I yearn for my child. These are the words I often whisper to myself when I drift away during conversations with friends or family. Typically, these discussions revolve around trivial matters like a challenging day at work, a trendy new TV show, or a humorous anecdote that would usually spark laughter. Occasionally, the topics are heavier—like a breakup, a serious illness, or significant global events. But no matter the subject, my thoughts remain the same; I want my baby. I want my baby. I want my baby.
My child passed away on 3/3/2020—almost exactly a year ago. I was over eight months pregnant, had recently bought a new home, was thriving in my dream job, and had a partner whom I knew from our first meeting at age 19 would become my husband.
As the first anniversary of Ava’s delivery approaches, some aspects of my life have changed since last year; my body somewhat resembles its former self (somewhat—thanks to, you know, pregnancy), I’ve returned to work, and when grocery store clerks ask how I am, I respond cheerfully, “I’m good, how about you?”
In many ways, life appears different—but in countless others, it remains the same. I struggle with sleep, I shed tears daily (not constantly, but at some point during each day), and I often find myself sitting in silence, shaking my head as my mind processes everything that has transpired over the past year. Yet one feeling remains as strong today as it was then—the longing for my baby who should be here but isn’t.
I recall how others were taken aback when they learned that she had passed away—surprised that I would need to go to the hospital to deliver her. Many people assume that when a loss occurs, the baby simply disappears, but that is not the case. Pregnancy does not vanish when a baby does not survive. Babies are delivered. They are delivered whether the loss happens early in the pregnancy (sometimes vaginally at home, other times with medical intervention like surgery or medication), and they are also delivered in cases of late-term loss, typically through induced labor (the same process you or your friend experienced to bring home a healthy baby).
On 3/4/2020, I arrived at the women’s hospital for my scheduled induction. In the waiting area, I sat across from excited, expectant mothers waiting to be checked in.
I will never reclaim this experience, I thought, as stuffed animals, balloons, and swollen bellies surrounded me.
This will always be my first delivery—the one I envisioned long before I was married or seriously contemplated having children, though I never imagined it would unfold like this.
After checking in, I was led to my room, taking in my surroundings. It was spacious with a private bathroom and appeared to be recently renovated. Directly across from the bed, a baby warmer was mounted on the wall, its interior lined with a colorful baby blanket. Not wanting a constant visual reminder of what lay ahead, I asked my husband, Alex, to please have it removed.
“They need a place for her body,” he gently informed me, although they agreed to move the warmer closer to the door, out of my line of sight.
The nurse guided me to the bed, where a green-printed hospital gown awaited me, neatly folded. I took the gown and headed to the private bathroom to change. As the roomy gown enveloped my very-pregnant-but-still-petite frame, I caught a final glimpse of my belly in the mirror.
Dressed in my new attire, I waddled to the bed where a stack of intake papers awaited. “You’re about to experience one of life’s most special joys,” the first form read—an unfortunate misstatement, given the circumstances.
“Will you accept blood if a transfusion is required?” a nurse asked as I handed her the completed forms. “Yes,” I replied, thinking, I won’t need that; a red wristband was snapped onto my right wrist.
Just after 9 PM, the induction process began, a grueling 48-hour affair. During this time, a steady stream of family visited, while Alex made himself comfortable on a couch too small for his tall, muscular frame.
Multiple providers inserted hands, medications, and instruments into my body. My body resisted, as if to say, “No, please no.”
I want my baby. I want my baby.
But neither I nor my body had a say in the outcome.
With a balloon for forced dilation and an amniotic hook that broke my water, active labor commenced. Alex held a plastic bag to my face and a cool washcloth to my forehead while I lay in bed with a fever, sweating, shaking, and vomiting. I felt intense pelvic pressure as the nurse placed my numb-from-the-epidural limp legs back in the stirrups. To my right was Alex, my hand intertwined with his. I pushed just once and, through tears, managed to ask, “Is it over?”
“That’s it, it’s over.” My doctor walked away with her body in his arms, still.
It was 8:53 PM on 3/6/2020, and the silence was deafening.
