Tears soaked my mask as the realization hit that someone else was celebrating their miracle at the same time that mine had slipped away. For the first time since the pandemic started, I felt an ounce of gratitude for the mask that concealed my sorrow from the strangers in the room. My husband grabbed my hands and we sat in solitude. Just the two of us, when it should have been three. I thought about that scene from UP, where Carl holds Ellie. I was grateful that I had my own Carl. I felt sad for him, having to grieve our loss while watching me in pain.

I was sent home with nothing but a written excuse to be off work. I felt empty, in the worst of ways.
The days that followed that night in the hospital were dark, and despite the outpouring of love, support, and gifts from loved one, this was the loneliest I’ve ever felt.

Friends and family said every combination of all of the right and wrong things. Some said nothing at all.
I thought of the irony that it would be my luck to lose my baby the day before Infant and Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month. I tried to busy my mind with social media and quickly shut that idea down when every other post violently reminded me that my body expelled a baby that I very much loved and wanted. I didn’t need awareness for the new hell I was succumbed to.

I wondered how long it would take for me to be happy for pregnant friends? How long will this sting for when I hold a new baby, or shop for a shower? How long will I wonder who that sweet baby would have been? How my girls would have loved them, what they would have looked like, what name we would have chosen. How long will I be bitter, sad, and unapologetically pissed off at what could have been? How many times will I shake my fists and wonder why this happened to me? Will I ever be brave enough to try again?

It’s common, to lose a pregnancy. 1 in 4. I now fall into the “1” category. Why, I wondered, is it still so difficult to talk about? Why is there still a stigma associated with miscarriage?

To those who have walked this same path before me, I’m sorry if I didn’t say enough or do enough to support you. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. To those who walk this same path with me, I am here for you. To those who will walk this path after me, it’s not your fault. I share this, because even though it’s vulnerable and emotional, my loss mattered and my baby mattered. If I can help someone else heal or talk, even in a small way, then I’ve made a difference.

Thank you to my support system for being a light in the darkness. And to my beautiful girls, for giving me a reason to pick myself up and keep on going. I needed to feel needed, and I needed to stay busy, my children are perfect for both of those things.

And so I’ll grieve, in whatever way feels right. I’ll allow myself time and space to feel whatever I need to feel. And I will pause and remember my sweet baby, who only knew love.

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Coping With Loss, Miscarriage

Dear Pre-Miscarriage Me,

Hey! How’s it goin’? Been a minute…almost two years to the date since we’ve been together.

I’ve been meaning to write you to see how you’ve been, but it’s been a little hectic. These two years have gone by so slowly but simultaneously have passed in the blink of an eye. “The days are long but the years are short,” they say. But we’re not really into clichés, so I’ll just cut to the chase.

I don’t want to give too much away, but I know what you’re wondering, the only thing you’ve cared about since May of this year…do we have a baby yet?

The answer is yes.

Just not the one you’re pregnant with.

I know, this is so hard to hear. I am so sincerely sorry.

I want to tell you that there wasn’t anything you could’ve done to prevent this, even though deep down, I think you already know that. Still, in the moments in the upcoming weeks when it’s easy to think “maybe if I didn’t exercise” or “maybe if I drank more water” or “maybe if I ate less gummy worms and pancakes,” the answer to “could I have changed this outcome” is, and always will be, a resounding “NO.”

I want you to know that your intuition was right; something wasn’t right. You knew all along. And that is because you have been a great mom since you saw that positive test a few weeks ago.

You’re going to go through a lot within the next two weeks. There will be a lot of miscommunication, pain, and brief moments of hope. In these brief moments, really take a second to look around you and appreciate how you have immediate access to everyone you need: Preston. Mom and Dad. Your family. Stella. You were in the right place. This isn’t a coincidence.

Some of the interactions you have within these two weeks will define the trajectory of your life for the next few years. I know, heavy stuff. We don’t need to focus on that just yet, things are heavy enough these days…(speaking of, just a heads up…might want to stock up on disinfecting wipes, hand sanitizer and face masks. Oh, and toilet paper. Don’t ask questions, just do it. 2020 gets weird.)

What I want to focus on is the woman you’re about to become.

