Tag Archives: Stillbirth

Stillbirth

Katlyn’s Story

Evelyn Grace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Stillbirth

Holly Ann’s Story

Magnolia

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

Holly Ann Abel

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

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

Holly Ann Abel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so sorry. There’s no heartbeat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holly Ann Abel

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holly Ann Abel

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

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Coping With Loss

Our Second Birthday

Two years!

Two years ago, I finally did it. I took a leap and launched The Understanding Heart not quite knowing what I would do with it, but knowing it would not only help to heal my heart, but hopefully heal the hearts of the women and families looking for solace in their darkest moment; the moment they lose their babies.

We lost our son Anthony at 10 weeks and 5 days in January 2020. As if losing him wasn’t difficult enough, the experience we had afterward with the professionals who were supposed to be taking care us was something out of a nightmare. I was shocked to find how easily birthing parents are cast aside once they’re told their child no longer has a heartbeat. How babies that don’t make it earth side are suddenly not as important as they were a week ago when they could be seen on an ultrasound. How the disregard of the grief we feel at 6, 10, 20, or 40 weeks makes us feel so small, and makes us miss our babies even more.

I both love and hate so much that you are here with me. I am so grateful for this community and am continuously honored and privileged to share the stories of your babies, but also wish this “club” never had to exist. Worst club, best people as they say.

Thank you so much for being here for two years of sharing stories, discussing grief, being vulnerable and most importantly, remembering our babies. I can’t wait to see what’s to come in the years ahead.

________________________________________________

I asked some of my followers to share their baby’s names to be honored on the blog. Names put directly next to each other are siblings.

We remember…

Rohan Unnithan-Rinella

Mera Maimone

Leilani Rose Martinez & Little White Butterfly

Milo James

Jedah Rhodes

Liam Rodriguez

Carter James Ritchie

Aiyana Hope & Myles Trase

Baby Blouin

August, Willy & Baby #3

Noodle

Baby Ahovey

Maggie Giesbrecht

Lincoln & Sweet Pea

Christian & Alexander

David Vaugh & Ellarie Jane

Mercy Emmanuelle and Zachariah Ransom

Emerson Zion Sommerville

Baisley Juno Pangelian Nededog

Wren Elyse

Adrian Iselle Canseco

Stella Lee Simmers

Claire Foster

Rosie Grace

Kassandra Melia Trejo

Pio and Zelie

Gabriel Danayan

Rionnach Ryan

Henry, Luna, Estella and Arthur

Emily

Shiloh

Hazel and Baby B

Emilia Lolmaugh

August Wynn Visicaro

Frances and Milo

Lyra Rose

Gordon Edward Bryan, Cole Maverick Nontell & Harlow Elle Nontell

Selah Veta

Bryson Brooks Foell

Kingston

Luka

Anthony.

“I carried you for every second of your life, and I will love you for every second of mine.”

– Unknown
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Stillbirth

Rachna’s Story

Rohan

On March 1, 2020 I found out I was pregnant. My husband was out of town at the time, because his father was transitioning to hospice care. We were able to tell my father-in-law about the positive pregnancy test shortly before he passed away. 

The world shut down due to the pandemic that month. We were all in an odd reality where working from home was the norm, hours were spent on the couch and I had so much time to think about the little life growing inside me. I remember my mom telling me that my pregnancy news was getting my family through the terrifying new world of COVID. 

However, I am a worrier by nature. I am also a physician, so I am the worst type of worrier that exists. I kept waiting for something to happen with my pregnancy. Every day, I would read a story about a woman having a miscarriage or an Instagram page about stillbirth would pop up on my feed. 

Still, I had the picture-perfect pregnancy. It was a little strange that my husband couldn’t come with me to any of my OB visits due to the COVID restrictions. I eventually learned to call him on the phone while they listened to the baby’s heartbeat, so that he could hear it too. Our 12 week ultrasound showed a beautiful baby, and the ultrasound tech “was pretty certain” it was a boy. We immediately went home and bought him a Spiderman outfit. 

And–isn’t this how it always is–on June 21, 2020, we had a beautiful Father’s Day. I had just had my 19 week appointment and everything looked great. I remember we ordered takeout and excitedly talked about how next Father’s Day, we’d have a little baby to hold!

That night, I started to feel some mild cramping. Nothing to worry about, I told myself, I had been walking a lot that day, and just needed to take it easy. Then I noticed some discharge when I went to the bathroom. It seemed different–more wet and tinged with blood. That could be normal too, right?

