On The Due Date of My Lost Baby
Content Warning: This post contains graphic details of pregnancy loss, descriptions of physical and emotional pain, and mention of suicidal ideation.
I was due today with a baby girl. I’ve spent the last few months thinking of how I would tell you about her short life and how it changed me.
After literally years of waiting for my fertility to return postpartum (and in the meantime getting lab results that pointed to not-so-good news for my chances of having children in the future), we were blessed to conceive upon my first confirmed ovulation.
I got the absolute delight of telling my husband the happy news on Father’s Day.
Everything felt so perfect. I experienced all the usual pregnancy symptoms (which were decidedly not delightful). We found out the baby was a girl, and we named her Mary Elizabeth after Arthur’s Aunt Beth who passed away from cancer, a name we had planned for our first daughter since before we were even married.
I was so excited to give my son a sibling, something I had yearned for for a long time. I started dreaming of sewing our little girl dresses, and how I would embroider them with her name. To put it succinctly, I fell in love, fully committing my mama heart to this precious, irreplaceable being.
Then, one night I had a dream that my midwife couldn’t find a heartbeat…
Sure enough, at my next appointment, we couldn’t find baby’s heartbeat on the Doppler. My midwife thought perhaps my uterus was just bigger this time and baby had more room to hide. She said we could either wait and see or schedule an ultrasound. I opted to have an ultrasound asap. The following day I had an appointment. At the time I was listening to Father Mike Schmitz’s Bible in a Year podcast, and as I drove to my appointment, I heard him say a prayer for the people out there having the worst day of their life. Timely, but not particularly hopeful. Still, I prayed and prayed that I would see my baby moving and growing.
Nothing can prepare you to see your still, tiny baby floating silently in your womb. Nothing can prepare you for the outright horror and confusion at discovering you’ve been carrying around a dead baby, even when you feel perfectly pregnant.
Or the dread and despair of knowing you will have to deliver her still.
The midwife conducting my ultrasound asked if I wanted to have a moment alone. No, please, I can’t be alone right now. She explained my baby had been gone for two weeks. I did the math in my head and realized she likely died the day I went to the spa with my friends. The day I told them she was a girl and we all laughed and cried and hugged. I thought of my friends now, especially the three who were currently pregnant. How could I possibly face them? How could I struggle under the weight of this loss and still be a witness to their joy? How would my life continue?
When I got home, I told my husband I didn’t want anyone to know. To tell my friends would make my loss real, and I couldn’t bear that. Thankfully he knew that I needed support, despite my protestations, and he texted my friends to let them know our tragic news, and they flocked around us in support.
“I was experiencing what is known as a silent miscarriage, or a missed miscarriage, where the baby dies but the mother’s body continues to hold on to the pregnancy, something that only happens in 1-5% of pregnancies.”
According to my midwife, I was experiencing what is known as a silent miscarriage, or a missed miscarriage, where the baby dies but the mother’s body continues to hold on to the pregnancy, something that only happens in 1-5% of pregnancies. She explained I could have a surgery to remove the pregnancy, or take medication to force my body to deliver the baby and placenta.
After getting a second ultrasound to confirm that my baby was truly gone, and much discussion between myself and my husband, I decided to take the medication. I knew there were some risks associated with the surgery, and I had a strong desire to see my baby’s body and bury her, which wouldn’t have been possible if I had surgery. Still, I heard many horror stories from women who took the medication, and I was so scared. Because my son was born via scheduled c-section, I had never even experienced a contraction before. It broke my heart that this would be my first experience of labor.
Then I ran into another obstacle, in my state, only obstetricians can prescribe the medication I needed, and I was seeing a midwife. I was forced to call OB offices in my area and tearfully explain my situation to the receptionists, most of whom said they couldn’t help me. Finally, with the help of a friend, I found an office an hour from my house that could see me. I loaded up my toddler and drove to my appointment, sat in the waiting room, and then the exam room, only to find out that the doctor I was scheduled to see had to unexpectedly leave to deliver twins, and no one else could see me for four hours. I cannot explain the mental anguish I was experiencing at this point. I was genuinely afraid I might have a mental breakdown from the stress. The nurse must have sensed my desperation, and she suggested my son and I take a walk in the garden outside of the office while she figured something out for us. Thankfully, it was a nice day, and a lovely garden, and about an hour later she called to say that a nurse practitioner was willing to see me in lieu of her lunch break. We went back inside, and I met with the nurse.
She quickly read a pamphlet to me about the miscarriage process, making ominous wincing faces while covering the more graphic physical details. I would bleed, a lot. It would hurt, a lot. But then it would be over. She handed me the pill that would start the process and instructed me to take it, now. I hesitated, somehow I hadn’t realized I would have to take it at my appointment, and the small illusion of control I had dissolved as I obediently swallowed the pill. I was sent home with a prescription and told to take the rest of the medication within 48 hours.