I want to tell you how you started those two weeks as a woman carrying a baby but ended them as a true MOTHER. Someone who did everything she could in her power to do right by her baby. Someone who fought for answers and worried and prayed for her baby’s well-being. Someone he would be proud of. (You always thought it was a he, didn’t you? Spoiler, we stick with this and name him Anthony. Yes, like Grandpa. Cute, huh?)

I want to tell you how your strength came through. For your husband, for your family. For the baby that slowly exited your body, not wanting to let go just yet.

You didn’t want to let go either, mama. I know. I still can’t let him go even now. I’m not sure we ever will.

You’ve taken this pregnancy in stride. Your pregnancy journal, weekly bump pictures, and contact with medical professionals was all the right thing. You’ve always done the right thing.

I see the dreams you have for him slipping away as your nausea decreases. Deciding on which room to transform into a nursery. Thinking of the shelves Preston will make for his books, the onesie he’ll wear when you take him home from the hospital. The years we’ll spend celebrating his birthday at the beach because it will fall during our family beach week.

In a few days, you’re going to tell your high school friends that you’re pregnant. You’re going to give them homemade ornaments that say “the best friends get promoted to aunt” and they’ll scream and flood you with hugs. This will be the last sure announcement you give for your pregnancy. (Those friends will still hang that ornament on their trees in years to come. Not that this will surprise you, they always show up for you. I can’t wait for you to see how other people show up for you, too.)

You’ll stop feeling sick abruptly. You’ll bleed. You’ll cry. You’ll go to the ER. Doctors will make you wait and lack compassion. You’ll cry some more. And then, you’ll wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Until a week goes by.

And the waiting ends.

And so does your journey in this pregnancy.

But in this, something is born.

What begins is the mother you’ve become,

With the strength and fierce love for both of your babies;

One in your heart,

and one in your arms.

I am so, so proud of you, Britt.

So is he. And so is she.

We all love you,

Britt, December 2021

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Coping With Loss

Pregnancy Loss: A Holiday Survival Guide

Funny story.

I started to write this post in my head weeks ago. Not only had I recently experienced a holiday season after pregnancy loss, but I had actually had a miscarriage during the holidays. Who better to write about surviving the holidays after loss than someone like me?

Well, if you ask my imposter syndrome, it’ll say “not me.”

I started to doubt myself. How are you supposed to write about surviving the holidays after loss when the only way to do that is to fight tooth and nail through every moment, every event, every memory to not think about the person (or people) that you just want here?

Christmas is literally centered around children. The hope, the wonder, the anticipation. The true meaning of Christmas is centered around a baby. Christmas is essentially a holiday for children, made possible by mothers. To not think of the baby you lost is near impossible.

This is why this is a survival guide.

Sometimes you don’t cherish every moment during the holidays. You don’t lean in to being “merry and bright.” You don’t watch every movie, or receive every present on your list. Sometimes you just are present. And that’s okay.

Sometimes surviving the holidays after pregnancy loss is just that; surviving.

So if that was enough, no need to go on, dear reader. But if you could use a few more suggestions for your back pocket, this survival guide is my gift to you.

____

When your family doesn’t acknowledge your loss:

Sigh.

If I’ve said it once, I’ll say it 5,000 times:

You cannot, and will not, remind a bereaved parent of their loss.

They’re well aware. Avoiding bringing up the baby’s name, absence or sheer existence deepens the misconception that pregnancy loss should be kept silent. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I?

  • talk to your family in advance: I’m a big boundary-setting girl. Send a text ahead of time; “hey, I know everyone might feel uncomfortable talking about Jack, but I’m having a hard time without him and it helps me to talk about him. Please feel free to check in at dinner tomorrow.” They might need your lead on this one.
  • set the stage: speaking of, you might have to be the one to spearhead this conversation. Being open and truthful when people ask you how you are can give them the signal that they need to step in or even be more present.
  • give them grace: I know, not what you want to hear. If you’re close, remind yourself that they’re most likely grieving too. They might be too involved in that or simply don’t know what to say to you. I have another post on that here (maybe send it in the text in advance??).

When you see “happy families” on social media:

The quotes are there for a reason.

What you see on social is a highlight reel.

What you don’t see in McKayleigh’s “perfect” family photo is the bribery, screaming and wardrobe malfunctions between her 3 cherubic-looking children and a handful of “tiffs” (because they don’t fight, reader! They’re just so solid! He is her rock!!! I digress) with her husband in the middle of it all. Somewhere in this mass chaos, the photographer got everyone to look in the same general direction, and boom – you have a Christmas card. (Also, photoshop helps.)