Overnight, my physician brain was working overtime. Sure, plenty of pregnancy symptoms are normal, but they could also be a sign I was losing my baby. At 4 AM, I called the OB triage line and they told me to come in.

I cried the whole car ride to the hospital. I rubbed my belly gently and prayed that it was going to be okay. When we arrived, an OB resident immediately did a physical exam. She tried to make small talk, but after my exam was finished she quickly left the room, saying she would be right back. 

Another resident came in with her, and did an exam. She looked at me pale and wide-eyed. I remember she spoke in very short sentences. She told me it wasn’t my fault, and I did nothing to cause this, but my cervix was 5 cm dilated and the baby’s membranes were coming out. 

The next few hours were a blur. We met with an MFM specialist, who told me I had cervical insufficiency. A horrendous diagnosis that usually isn’t discovered until a woman has had at least one 2nd trimester loss or a pre-term birth. My cervix was weak and couldn’t hold my baby in. 

We met with the Pediatric NICU team, who basically told us our baby was not going to survive if he was born that day, week, or month. He had to be at least 24 weeks to be considered for resuscitation, and even then it would be a long hard battle in the NICU (and in life) due to the risk of infection, developmental disabilities, brain bleeds and a whole lot of other terrible things. 

To top it all off, I had my 20 week anatomy scan, which confirmed we were having a boy. He was perfect in every way, other than the fact that his feet were nearly coming out of my cervix. He was starting to move too, I could feel the little flutters in my belly as a constant reminder of how far along I was. I was halfway through my pregnancy, I kept telling myself. I made it halfway through.

There was one tiny sliver of hope–a cerclage, or cervical stitch, could be attempted to try to buy us some time. In this case, an emergency cerclage (placed when a woman’s cervix is already thinned and dilated) had about a 50/50 shot of getting me to a stage of pregnancy where it would be safe(r) for the baby. 

We knew we had to give this baby a chance. So a few hours later I was wheeled into an OR, had a spinal epidural placed and a thick band of surgical suture sewn into my cervix. 

The next few days were torture. I was on strict hospital bedrest, while they monitored me for signs of infection or pre-term labor. I was scared to cough or sneeze or move. Not only was I terrified to move, I had to be alone overnight because of COVID visitor restrictions. I left the TV on constantly to try to keep my mind on anything else. 

After a few days, they let us go home, but I was told to continue the strict bedrest. My husband even got me a wheelchair so I would never have to be on my feet. It didn’t matter. Less than 8 hours later, I was back, this time with bloody red discharge and more cramping. 

I lasted one more day in the hospital before my water broke. Fluid gushed down my legs as my uterus began to contract. I called my mom in an automated sort of voice and told her they had to remove the cerclage. I was in labor because I probably had an infection, and baby needed to come out. 

They wheeled me into labor and delivery–to the room at the end of the hall, so I wouldn’t have to hear the women in labor with their babies who would actually make it. The hallway seemed long, but a second later I was in the room.

I remember pushing a small body, feet first, out of me. I remember my husband, half crying, kissing me on the forehead while I pushed. I remember holding our perfect son in my arms. He didn’t even weigh a pound, but his heart was beating when he arrived. I remember my husband cutting his umbilical cord and holding him while he passed. I remember praying that it would happen quickly, because I didn’t want him to be in pain, even if it meant an extra moment with him.

Afterward, we slept. Our small family of three. The little baby, who we named Rohan (Sanskrit for “ascending”) wrapped in a blanket. 

If there are angels on earth, my labor and delivery nurse was one of them. Not only did she take photographs of Rohan, make tiny imprints of his feet, and help us to bathe him, she made me sandwiches, helped to stop my bleeding and hugged us both. 

We were able to spend the next several hours with him. We would take turns holding him, crying over him, kissing and snuggling him. Mourning the life he would never get to have and the love we wanted so badly to show him. When it was finally time to say goodbye, I felt like I was leaving a piece of my soul with him. 

I’m not even sure what to say about the aftermath except that it was worse. We did everything people usually recommend. I took time off work, I saw a therapist, I even started bullet journaling. None of those things made a huge difference. I considered a day a success if I got out of bed and put on something other than pajamas.

No one really knew what to do for us. My family wanted to visit, but because of COVID they couldn’t. Our friends and colleagues sent us food and flowers, but I didn’t want to endanger anyone by seeing them in person. 

I also had an immediate knee-jerk reaction that I wanted to have another baby. Immediately. I was trying to grieve for one baby and plan for another. My body needed to heal, but my heart had so much love stored up for this baby that I didn’t get to hold for more than a few hours. 