The next day was a Friday. I felt intense dread all day, knowing what was coming, and also not knowing. What would my baby look like? Would her body already be decomposing? Would the pain overwhelm me? After putting my son to bed, I put the medication in my gums for half and hour like the prescription instructed, praying the entire time. I felt a closeness with Jesus in a way I had never before experienced, knowing that he too spent an evening in intense dread and prayer.
After the thirty minutes passed, I spat out the remaining pill residue, and tried to lie down. Almost immediately I began experiencing full-body uncontrollable shaking. It was scary. I still had full consciousness so I knew I wasn’t having a seizure, but it seemed like a similar phenomenon. After about another half hour, it stopped. And then the contractions started. Right away they were intense and powerful, and only a minute apart. Over and over again they wracked my body. I couldn’t move or think, I just crouched in a low squat and moaned. I was alone, I could have woken my husband but remember having the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t have been able to do anything for me. The contractions lasted all night, and yet I didn’t pass any tissue or blood other than a small clot. My body wouldn’t let go of my baby. Eventually I felt sure that I wouldn’t deliver that night, and I could feel the contractions starting to wane, so I took some tylenol and tried to sleep a bit.
Over the next two days, I continued to have intermittent contractions. Sunday morning they seemed to be getting more intense, and I thought perhaps my body would start progressing on its own. But they fizzled out again. I called the on-call doctor and she recommended that I take another dose of the medication that night, so I did.
Again, another night of constant, agonizing contractions. Again, my intuition told me I wouldn’t deliver that night. I lay in bed, squeezing my husband’s hand, trying to focus on the sound of our son breathing, which felt like my only anchors to this world. Finally, morning came, and I got up to use the bathroom. Immediately I felt a huge gush flow out of me and knew it was the baby. Thankfully she was easy to spot amidst the blood and clots, and I scooped her out and put her in the container of saline solution I had prepared. I was bleeding excessively. It was pouring out of me like a river. I didn’t panic because I figured it might slow down once the placenta came. My son was awake so I quickly put on an overnight pad and went to him. He wanted me to read him a book. I sat snuggling him when I felt another contraction, and the placenta came out.
After that, the bleeding continued. I soaked through at least 6 overnight pads in about 40 minutes, even bleeding through one and onto the towel I prepared on my bed, through the towel and sheet and onto the mattress below. I started to feel scared. I knew I was losing too much blood. I moved to the toilet and bled there, telling my husband to prepare to go to the hospital. Then, I felt my blood pressure crash, my heart was fluttering, my vision blurry, my ears felt as though they were underwater. I told my husband to call an ambulance, and slid off the toilet onto the bathroom floor. I remember noticing how nice the cold tile felt on my cheek. I prayed to hear the sirens, I needed them to come soon. I could feel my body starting to slip away.
The EMTs arrived and assessed me. They happened to ask me if I knew what day it was, and in retrospect I find it hilarious that I had the right answer. As a stay at home mom, I often have no clue what day it is. Anyway, the EMTs were clearly disturbed by my very low blood pressure, despite my apparent cognizance, and they carried my bloody body out to the ambulance. In the ambulance, they could not get an IV into me, even after sticking both hands, both wrists, both arms, and both feet. I could sense their worry, and they said we would be driving as fast as possible to the hospital.
Looking out the back window, I watched my husband and son follow behind the ambulance. I had no way of reassuring my husband, and I could sense the terror he felt as he watched the ambulance speed to the hospital. Later he told me he really thought it might be the end.
“I can’t fully describe the incongruousness of singing ‘I’ve got joy like a fountain…’ while holding one baby and bleeding out the remains of another.”
We arrived in the emergency room and were quickly taken back. Thankfully a nurse was able to get an IV into my arm. There were no rooms available so they parked my gurney in the hall. I started to feel a bit better after receiving fluids. Eventually I flagged down the doctor and explained I was bleeding everywhere and needed another pad. He seemed ashamed at this oversight and asked a nurse to find me a private room asap. Finally the obstetricians came to examine me and explained that they wanted to try manually extracting clots since my bleeding had not slowed down. I’ll admit, having a stranger use a sharp tool to scrape clots from my cervix sounded like the absolute last thing I wanted to endure after my already harrowing experience, but alas, I didn’t feel I had much to lose at this point, and agreed. She removed quite a few clots while a smiley medical student gazed on in rapt attention. Charming. Thankfully said student did seem to be a genuinely kind person and she did hold my hand and attempt to distract me with conversation about hiking and canoeing. My husband sat near the foot of the bed holding our son, after seeing the gory details, he moved the chair to the head of the bed. I can’t say I blamed him. Sensing how disturbed we all were, my sweet son cried out “want to snuggle mama!” and climbed into bed with me. “Sing Peace Like a River?” he asked. I can’t fully describe the incongruousness of singing “I’ve got joy like a fountain…” while holding one baby and bleeding out the remains of another.