—-

Recently, a co-worker I just met told me she was pregnant with baby number 3. Since she was so lax about sharing her 4 week old pregnancy with a borderline stranger, I quickly assumed she had the luxury of going through both of her prior pregnancies without worry.

“It’s so unfair,” I said to a friend later as I scrolled my co-worker’s Facebook, “some people just get to get pregnant and know they’ll get a baby out of it. I seriously wonder what that feels like.”

I came to find out that this co-worker indeed was not only worried about this pregnancy (honestly shameful I ever assumed otherwise – everyone worries about their pregnancies), but also had suffered a miscarriage at 7 weeks with her first. I found all of this out because she started spotting at work and confided in me.

Excuse me while I eat my words.

All this to say, if you think you know what someone is going through, you don’t. These families you see online have stories behind them you would never expect.

So when you see that Christmas card with the 3 babies and that rock-solid hubby, who knows? They might be trying for another baby, going through IVF, or reeling from a loss…just like you.

When you feel guilty celebrating the holiday without them:

I want you to think about the sweet baby you’re missing. Maybe there’s one. Maybe there’s few all hanging out together.

Now, think of these babies and how they only knew your body as their home on earth. How they were comforted by your voice and your touch because that’s all they ever knew.

Think of how much they love you just because of what I said above. (Because it’s true, mama! They’re your babies!)

Now, imagine your baby watching you refuse to enjoy these moments of happiness, especially during this time of year. You are allowed to miss them, this is 100% true.

But to stifle your own joy because you think you “shouldn’t” feel happy is an unnecessary expectation to put on yourself. Your babies love you. They want you to find joy again.

Remember them AND put up the decorations.

Remember them AND go to the holiday party.

Remember them AND get together with family. Odds are they’ll want to be remembering them too.

When you just want them here:

Cry, scream, punch pillows, throw the eggnog (jk, be careful), whatever you need. Then take a breath and find a way to make it feel like they’re here:

  • hang an ornament or a stocking in their honor: This is a great way for families to include angel babies in their traditions. I have an ornament with Anthony’s ultrasound picture and a wooden ornament with his name on it close to each other on the tree. Sometimes I’ll hold my daughter and show her the picture as we pass the tree and say hi to her brother.
  • do some good: donate to a charity in their name, do random acts of kindness, go out of your way to compliment someone; whatever it may be, spreading kindness when you feel hurt can turn your day around and hopefully turn someone else’s day around too.
  • talk to them: sounds creepy, but I promise it’s worth a shot. I talk to Anthony when I’m in the car sometimes. I fill him in on what’s going on and how much I miss him. It hurts and I usually end up crying, but I realize in the end it’s because I needed it somehow. A moment of connection with your baby and the opportunity for a little peace.

So whether you’re facing your first holiday season without your baby or your 30th, be sure to take care of yourself and give yourself space to grieve. Step out if you need to during events and know that some days will be harder than others. And if all you’re doing is surviving the last week of December, trust me when I say you are not alone.

Merry Christmas, mama.

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Coping With Loss

What to do (and what not to do) when someone you know loses a pregnancy

“What do I do if someone I know is having a miscarriage?”

“What do I say to my friend who just had a stillbirth?”

“My sister-in-law just lost her baby and she won’t answer my texts…what should I do?”

Every year, I answer anonymous questions on my Instagram that people have about pregnancy loss. I do this in honor of my son Anthony on his due date, July 25. For every question asked, I donate to charities that support families going through baby loss.

The number one question I receive: “how can I support someone experiencing pregnancy loss?”

This is quite beautiful to me. Instead of the opportunity to be nosy about my personal experience (nothing is off limits. What can I say? I’m an open book), people choose to look inward and say “how can I do better by my friends and family?”

Speaking from experience and from what I have seen from others in this community (the community no one asked to be a part of), I’ll do my best to illustrate your options of what to do – and what not to do – if someone you know loses a pregnancy.

DO: text them

PLEASE, oh, for the love of all things, please SAY SOMETHING.

You are not reminding them of their loss. They are quite aware, and the loss hurts. And you know what else hurts? When your friends or family act like you didn’t just lose your child.