Eventually I went back to work, which was another hurdle. Two of my colleagues were pregnant.  I spent most of my time dodging them so I wouldn’t have to see their bellies. I told them flat out I wouldn’t be going to their baby showers. I muted Zoom meetings if I heard a baby cry. If I saw a pregnant patient or someone who recently gave birth, I immediately locked myself into a bathroom stall and sobbed until I felt better. 

It seems obvious, but I learned that everyone grieves differently. My husband was more introspective with his grief. I had to let it out. I talked to anyone I knew that had lost a baby. I craved story after story of something similar happening to someone else, because it just made me feel less alone. I read and listened to so many stories of miscarriage and loss. Their words echoed what I desperately wanted to feel. They seemed to say: I will never get over this, but I did get through it. I survived, and so will you. 

The question everyone asks after something like this happens is, why? Why did this have to happen? That question got me nowhere, so I started to ask what? What can I do about this? What is Rohan trying to teach me?

He taught me this:

-I definitely married the right guy

-My family may not ever understand exactly what I went through, but they will do everything in their power to help me find happiness

-You can still be a mom to a baby who isn’t Earthside

-Time and distance don’t erase the pain, but they do ease it

-You have every right to protect your heart. You do not have to congratulate someone on their baby news, you do not have to go to anyone’s baby shower, and you can cry in the baby clothes aisle at Target if you want. 

-You can (and will) feel intense fear and intense joy at the same time

-You can (and will) go through pregnancy again

-Wearing your pain like a badge of courage, sharing your story with others is how you make meaning out of the senseless things that happen in life

I have a little 4 month old now. His name is Sam. He has my chubby cheeks, and he’s my husband’s best friend. He’s the best thing to ever happen to me, the best thing I’ve ever done. And it’s because of Rohan that he’s here. 

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Stillbirth

Autumn’s Story

Bastion “Bash”

2020 was the year the entire world grieved. And oh boy, grieving is what my family did…

With the pandemic approaching and my 2nd pregnancy ending, I thought my newborn would bring me comfort during hard times. Now, I’m triggered by others mentioning their “covid baby”. Because theirs got to stay. 

Bastion Porter Cohen was stillborn March 25, 2020. His big sister was 2 years old at the time. I had just had a healthy 37 week check-up. Everything was fine, until it wasn’t. He died a few days later with no real known cause, except speculations that his cord was wrapped twice too tightly around his neck. 

With the loss of our son, was the birth of our nonprofit. Still Loved was created to continue Bash’s legacy. It is a foundation that sends bereaved parents cards in the mail dedicated to their sweet angel babies. I have personally sent cards all over the world. We remember your baby on their birthday or angelversary, when others tend to forget this important day. I want parents like me to know their babies aren’t forgotten. They are, in fact, celebrated.

Autumn Cohen

I have also written a resource for parents like me. In Memory Of You is a baby memorial book for bereaved parents. It is designed like a traditional baby book, but with added journaling prompts to grieve & help parents find their new “normal”. Unlike a traditional baby memory book, this one respectfully omits pages like crawling, walking, and “firsts”. Instead, I focus on last moments together, missed milestones like holidays and birthdays, and ways to cherish your baby. Remember details of your sweet little one through precious illustrations, scrapbook-style photo pages and writing spaces. This is your all-in-one spotlight for your beautiful baby gone-too-soon. Keep their memory alive and know they are always with you.

Autumn Cohen

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Coping With Loss

Cheers to One Year

As I look at this list of babies gone too soon, I can’t help but be overwhelmed with how far this account has come in just one year.

I started this blog in honor of our son, Anthony, that we lost at 10 weeks and 5 days in January of 2020. Once our healing journey began after our miscarriage, my husband and I were out to lunch. I shared with him that I started writing down every detail of our experience so I wouldn’t forget it. He replied “that’s awesome. You’re great at writing and I bet it felt good to get it out on paper.” I thanked him, agreed that it was cathartic and then paused before I said:

“I don’t know why, but I have a feeling I’m going to need this someday. I have this feeling this experience, his life, our story, needs to be shared beyond just our loved ones.”

I think this was it.

It has been such an honor to share the stories of your babies for the past year. Whether they were on this earth for weeks, months, or even made it earth-side but were born sleeping; your babies matter. They matter to you, and they matter to me. The strength, courage, kindness and support you have shown inspires me everyday. It is truly a privilege to be in this community alongside each and every one of you.

I asked some of my followers to share their baby’s names to be honored on the blog. Names put directly next to each other are siblings.