The doctors tried the manual extraction another time, and then sent me for one excruciatingly long internal and external ultrasound during which I single handedly turned the small radiology room into an apparent murder scene. Thankfully the sonographer was an incredibly sweet woman who went out of her way to reassure me I could bleed all over the place and she wouldn’t mind. After the ultrasound she graciously helped clean me up with warm washcloths and made a super pad for me and helped me put it on. Humbling.
The OBs came back and explained that my uterus was almost empty, but still had some clots. I could try one more round of extractions or go up to the OR for surgery. I did not want surgery, especially after everything I had endured to avoid it, and honestly I was scared I was so physically weak I might not wake up from the anesthesia. We tried the extractions again, and when my bleeding continued (it did slow down a bit but apparently not enough) they said I should have surgery. I was crushed. After consulting over the phone with my doctor, and feeling like my bleeding had slowed enough to make me comfortable, I decided to decline surgery. I was desperate to get out of the hospital and go home.
At this point it was evening and I had not been allowed to eat or drink all day. Out of desperation, I sent my husband to the cafeteria to sneak me a kind bar and some orange juice. On his way there, he serendipitously stumbled into Reverend Lara, the minister who married us and performed our son’s dedication. Apparently Reverend Lara had just started working at the hospital as a chaplain! When she suddenly walked into my room, I swear I thought I must be hallucinating. What a comfort it was to have her there to sit with us and listen to our pain. What a beautiful reminder that we are never as alone as we think we are.
Hours later, we were finally discharged, and I very, very slowly (why didn’t they give me a wheelchair?!) slogged my bloody, barefoot body to the parking garage. I have never felt so weak in my life. I thought I might have a heart attack, and had to stop every few minutes from the pain in my chest. At this point it was so late at night that the only food we could procure was McDonald’s, something I don’t think I’ve eaten since high school. Still, some french fries and a Sprite did the trick to bring my blood sugar up, and I contentedly munched as my husband drove us home through the dark night.
We put our son to bed, and my husband helped me shower. I was so weak and exhausted I could barely stand, but I was desperate to feel clean after a day in the ER. I remember absurdly giggling to myself as I watched from the shower glass as Arthur struggled to attach a pad to underwear for me. At last I was clean and clothed, and he tucked me into bed. I slept for twelve hours.
Then the real healing had to begin. We buried Mary Elizabeth in our garden under a rose bush, in the shade of our nectarine tree. I tucked her body into a little bed of silk, her coffin an antique tin. I kneeled in the dirt clutching my great grandmother’s bible while I watched my husband put her in the ground, our son standing nearby and gleefully throwing rocks about. I read Psalm 139: “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you. For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made, your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”
A few days passed, and I experienced a deep and abiding grief I’ve never known before. It’s difficult to articulate just how much this unravelled me. I cried so hard the muscles of my core spasmed and writhed. I felt a depression so deep I honestly did not want to go on living. I remember sitting at the end of our driveway one night, looking at the moon, and thinking that I could just go lay in the dark street and wait for a car to run over my body. I didn’t really want to die, I just felt I could not bear to endure the process of piecing together the crumbled remnants of my life.
When I lost my baby, I lost an entire lifetime, not just hers but mine as well. My friendships were necessarily changed, my relationship to work and creative projects changed, my understanding of fertility, pregnancy, and motherhood changed, my relationship to my body changed.
Most painfully of all, I came to understand I will carry this longing for my baby and sadness of her absence for the rest of my life. It won’t ever go away. I don’t want it to.
“I learned I did not come here for superficial motherhood, that I was made for something deeper and truer, even heart-wrenching, and I will not shy away from my calling.”
I have also come to understand that carrying it is a privilege, a testament not only to the enduring bond between us, but also to my God-given capacity to feel deeply. The more grief and longing I can hold, the more joy and connection I can hold. For me, they are inextricably bound.
I learned the deep and intense love I have for my children, a love that does not end with death.
I learned I did not come here for superficial motherhood, that I was made for something deeper and truer, even heart-wrenching, and I will not shy away from my calling.
And I learned to fling myself wildly at the mercy of God, which to me came in the form of friends, flowers, food, sunlight, dirt, rainbows, the release of tears, the presence of saints and ancestors, and the still, quiet comfort of many many prayers.
While this experience was and is so terrible, I was and am struck by how much grace I have received through it. To the friends who rushed to our side, filled our home with flowers and food, sent books to distract me and chocolate to console me, prayed for me and wept for my lost baby with me, thank you so much.
Thank you, dear reader, for receiving this story with tenderness. If you have experienced the loss of a pregnancy or a child, my heart aches for you as much as it does for myself, and I wish you every comfort and peace.