If you’re unsure where to start, try these:

  • “Hey, I heard about what you’re going through. I will never pretend to understand how you feel in this moment, but please know that I’m here for you when you’re ready to talk.”
  • “Know that I’m thinking of you and your baby. If you ever want to share more about them or your experience, I would love to listen.”
  • “I am so sorry for your loss.”
  • “Sending you love. I’d like to stop by this week if that’s okay?”

If and when they respond, you can go from there. Maybe they will want to divulge more information. Maybe they will ask to speak to you another time. Maybe they will say “thank you” and nothing else. What I can promise you is that they will not forget that you reached out.

DO NOT: stay silent

I understand that wanting to give someone space during a loss is tempting. You don’t want to overwhelm them with yet another reminder, and yes maybe they are overwhelmed. However, this loss is already so silent and isolating. It happens in 1 in 4 pregnancies, yet it still is a taboo subject, meaning birthing parents often suffer in silence. These families didn’t just lose a baby, they lost the dreams and plans that immediately spring to mind when you see those two pink lines. Just because their baby didn’t make it earth-side, doesn’t mean it’s forgotten that easily.

DO: be of service

I wanted to say “DO: send gifts” but I felt like that was missing the point.

Don’t get me wrong; many people sent us gifts after our miscarriage and they were some of the most beautiful gestures of kindness. A close friend sent me a necklace with the July birthstone on it – the month Anthony was due. Another crocheted a baby blanket (a gesture of hope) and shared a note saying she prayed for us and Anthony as she made it. My best high school girls sent me records of our favorite artists and gift cards for take out. These things meant so much and lightened the load of grief ever so slightly, and most of all, reminded me that people cared about and loved Anthony even though they had never met him.

But what I truly mean by “be of service” is showing up in person or in any way you can.

Meals

Make something and drop it off or send a gift card. Or, tell them to pick a night and restaurant and get it delivered to their house. This is my favorite because the parents can pick what they have a taste for and limit interaction, especially if they’re not ready to be with people yet.

Clean

Grief can be paralyzing. Staring at a messy house can add to stress and when you just can’t muster the energy to do something about it, it’s even more defeating. Offer to stop over and do some laundry or dishes. Please note that if you do this, don’t expect them to either a. say yes or b. open up about what happened. While this could be a good opportunity for the grieving parent(s) to share, they may not be ready. You offering to help is huge in itself and will be appreciated, no matter how big or small the contribution.

Be Present

If they have older living children, offer to babysit while the grieving parents nap or go out. If they sound like they need a friend, give them a call and offer to come over. Sometimes it takes a “I’m free Saturday at 1. Would you like some company?” or even a “I’m coming over tomorrow at 5 with dinner. Text me if you’re not available.”

Simply being present for a friend or family member going through pregnancy loss is the best gift you can give them, because your presence in their time of need says exactly what they need to hear: their baby matters.

DO NOT: overstay your welcome

If you do reach out and drop off a meal or offer a service, read the room. Do they seem like they want you to stay or do they want to be alone? Are they ready to talk about what happened or do they want a distraction? Do they have a greater need than you thought or do they actually seem to be managing (as well as one can in these circumstances)?

DO: listen and offer support

A few weeks after my miscarriage, two of my friends close by arranged a girls day for the three of us. I knew the timing was not a coincidence, but took solace in the fact that they would respect whatever boundary I set about sharing about my experience. If I kept silent, they wouldn’t push. If I wanted to talk, they would listen. I decided to take stock of my feelings once I got to my friend’s house the day of and go from there.

We sat down in her living room and something got brought up, closely related to how I was feeling postpartum. Here it was, my moment to decide. I said “guys, I feel like I just need to go through it all and tell you everything that happened.” They said “okay,” and I did.

These two amazing women – one a mother of two, one a newlywed – sat and listened to my whole story. They were silent for the most part and interjected when they knew appropriate, asking questions or calling people out that misguided us in our experience. They cried for me. They cried with me. They cried for the baby they didn’t get to meet.

This experience was so cathartic and I am grateful to them and their friendship in that moment when I needed them most.

On that note, a brief PSA:

It is not mandatory to share about your loss.