We remember…

Arthur

Vanity

Hazel

Alexandra “Lexi” Grace

Everett

Yonatan

Leif

Emily

Finley and Collins

Bear

Peanut

Abigail Rose

Stella Lee

Bryce Connor

Luca & Shiloh

Josie Mae

Harvey Thomas Comfort

Carter James

Madeline Faith

Liam Rodriguez

Claire Rebekah Rose

Ríonnach

Eli King

Avery Hope Ward

Dawn and Beau

Theodore Joseph

Palmer Knox

Parker Lane

Lennox Jace

Baby S

Riley

Josie Rae

Bri + Briar

Dakota + Posie Doering

Emma

Martina

Maverick

Hoja

Jedah Rhodes

Elizabeth Ann Killion

Bear Rozance

Ione and Elara

Ava and August

Parker

Colin

Magnolia Bea, Holland Blair, Hannah Brooke

Evelyn Barbara

Michelina Mary

Rory

Beauford

Nugget

Quinn, Peyton, Riley and Bryn

Blueberry

Isaiah

Asher Frank

Rafael

Faith Davita Rose Renner

Blueberry Flores Ramirez

Brooks & Bryce

Luca Harlow Rain and Shiloh Eden Rain

Luciana

Milo Anthony

Kofi

Milo James Coe

Joie Grace

Sarvin Bhalru

Micah

Anthony.

“I carried you for every second of your life, and I will love you for every second of mine.”

~Unknown

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Stillbirth

Rebecca’s Story

Zoey

I found out I was pregnant for the first time right before Thanksgiving 2019. It was a smooth pregnancy to start – monthly visits with my OBGYN and everything was normal.

In early March around the 20 week mark, I was scheduled to have our anatomy scan and a gender reveal party that weekend! Unfortunately, that never happened. We lost our baby girl at 19 weeks, 5 days on March 9, 2020.

I started feeling pressure on my right side the night before, but I didn’t think anything of it. I just thought it was a normal part of pregnancy. Well, thankfully I had a scheduled doctor visit that morning and I just felt that something was not right since the pressure hadn’t gone away. Come to find out, I was in painless labor and my cervix was already dilated. 

The next thing I know, I’m being wheeled to labor & delivery and I was going to delivery my baby. All I kept thinking was “this isn’t right, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. My baby won’t be able to survive this.” This was my first pregnancy, and I was in complete shock. The nurses were amazing and were very sensitive and compassionate about the situation.

Zoey Ann was delivered at noon, and she was perfect in every way. She was 9 inches long and weighed just under a pound. She was alive for 18 minutes. All I knew at that time was grief, sadness, and pain. I was still in stock that this happened. How could it? Nothing else was wrong. Why did this have to happen, why to my baby? I was diagnosed with an incompetent cervix. I’ve never heard of it before, but it affects 1 out of 100 pregnancies. In most cases, you don’t hear about it until you already experience symptoms and deliver way too early. It’s absolutely heartbreaking. 

Now, 2 1/2 years later, we have a beautiful rainbow baby named Chloe! She is 18 months old now and she is amazing. I love being her mom, but I wanted to share Zoey’s story because it’s important to talk about loss. I also want to let other moms know that they are not alone.

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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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Pregnancy After Loss

The “Rainbow Baby” Connection

CW: mention of living children, birth, pregnancy after loss

I love a rainbow baby.

I mean this literally and generally. I am lucky enough to have a rainbow baby to love and adore.

Rainbow babies fill me with joy. They carry so much hope and have so much love in their corner. Their existence is a testament to the literal blood, sweat, and tears it takes to conceive a child.

But what if you don’t get a rainbow baby?

What if that term frustrates you?

What if the thought once gave you hope but now it’s fleeting?

What if you don’t get to find out “what’s on the other side?”

What is a “rainbow baby?”

A rainbow baby is a term used to describe a baby or a pregnancy that comes after pregnancy or neonatal loss. It is often used as a symbol of hope, just as rainbows can come after rain, like healing after a hardship.

Some people are not a fan of this term. It often gets branded as a misnomer… “why would the baby that you lost be a storm?!” Calm down, Karen. He’s not. And no one thinks that he is.

The “storm” loss parents are referring to is the turmoil, pain and heartbreak that happens after a loss. A baby is a symbol of joy, of new life, no matter how they came to be. Even parents that have experienced loss after a surprise or unplanned pregnancy or had to terminate for medical reasons still experience grief from their loss. The devastation of pregnancy or infant loss is a dark and isolating event, similar to a storm. Alternatively, a rainbow is a symbol of hope, a promise of good to come.

I love the term “rainbow baby” and use it frequently. My daughter will know what it means as a reminder of how wanted she is and how hard we fought for her to get here.

