Tag Archives: Miscarriage

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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Miscarriage

Ashton’s Story

Gabriel

Hello Mamas!  My name is Ashton Koehlmoos and I’m the Mama to my angel son Gabriel and 3 earthy sons – Oliver, Mason, & Lincoln. 

Our story begins actually before my first was born as my husband and we navigated infertility. We didn’t know of his infertility until I had my first endometriosis removal and diagnostic surgery through PPVI. It was then we discovered that I wasn’t ovulating and my husband had a sperm count of five (low is considered 15 million). To say we were devastated was an understatement.

We continued to work through NaPro Technology to heal both of us. We underwent 3 surgeries between the two of us and I was now ovulating on my own with lots of other improvements and my husband increased his sperm count to 1.5 million. After 4 years of working with NaPro, it was evident that we would never conceive naturally with my husband’s sperm count. Infertility was beginning to affect our marriage so we chose to do 1 round of IVF as we has such a strong calling to pursue biological children. IVF was very successful for us and finally after 5 years, we brought our first child home.

Shortly after Oliver turned 1, we transferred who is now known as Gabriel (we don’t know the genders of our embryos). We actually transferred him secretly as we always hated how infertility robbed us of the opportunity to surprise our parents with a pregnancy. We found out we were pregnant right around December 2020. Shocked and so excited, we FINALLY felt our longest, darkest days were behind us as it seemed we only needed help with conception.

On December 21st, we got the great news that the pregnancy was viable at our 7 week appointment and surprised our families at Christmas time.

We moved to our current location in NW Iowa from SW Iowa. My husband and I both grew up here and wanted to be closer to family. So we changed providers. Everything was going as it should and Gabriel was always growing 3 days ahead of his due date of 8-7-21.

On January 18th, I heard his heartbeat for the first time via my doppler. I was 11 weeks along. At my 12 week appointment, my doctor had a hard time finding the heartbeat in the room, but I wasn’t worried since I had found it at home before our appointment. We went back to a room with an ultrasound machine which confirmed everything was okay and he was still growing 3 days ahead.

As we were approaching the 15 week mark, we still hadn’t told “the world yet”. And this is where I struggle. We don’t really know why. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to, but COVID restrictions were still rampid and we weren’t really seeing anyone. In coming up with clever ways to share, I saw one where a Mama and the other child shared a number but one was weeks and one was months. Oliver was turning 15 months in the same week Gabriel was turning 15 weeks – perfect! I suggested it to my husband and he loved it.

So on Saturday Feb. 13, 2021, we shared with the world. Before we took the picture though on Friday the 12th, I told my husband that I wanted to check with my doppler just to “be sure”. Immediately I found his little heart thumping away. Little did I know that would be the last time I would hear his little heart. 

For 10 days, we basked in the love and congratulations from our family and loved ones. The next weekend, my parents were over and we were sharing all our plans of how we would adjust our home to a family of 4.

Monday Feb. 22nd was my 16 week appointment. I vividly remember assuring my husband that he didn’t need to come. “They are just going to get my weight, measure my tummy, check my blood pressure, check via doppler, ask some questions, and have me pee in a cup” was what I told him. 

My mother-in-law was coming over to watch Oliver for me. And as I was scrambling around trying to get ready, something just felt off. I wanted to check doppler as that was “my thing” before appointments, but ran out of time that day. I remember telling myself that I was only feeling off because I ran out of time and that this was a time I needed to lean into trusting my body. I shutter now what I would have been like had I tried. I REALLY think Gabriel protected me in that moment.

In my appointment, the doctor again couldn’t find the HR, but I thought absolutely nothing of it because this happened last time. We made small talk as we walked back to the room. I again felt the feeling I had at home, but took a deep breath and said “no, trust your body”.

I got up on the table, got the goo and immediately knew that what was on the screen wasn’t right. The baby was lifeless. Then simultaneously, the doctor said the worst sense known to mankind, “I’m sorry, but there is no heartbeat”

This is where my memory gets fuzzy. Despair and disbelief washed over me. For some reason, the first thought that came to me was “we have to untell our news”. The doctor left and got a nurse. I couldn’t speak. I somehow got out that I needed to call my husband which she did for me.