I want to be very clear: even though I fully support birthing parents and families sharing their stories in order to lessen the stigma of pregnancy loss, it’s okay to not feel comfortable talking about it, or not to talk about it ever! If someone you know who has experienced pregnancy loss feels this way, please respect that boundary but still find a way to be present for them that’s more appropriate to their situation.

DO NOT: give cookie-cutter advice that negates their feelings

Ah, well-meaning advice.

The biggest culprit of why people don’t say anything at all is because they don’t know what to say. This is fair. Grief is tough, and to be honest, kind of intimidating to talk about. Saying the wrong thing feels like adding salt to the wound which is never our intention. However, there are a lot of things that sound like good advice or the “right thing to say” when in reality, they can be twisting the knife.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

Do you really want someone who just lost a child to think that there was a reason for this to happen? Let alone a good one? Not gonna blow over well.

“It was just God’s plan.”

As someone who would consider themselves religious, I have a hard time thinking that God excites in taking children away from their parents.

Do I believe Anthony is with Jesus in heaven? Yes.

Do I now believe that there was a “reason” for the loss experience we had? I suppose, because some good is coming from it.

Would I rather have Anthony here than all of this? Abso-freakin’-lutely.

Telling a grieving parent that it was” God’s plan” to lose their child not only makes God out to be malicious (in my experience, He’s a pretty forgiving and loving guy) but also is a statement that retracts hope from future pregnancies, insinuating one child had to “sacrifice” themselves for another.

“Do you think it’s something you ate/did?”

Say it with me:

THEIR

LOSS

WAS

NOT

THEIR

FAULT.

Do I need to say it again?

Okay, I will for my loss moms:

YOUR LOSS WAS NOT YOUR FAULT.

You did not hurt your baby.

You did everything right during your pregnancy.

Nothing you could’ve done could’ve saved your baby – because if there was something, you would’ve done it. You’re a mom.

End of discussion. Next.

“At least” statements like “at least you were only ____ far along,” or “at least you can drink again!”

“At least” means nothing. We would give anything to feel sick again, to not be able to drink or eat lunchmeat, to have our bellies growing and expanding over missing our babies.

It is gut-wrenching no matter if they were 4 weeks along or 40 weeks, and no loss is “worse” or “easier” than any other (more on that in a later post). A loss is a loss.

DO: remember their baby

Remember anniversaries/birth/due dates as if it were an earth-side baby

My friends and family call and text me on Anthony’s due date. While he’s not here physically, it feels like he had a greater impact with a tangible day to celebrate him and all that he means to me.

Say their baby’s name (if they named them)

If they decided to name their baby, use it. It’s not a bad word. Saying their name also says “your baby was here, they were real.”

Another brief PSA: it is not a requirement to name your baby. Ask the parents what they call their baby, if anything. Again, follow their lead.

Acknowledge their pregnancy

If they have living children as well as a loss (or multiple losses), ask about all of their pregnancies. Pregnancies that end in loss still can be perfectly “normal” and have the typical symptoms that birthing parents love to compare (“were you sick? Oh, I was MISERABLE with my first…my second not so much” etc.) While both of my pregnancies felt similar to start, my cravings were different in both. I always like to share that when discussing my pregnancies, but never know how much is too much for someone else to handle. Acknowledging each of their pregnancies includes their angel babies in the conversation, creating a safe space for sharing.

Check in

Grief doesn’t end after a few weeks.

Check in a few weeks after. And a few months. And a few years. And maybe a few weeks after a few years. Get where I’m going with this? Grief is ever-evolving and shows itself in the strangest (and sometimes terrifyingly unexpected) ways, especially after the shock starts to fade and reality sets in. Bereaved parents may need you long after the dark days of their loss.

The bereaved parent you know may have been great yesterday but saw something on TV that made them think of their baby today.

They may be pregnant after loss months later, yet are still afraid to use the restroom in fear they’ll see blood again.

Their angel baby should be 22 this year but they had a dream about them and imagined what they would have become.

Dropping in with a text, phone call or even a letter or a card every once in awhile could be just what they need to continue to cope on a daily basis.

Read the room; follow their lead on how much they want to share

Everyone grieves differently. This advice is not one-size-fits-all. Some people choose not speak of their loss at all. Some are open books. Some need time. Wherever your loved one is, meet them there. Come from a place of love and support and you can’t go wrong. Above all, say something. The “wrong thing” can be forgotten, but the thing that hurts the most is when nothing is said at all.

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