Updated: June 19, 2017
Originally Published: October 15, 2016
Trigger Warning: This narrative discusses miscarriage, stillbirth, and pregnancy loss, accompanied by related imagery.
To be candid, I have always considered myself to be high-achieving. I was the valedictorian of my high school, graduated with honors from a prestigious university, and while on a full fellowship, I earned two master’s degrees and a doctorate. Therefore, as I ventured into motherhood, I anticipated maintaining this standard of excellence.
Sadly, I faced a harsh reality that there are two meanings to the word exceptional. As a student, I excelled, yet as a mother, my experience was uniquely tragic.
Five summers ago, my daughter and I became part of a grim statistic: in the United States, less than 1% of pregnancies result in stillbirth, defined as fetal death occurring after 20 weeks. A year later, I found myself tangled in another alarming statistic: approximately 5 to 8% of pregnancies are impacted by preeclampsia, which accounts for 15% of premature births.
For the first time in my life, I felt like a failure. I failed to protect my children — one perished within me, and the other had to be delivered prematurely at just 30 weeks due to complications. What kind of mother am I? What kind of woman cannot endure a full 37 weeks of pregnancy?
With my daughter, we believed our pregnancy was progressing normally until that routine 20-week ultrasound. She was measuring significantly smaller than anticipated. When my husband, mother, and I returned two weeks later for a growth check, we were met with the heart-wrenching news: there was no heartbeat. We were all in shock, a moment that will forever remain etched in our memories.
In the aftermath, we were taken to the doctor’s consultation room. I was presented with two choices: undergo a dilation and evacuation procedure, often used to terminate pregnancies beyond the 12-week mark, which would mean I could never see my baby intact, or be induced in the hospital to experience a traditional labor process. I chose induction.
The next day, with my husband and parents by my side, I spent 12 hours in a hospital bed, monitored by compassionate staff. Just after 2 a.m., I delivered a 6-ounce baby girl, perfect in every detail with ten tiny fingers and toes. For a fleeting moment, I held her in my arms. She was not merely a “product of conception,” as one doctor had so insensitively termed it. She bore my husband’s features. The cause of her death was never established, but I know she was flawless.
Physically, I healed well after the delivery, but emotionally and spiritually, I was shattered. Instead of preparing for a nursery, I was tasked with selecting a casket and designing a grave marker.
Months later, instead of mourning on what would have been my daughter’s birth date, I discovered I was pregnant again. This child was due around the anniversary of my daughter’s passing, bringing a glimmer of hope amidst our sadness.
This second pregnancy was markedly different. I experienced relentless morning sickness, pink eye for the first time in my life, and my blood pressure began to rise. At 29 weeks, I was hospitalized for preeclampsia. I managed to hold on for an extra week before an induction was necessary to safeguard both my life and that of my son.
Due to his premature birth, my son spent the first nine weeks of his life in the neonatal intensive care unit; however, today, at four years old, he is a vibrant little boy with no lasting complications. He is our treasure.
Yet, as I gaze at my son, perfect in every way, I grapple with conflicting emotions. His existence is rooted in the loss of my other child. If my daughter were alive today, I might never have had him. While our days are filled with laughter and love, a hidden sorrow lingers. The memory of a life cut short is a constant presence.
I have shared with my son about his big sister. We have visited her grave, and we keep her memory alive in our conversations. She is his guardian angel, and I believe she watched over him during his tumultuous arrival.
I want her to remain a part of our lives, yet society often teaches us to remain silent about miscarriage and stillbirth. Is this silence meant to heal us, allowing us to let go of the past and move toward a brighter future? Has the reproductive rights movement unintentionally encouraged this silence, fearing that acknowledging our loss might humanize the fetus and complicate discussions around abortion rights?
With the birth of my son, I faced death bravely, even singing Queen’s “Under Pressure” as the doctors performed my surgery. But with my daughter’s death, I mourned quietly. Society allows me to celebrate my son’s birth but urges me to forget my daughter’s. As a feminist, how can I take pride in surviving one birth while simultaneously grieving another? For my healing, I must recognize and embrace both. My children, born at 22 weeks and 30 weeks, were human and integral to my being. I refuse to apologize for my pain. I will not forget.
When people ask how many children I have, I often feel a pang of discomfort. If I say one, I feel I am betraying my daughter’s memory. If I say two, it invites an awkward explanation. I have grown accustomed to saying, “one here and one in heaven.” This response usually garners understanding nods or comforting gestures from other women, whose eyes speak of a shared, unspoken bond.
The events of five years ago have irrevocably shaped me. I am changed, like all mothers who endure the physical and emotional toll of bringing new life into the world. Our bodies bear the weight and strain of pregnancy, and our hearts shatter upon their arrival. We will never be as connected as when we carry them within us.
It has been five years since my daughter’s passing, and I have remained silent about my grief for too long, out of fear of discomfort and stigma. I will no longer be silent.
October 15 is recognized as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. For more information on finding support and raising awareness for those dealing with loss, visit www.october15th.com. Additionally, for resources on fertility treatment and home insemination, check out March of Dimes.
In conclusion, the journey through grief is profoundly personal and deserves to be acknowledged without shame. It is essential to speak out and validate our experiences, ensuring those lost are never forgotten.