I then got taken to a formal ultrasound room – the one with all the baby pictures on the wall. And the first thing the tech did was shut off the big TV I could see. I was trying to see her screen out of the corner of my eye. I remember asking what the gender was, but she said she couldn’t tell with how he was lying. As she was finishing up, I asked if she had any pictures, and when she was all done, and she put her hand on my shoulder and said “Oh honey, why don’t you take a few days to decide if you want them. If you do, you can always reach out”. She then left the room and there I sat for over an hour alone.

I now know how wrongly I was treated and refuse to ever be seen there again, but in the moment, I was too in shock to realize how wrongly I was being treated let alone recognize it and or fight for what I needed.

The ultrasound tech then asked if she could give me a hug and then left the room. And there I sat, completely alone with babies and happy mothers all around me. My husband worked 50 min away from the hospital and I sat alone in the room until he got there. I remember feeling desperate, longing for someone to hold space with me. I tried calling my mom, but because I was in the middle of a hospital, I had no reception. Texts weren’t going through, and I wasn’t able to learn where my husband was.

When he arrived, they brought him through a different door than the one I had. They let us be and we clung to each other and we wept and I told him what I knew which wasn’t very much. We then again sat….and sat….and sat.

Finally, the doctor came in to explain we couldn’t deliver there and the baby needed to come out that night (again, wrongly treated) and that we either had to go to Sioux Falls or Sioux City. He wanted to know if we had a preference. We said no and agreed that whoever got back first is where we would go.

Thankfully by the grace of God and Gabriel, Sioux Falls got back to him first, but not after letting my husband and I sit alone for over an hour. At this point, it was almost 5pm and my appointment had been at 1pm. Sioux Falls wanted me to come up the next day to be seen by their team since our pregnancy was IVF and they dealt with those all the time, “We know what to look for” is what they said. That felt fine to us as we only wanted to get home and squeeze Oliver.

Before we left, the doctor asked if he could pray over us. We agreed. And that was the very last we ever heard from him again. Not hearing from him after my delivery was the nail in the coffin for me to never ever return. More on this at the end of my story.

That night, I contacted a mentor and friend only because she was the one person I knew who had experienced pregnancy loss. I had no idea 1 in 4 experienced loss. To my surprise, I also learned that she was a bereavement doula and had recently supported a Mama who experienced the loss of her twins at 15 weeks and delivered in the same hospital I would be just a few months earlier. She was able to explain to me all my options and that I could deliver my baby if I wanted to. She was also able to walk us through what the COVID procedures looked like since it was early 2021 at that time and precautions were still in place.

That night, my husband kept asking if I was sure if I wanted to deliver this baby. He felt that a D&C may just be better so I didn’t have to go through anything. But when I was stating my reasons, I cried out that “He’s a BABY Andrew, a baby with bones and a spine, I can’t just let them scrape that out of me.” And I’ll never forget the look on his face. He didn’t realize how formed the baby was because the last time he saw the baby it was a little gummy bear bouncing around. He looked at me and said, “I didn’t realize that.” Again, goes back to how poorly we were treated. They should have ran another ultrasound when my husband arrived.

We spent the rest of the night talking through names as I felt that was most appropriate. If I was going to deliver this baby, it was going to be given a name. Except this time, it felt so strange picking out 2 names for a child that was deceased versus last time – when we did this for a child we brought home. I can’t tell you what we picked out for the girl’s name, but my husband landed on “Gabriel” for the boy’s name. He shared the meaning and I cried…it was perfect because all I could imagine was someday him bringing us our rainbow baby when the timing was right.

The next day, we met Dr. Boyle and his team of angels. I got the ultrasound pictures of him that I wanted and the tech walked us through everything she was doing and looking for. She too couldn’t tell his gender based on how he was lying, but confirmed he was still 3 days ahead in gestation, so he passed away right before my appointment. After she closed the door, the first thing my husband said with tears in his eyes was, “It is a baby isn’t it?!”

We didn’t have to wait long before Dr. Boyle walked into the room. And the the first thing he said to us was that this baby was causing me no danger and I could take my time – all the time I needed – deciding how I wanted to deliver him. He encouraged Mamas in my situation to deliver so they could see a potential cause of death and to get the closure.

