My Story of Pregnancy Loss and Hope

My husband and I began dating early in high school. Even when we were that young, he talked about how much he wanted to be a dad. I figured that I would like to have kids, but it just felt so far away and too abstract for me to really consider. I could not picture myself as a mother.

In 2014, I decided that I was finally ready to start a family. I had finished graduate school, studied abroad, had a strong career, and owned a home. Those seemed to be the difficult tasks, so I figured that getting pregnant would be so simple. And it was. We got pregnant almost immediately, and we proudly announced it to our families. No one told me that staying pregnant could be tricky. 

We went to our 8-week appointment, and the baby appeared to be measuring behind with a slow heart rate. We were assured that my dates could simply be off, so we returned two weeks later for a follow-up ultrasound. We were informed that the baby had stopped growing, its heart had stopped, and that my pregnancy was “no longer viable.” I had a missed miscarriage. I was informed of my options, and we scheduled a D&C for the following week. 

That week's wait was excruciating. None of our friends or extended family knew, so my workdays, the Thanksgiving holiday, and group outings were spent giving fake smiles. I expected bleeding to occur, but it never did. Instead, my morning sickness and bloating continued. It was like my body never got the message that my baby had died.

I had surgery, and I remember feeling so absolutely hollow afterward. I curled into a ball on the couch and cried for hours. The next morning, I found a note from my husband, promising that good things were ahead for us. He just knew it. 

We got pregnant again a few months later, and once we passed the 12-week mark, we figured we were in the clear. We documented my pregnancy by taking pictures of my growing belly each week. It was incredible to watch my body morph into someone that I no longer recognized, but still someone that I wanted to be. 

With each passing week, our house amassed more and more baby items. We learned that we were having a boy by cutting into a gender reveal cake. I still look at the photograph that captured the moment we learned I was carrying our son, Richard. I marvel at the blissful naivety on our faces. We never expected any other future than one filled with sleepless nights because of a crying baby in the bassinet next to our bed. 

We had a countdown on our kitchen table that announced we had only nine weeks left until Richard would make his arrival. That weekend we shopped for a new car. I needed an upgrade from my compact car to a family-friendly crossover. I still feel immense guilt for ignoring the warning signs before we set off for the car dealership. I noticed a decrease in movement; his kicks had slowed, despite drinking orange juice and laying on my side for an hour. I still felt his kicks, so I figured that he was simply running out of room. I shrugged off my worries as my typical bouts of anxiety. 

When I went to work that Monday morning, I felt sick, and I had searing back pain. By the end of the day, I went to my OB to get checked out. I was told that it could be the typical back pain associated with the third trimester, but I was given an NST anyway. It was then that everything began to change, and I realized that something may seriously be wrong. My back pain was actually preterm labor, and my son failed the NST. He was hardly moving at all. 

I called my husband and told him that he needed to leave work and meet me at the hospital. He excitedly told his coworkers that he hoped to be meeting his boy that day, but it was likely a false alarm. When we finally saw one another, he reassured me that everything would be okay. It seemed like everyone else that we met at the hospital in those first few hours echoed those same sentiments. However, after a failed biophysical profile (BPP) ultrasound, my midwife told me that I was going to have an emergency c-section: “He isn’t tolerating the contractions well. His heart keeps decelerating. He will be safer on the outside, and he will need a little care from the NICU.” 

As my bed was wheeled through the maternity ward to the OR, everyone called out, “Congratulations, Mom and Dad!” My husband beamed, and I tried to politely smile. I was absolutely panicked, about to have a delivery that I never imagined. It felt like mere minutes between that moment and when Richard was pulled from my body. 

I expected to hear my son’s cry or the doctor telling my husband to take a peek over the sheet to see his boy. Instead, we were met with silence. And hushed whispers.

“That is a lot of blood.” 

“Was there a placental abruption?”

“No, her placenta looks fine.” 

Meanwhile, alarm bells are sounding in my head. I did not understand what my doctor and midwife were saying, but I knew that it was not good. I could see movement to my left with the NICU team springing into action. I could see a tiny baby in the mobile bassinet - a wisp of black hair, the side of an arm. More people began to fill the room, and then it was time to move. My husband vacillated for a moment - stay with me or with our son? I told him to stay with Richard and not worry about me. He ended up spending every moment of Richard’s life by his side. 

Richard lived for an hour after succumbing to heart failure from a fetal maternal hemorrhage. I have met with several specialists, and no one can determine why the hemorrhage occurred because my placenta was apparently “perfect.” All I know is that my body failed to save him. Everyone around me was easily growing their families, and I was left with empty arms and a nursery that would never be used. 

When we returned home from the hospital, my new car sat in the driveway, and our living room was filled with gifts from my baby shower. I could hardly look at everything as I shuffled to the couch, cringing from my surgery pain.

To be honest, the weeks that followed are an absolute blur. It comes in flashes, so I remember laying in bed for hours on end, watching the sunlight change to twilight. I remember reading text messages from my husband, reminding me to eat the sandwich he left for me in the refrigerator. I remember scrolling through pregnancy loss message boards, desperate for answers. I remember taking a walk around my cul-de-sac, proud that I was finally leaving the house, only to have to tell my neighbor that yes, I did have the baby, but he passed away. I remember going grocery shopping and being told that I should smile more and then screaming in my head that I had no reason to smile. I remember the pitying looks from friends and family that just made me feel even more alone. I remember watching the bellies grow of those around me, angry that mine was empty. I remember laughing for the first time and then recoiling with guilt. I remember fighting to have hope again.

Although Richard’s life was so brief, he changed mine forever. He made me into a woman that I have learned to love and even admire. Before Richard, I was a woman who kept her miscarriage a secret, ashamed of her body’s failure. After Richard, I became a woman who proudly talks about her son and her journey to the family she has today. When someone sees me, they will see a woman chasing around two young girls. But I see a mother to two beautiful rainbow girls and a son who helped bring them safely to me. 

This story is a submission to a book about pregnancy loss that will be published by Maria Ann Green in the future. I will absolutely share details once they become available!