But what happens when you fight and beg and plead and bleed and fight some more and the rainbow doesn’t appear? What if the storm continues and the sky refuses to clear?

“Who said that every wish would be heard and answered when we wished on a morning star?”

This is my problem with the term “rainbow baby:” a rainbow is not guaranteed.

Pregnancy after loss is a part of some people’s stories, but not all. Telling someone it will be “their turn soon” may sound right in the moment and feel secure, but what the loss parent won’t tell you is they wonder every day when “soon” will be. When will this storm pass?

A rainbow is not a symbol of how hard someone fought for their pregnancy. It’s easy to think “since she has a rainbow baby, she did something right. Since I don’t, I did something wrong.” If you’ve ever tried to conceive a child you know that it’s not all that simple. You know how the stars, the universe, prayers, chakras, WHATEVER have to align in order to see those two pink lines.

A rainbow pregnancy does not equal success. Maybe you decide to take a much needed break in your journey. Maybe you decided to adopt or foster. Maybe you had the courage to keep going, even when you thought you couldn’t. Your “rainbow” can be whatever good comes after a loss.

“Rainbows are visions, but only illusions…”

On the same token, rainbow babies do not replace the babies that have been lost. While it is truly an exciting moment when a pregnancy after loss can be announced or a baby is born healthy after a loss, the babies that came before still exist to those parents.

Many feel like there is a timeline for grief, often convinced that there are “stages” you must go through. Once you have gone through the stages, you’re cured!

Grief isn’t a disease. There isn’t a cure. It’s something that lives in your soul, some days taking up the most space it possibly can, growing so strong and so overpowering, you feel like you might explode from the pain.

And some days, grief is simply a resident. Sitting quietly on a bench, holding the hand of its strong and more powerful friend; hope.

A rainbow baby does not replace the babies that have been lost, it is just another baby we’ll love and honor and protect as long as we live.

“What’s so amazing that keeps us star gazing and what do we think we might see?”

For some families, pregnancy after loss becomes a part of their story.

Right after my miscarriage I thought, “if I could just get pregnant again, I would feel better!”

Wrong.

Pregnancy after loss is a loss of innocence. You know everything that can go wrong. How it feels, what to look for, what is a “bad” sign, what is a “good” sign. And so many of these “bad” signs can also be just very normal things; cramps, bleeding, abdominal pain.

I’ve heard this said many times; pregnancy after loss is like holding your breath for nine months. During that time, it is a constant battle of what we “think we might see” once we hit each milestone:

“Once I hear the heartbeat, I’ll feel better.”

“Once I make it out of the first trimester, I’ll feel better.”

“Once I can feel kicks, I’ll feel better.”

“Once I get to the anatomy scan, I’ll feel better.”

“Once I make it to the third trimester, I’ll feel better.”

“Once I make it to labor and delivery, I’ll feel better.”

And the truth is, you may not “feel better” until that baby is crying in your arms.

There was a time at the end of my pregnancy with my daughter where I truly wondered if I would be taking a baby home from the hospital. Nothing was wrong, my miscarriage just taught me that nothing is guaranteed. I would start conversations with “God willing I bring this baby home…” or “assuming all goes well…” I thought about how many mothers go into the hospital in labor and come home with an empty car seat. This “rainbow” business is knowing that while hope is present, sometimes it’s all we have to pull us through these terrifying possibilities. Even though I was lucky enough to experience a rainbow pregnancy and have a healthy “rainbow baby,” it didn’t feel all that “rainbow-y” in the moment.

While rainbows are bright and colorful, a rainbow pregnancy can still be clouded with fear.

While rainbows are cloaked in sunshine, a rainbow baby can (and will) have dark and difficult days.

Just because you see a rainbow, doesn’t mean the darkness still can’t creep in from time to time.

“Why are there so many songs about rainbows?”

Someone on my Instagram shared that the term “rainbow baby” felt like “a club [they] really didn’t want to join.” I hear ya. I would like to unsubscribe as well.

Some people just hate the term. And that’s okay.

It’s not a perfect label. It is not all-encompassing and truly, it is hard to reduce the pain, suffering and love you feel if you have lost a child to one word.

Maybe you prefer “miracle baby” instead.

Maybe it feels cheesy to you.

Maybe it feels overused.

Maybe you’re “rainbow-phobic.” (Is this a thing?)

No matter how you choose to label your pregnancy or baby after a loss, that “club” (the lovers, the dreamers, and me) is always here to support you and cheer you on.

Song lyrics by Jim Henson, “The Rainbow Connection.”

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