Already knowing we would deliver before he even said that, we went in on Thursday February 25th for our induction set to begin at 8pm. That day, I asked my husband to take some maternity pictures. I didn’t want to, but knew I would regret not taking them (and I’m so glad I did).

Surprisingly, that night I was able to get some sleep in the hospital, but nothing….nothing was happening. I honestly didn’t know what to expect though as I kinda imagined it to be over in a few hours. But almost 24 hours passed and my body wasn’t responding to the cytotc well. I was beginning to worry about a D&C, as I did not want another surgery because I had had so many through infertility and didn’t want to increases chances of not being able to get pregnant in future. The nurse assured me through my tears that my body just wasn’t ready to let Gabriel go yet and that a D&C wasn’t even on the table.

That conversation must have been the safety my body needed as about an hour or so later, I began having contractions. It was around 7-8pm. I didn’t want medications for the pain. I’ve always wanted a unmedicated birth and didn’t get that with Oliver. But honestly this time, I wanted the pain. I wanted to feel something if I was going to do this.

At around 8:30, the contractions were really picking up so I moved from my standing position to the bed on my hands and knees. The nurse with with us for the last 45min or so guiding me through. She needed to step out quickly because she knew I was close to delivering. Shortly after she stepped out, I could feel my body pushing and before I knew it something huge came out of me. I remember crying out to my husband “what was that? Can you see it?!” And he said “it’s here”.

At that moment the nurse came rushing back in with the doctor. It was 8:47pm. They sat me back and there I saw a ball of mass. I had delivered everything completely and “en caul” birth. The doctor praised what a good thing this was as that meant the placenta was inside too which meant a D&C was still completely off the table.

Still not knowing the gender the doctor walked us through everything as she cut open the sac and there lied our baby. “A little boy” she said and my heart wrenched. I wanted a daughter, but knowing he was a little boy and what a joy Oliver was, my heart broke even more. She continued to look through everything and all looked as it should.

She placed him in a blanket and handed him to me and my husband. “Perfection” is all I can say. Every feature was there. The only thing that was slightly off was 1 of his ears was sitting a little high, but it’s around 16 weeks where the ears lower into their proper places. But what stood out to me the most was his little hands and the wrinkles he had on his knuckles. Everything about him was complete perfection.

My parents brought Oliver up so he could meet his little brother as that was something I insisted on. I wanted that 1 family photo because he would always be apart of our family. A priest came in to bless him. By the time we went to bed that night it was around 1am and Gabriel spent the night with us at the foot of the bed. That morning we had breakfast with him and held him a little more. While my husband showered, I snapped photos of him so I would have them. I didn’t want to, but I’m so grateful I did.

When it was time for him to go, it didn’t feel real. It almost felt I was in a fairy tale and he was here and we were going to take him home. I sobbed and cried out as they rolled him away as the funeral home was there to take him to be cremated.

As the nurse was doing our discharge stuff, she brought in a clay heart with his hands imprinted. I cannot tell you how much comfort that gives me still today in helping him feel real.

A few days later, we brought him home and he sits on a special shelf in our living room where he can see everything. 

A few weeks later, we got the call from genetics that everything came back absolutely normal and no cause of death was found. So while we will never know, my Mama guts tells me I wasn’t on enough progesterone support as I’ve needed that in some capacity throughout all my pregnancies, especially early on. And that my doctor decreased my dose 2 weeks prior at a time when it should have been increased. Needless to say, I went back to my first provider for all my subsequent pregnancies.

Circling back to my trauma and how I was poorly treated, I never again heard from my doctor who told me my baby was gone after we had delivered. Both hospitals I worked with were under “Sanford” care, so he should have been notified when my charts were updated in MyChart. When I got a hand-written note from the doctor who cared for in the first night, it was the nail in the coffin for me to never return.

I can’t really tell you how I got through the next few weeks and months because there was just so much anger. “Why us?” cut so deep after having gone through infertility. I kept asking “Haven’t we gone through enough already?” It took a lot of therapy, journaling, and self-reflection to realize that God had us the entire time. Exactly 6 months to the day, I walked into another hospital to transfer our now rainbow baby – Mason. Was was born on 5-2-22 (backwards 25 and 22 was the date we learned Gabriel was gone). 

