Stillbirth
Giving birth is amazing and traumatic, and regardless of the experience, the details, pain and horror fade away. This happens more quickly than you can imagine, you forget the pain and just see the perfection of your child. In the same way, I know the feelings from my daughter’s birth, a stillbirth, will fade. I want to capture them now.
10 days ago, I was nine months pregnant. I was mapping out my last weeks of work and enjoying the last days of being a family of three. It was a perfect day, sunny and casual. Coffee, brunch, the park with my daughter and a neighborhood festival. In the midst of it all, I didn’t give a single thought to my belly or my baby. But in the evening, I realized I hadn’t felt the baby all day. I put my daughter to bed, laid down and focused on feeling the baby. There was nothing. Three hours, two sugary snacks, caffeine, ice water, yoga poses, poking and begging. And nothing. And I knew.
We called the doctor. 3+ hours of no movement, the doctor already knows the answer. We called our neighbors to stay with our sleeping two-year-old, telling them, it’ll be a quick check, we’ll be home quickly. On the drive to the hospital, I feigned how silly I felt, but deep down, I knew. At the hospital, there were congratulations. A nine-month pregnant lady could only be there at 9pm for one reason.
Everything was pleasant and positive. The nurse was lovely and calming, she had me put on a gown and then lay down to check the heartbeat. For a moment I let myself think it would be easy, we’d hear the heartbeat, feel silly, go home, apologize to the neighbors. But there was no heartbeat, no matter where she looked. Even my husband knew. He grabbed my hand, I think he wanted me to tell him this was normal, it was okay. But he knew.
The nurse wouldn’t say anything, but got the doctor. It was the quietest ultrasound. Nobody breathed, and of course, there was no heartbeat. “I see the heart, but it’s not beating”. That will be burned into my memory. Since those words, we’ve explained death to a two-year-old, delivered a full term, 6 lb, 20" baby girl, arranged a cremation, fought with family and cried enough tears for a year.
These are the things that I don’t want to forget, and that I need to share:
My husbands instant anguish, and the enormous feeling of letting him down. Of failing. Of not being capable or worthy or good enough or careful enough or attentive.
The feeling of gratitude. Being so thankful for the family I have, my husband and my daughter.
Being able to believe that God didn’t cause this, but is here to help us pick up the pieces. Shifting from “please fix this” to “please give me the grace to bear this burden”.
The fear that I cannot protect my two-year-old. Checking on her over and over at night. Knowing that even in my belly, there is no control, no safety.
The shock of being told I would have to deliver a baby. It’s logical, but felt like a punch in the gut. Labor and delivery.
Grief and shock are isolating. The world keeps spinning, and you’re stuck. Every note, card, text and call means something. Makes you feel less alone and truly provides encouragement.
You can’t have a nine-month belly disappear without showing a baby or giving an explanation. You owe the world, everyone who’s seen you, an explanation. And in grief, it’s hard to sugarcoat.
A two-year-old doesn’t understand death but is rocked by seeing her Mama sad and her Papa cry.
“It’s not your fault” is accurate, but at times, unacceptable. Was it yoga? Was it something I ate? Was it not paying enough attention? Was it not being in tune? Was it not caring enough? Nope. Maybe.
Having a body ready to take care of a baby. Breasts full of milk, but no baby to nurse. Painful engorgement, and stares accompanied with gaping jaws.
The shallow desire to have my body back — if I don’t have a baby, shouldn’t I be given my body back? Then immediate shame for having this desire.
Not wanting to face work, friends or family. Everyone must think I’m unworthy and damaged.
Wanting to write and share and remember.