Cleaned and bundled in a knit blanket with a pink hat resting gently on her tiny head, she was placed in my arms. I held her tightly, determined to cherish every detail—determined to know her; determined to love her—determined to mother her. I wanted to recall everything about her—how she looked, how she felt; I understood that my time with her was limited.
She weighed only 4 lbs, 12 oz, and measured 17 ¾ inches. She had an adorable nose and full lips. She was my child—the one I carried for eight months, the one I created with the person I love most in this world.
The medical team left to give us time alone. We had 20 minutes filled with music, tears, and passing her back and forth before Alex began to panic.
“You’re bleeding a lot. I don’t think that’s normal.”
Alex rushed to find help while I remained in bed, holding her close.
With urgency, the doctor quickly scrubbed in, and my legs were placed back in the stirrups as my baby was taken from me.
I want my baby. I want my baby.
As the medical team assessed the situation, I noticed blood pouring from my body; so much blood that the hospital linens turned red. They swiftly unplugged the bed from the wall, and Alex, the boy I loved instantly, placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. I heard his shaky voice say, “I love you,” before they wheeled me toward the operating room.
Once in the operating room, I was positioned flat on the table; around eight medical professionals surrounded my motionless body, still numb from the waist down. They secured a strap over my upper body to prevent movement, confining me to the table.
Without anesthesia to transport me away, I remained aware, cognizant, as they worked feverishly to arrest the bleeding.
With four ports for simultaneous blood transfusions, I lay there, utterly helpless.
“If we can’t stop the bleeding, we will need to perform a hysterectomy,” someone announced.
I’m 29. My baby died. I’m going to die. If I survive, I’ll be infertile. My thoughts raced, yet I felt an unexpected calmness. I was dissociating as my survival instincts kicked in. I was being traumatized.
I heard my voice repeating the same questions in a monotone, “Am I going to die? Am I going to be infertile?”
“We’re doing everything we can for you,” they tried to comfort me by rubbing my left arm.
When they realized they couldn’t stop the bleeding, I was transported to another hospital on the same campus through an underground tunnel.
Upon arrival in a new operating room with a fresh team of medical professionals and advanced imaging equipment, there was significantly more silence, minimal arm rubbing, and just one verbal reassurance. After the procedure, I was moved to the ICU around 3 AM.
Once reunited with Alex, I asked, “Where’s my baby?” I want my baby.
I was told I could see her again once I was stable and transferred to the acute unit.
The following day, approximately 15 hours after delivery, I was reunited with her. We attempted to make up for lost time—time that can never be restored.
A social worker delivered a memory box filled with mementos from my little one: locks of hair, footprints, a molded handprint, and photographs—pictures taken, I assume, immediately after her birth. However, the only images I have of holding her are from the following day.
As the year anniversary approaches, it remains challenging to process and comprehend everything that has occurred. A collection of moments has irrevocably transformed my world and the person I am within it.
Since losing my daughter, my work as a therapist has evolved. I now devote a portion of my practice to assisting other women and families who have experienced loss and trauma. This phenomenon is often referred to as post-traumatic growth, which is both beautiful and powerful.
Post-traumatic growth is real. It is beautiful, and it does not erase the pain, trauma, and grief. If given the choice between providing therapeutic support to fellow bereaved mothers or having my baby, the answer would always be the same. I would choose her, I would miss her, and I would always want her. Thus, the repetition of those four words; I want my baby.
These are the four words I think about throughout the day, the four words I share with friends, family, and my therapists (both individual and couples). These words, no matter when or how I express them, always bring me to tears. Occasionally, I mix it up with a simple, “I feel sad,” which also does the trick.
Alex has his own set of words—equally straightforward and profound—“I miss our baby.”
So, as I prepare to close a year that defies description or articulation, I hold onto what I know: I want my baby. I miss my baby. I love my baby. And I always will.
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Summary:
This heartfelt reflection explores the profound impact of stillbirth on a mother’s life, highlighting the emotional turmoil, the physical challenges of labor, and the enduring love for a child lost too soon. As the anniversary of this tragic event approaches, the author shares her journey of grief, healing, and transformation, emphasizing the importance of support and understanding for those who have experienced similar losses.