I continue to share his story and spread education through my business – Resilient Mama Fitness & Lifestyle – where I help Mamas navigate their fitness and lifestyle through the journeys of pregnancy and postpartum. I really have a heart for helping the TTC Mama and Mama with an angel(s) navigate their fitness journeys because of how much more difficult they are emotionally and how no one talks about the role that plays. To honor Gabriel and help other loss Mamas, I created a 100% Free Guide called Gabriel’s Guide which is a guide to help Mamas navigate the “What Comes Next” in both the emotional and physical healing. It includes education and resources, as well as a free 6 week training program to help return to fitness. All things I wish someone would have handed me after loss. I built it with the help of my bereavement doula and therapist to ensure the next Mama is getting the care she deserves. 

If you’re still here, thank you for reading our story.

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Miscarriage

Arlene’s Story

Aria

I was just 16 when I found out I was pregnant. I never thought I would go through loss. I found out I was pregnant with a little girl, Aria.

When I was around 15-16 weeks pregnant, I had a ultrasound done. I thought nothing of it until it happened. I remember the doctor came in and sat down and told me that she needed to talk with me. By the look of her face, it wasn’t good. She told me she thought my baby had something called Dandy-Walker syndrome. I cried and cried for the next couple weeks until I could see a specialist. Around 18 weeks, I saw a specialist. I remember how dark the room was and I was sitting there alone. I remember the ultrasound technician telling a student that it did not look good. 

A few minutes later, the specialist came in. She said it was much worse than Dandy-Walker syndrome, it was something called Alobar holoprosencephaly. I went to a couple more different specialists and there was not much they could do. No one was sure what was going to happen until she was born. Most babies do not live with the case she had.

I got induced and she was born alive! She was in the NICU for most of her short life. She got to come home for around 3 weeks on hospice. Her condition caused her to have seizures constantly and her body temperature was hard to keep up and she had to have oxygen as well. Her brain did not divide into two parts like ours. It was the hardest thing to do she was hurting and screaming and crying in pain. Hospice sent us to the hospital and we all slowly watched her pass away.

After she passed away, I found out I was pregnant. I was so scared and hurt. Feeling so many emotions. About a week later I said my finale goodbye to her at her service. The hardest thing in the world!

The next morning I started bleeding and went to the ER, only to find out I was having a miscarriage. I am now a grieving mom of two – at only 18 years old. 

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Coping With Loss

A letter to my baby

December 27, 2024

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. In 2022 and 2023, I wrote letters to Anthony; my son I miscarried at 10 weeks and 5 days in January 2020.

Here’s this year’s letter.

______

Hi baby,

Five years.

I cannot believe it’s been five years since I met you.

Lost you.

This year feels like a milestone for us. Not a good one – milestones just mean I’m further from you. This year has me feeling like I’m being carried forward but my arms keep reaching back for you. My grief used to consume and bury me. Now that I’ve resurfaced, I’ve learned to swim, but I swim on my own.

This year, you will turn the age I always have pictured you as; five. The tall little boy with brown hair and blue eyes I see in my head every time I hear an earth side boy say “mama!” continues in my imagination. And this year, he feels real.

I have been hit recently with the harsh reality that I get to watch your sisters grow up because I never got to watch you. It is so strange to love all three of you more than anything in this world, and to know that the three of you can never coexist in the same place. The family of five I pictured in my head forever incomplete, forever wondering if you were the third baby I was meant to have.

I know, mommy’s gettin’ all serious. You’re only 4 and a half. Let’s talk about something else.

Let’s talk about how much I miss you.

I miss you when I desperately search for rainbows when it rains and the sun peaks through.

I miss you when I see your name.

I miss you when your sister grabs your giraffe stuffie Mima and Papa got you for Christmas. The one I cried opening knowing my pregnancy symptoms were fading, knowing something wasn’t right.

I miss you when someone asks about the letter A on my necklace, the flowers tattooed on my back, the number of times I’ve been pregnant.

I miss you every day.

As time continues to separate us, know my hand will always be reaching back for yours. Now more than ever, I know my place as your mommy; to continue to speak about you, uplift other families like ours, and continue to love you and your sisters with all my heart.

I love you so much, buddy.

Love,

Mommy

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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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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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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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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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