Dear Max,
Today marks the day you were meant to enter this world. But you won’t be arriving, because you were already here.
Let me take you back to the beginning. Approximately nine months ago, while preparing for a work dinner in a midtown hotel room in New York City, I decided to take a pregnancy test—just to be sure. Networking can be a lot more manageable with a couple of glasses of wine, right? To my surprise, the test came back positive. Oh boy, awkward small talk awaited me!
Some people might feel overwhelmed upon discovering they were expecting another child, especially with an 11-month-old and a toddler at home. But from the moment I saw that positive result, I felt nothing but pure joy about you. I envisioned the trio you, Beatrice, and Deacon would become. I was excited about how effortlessly your father, Chas, and I had created you (or so I thought). I looked forward to making Deacon your big brother and watching Bea continue to thrive in her role as a big sister.
With you, I experienced a joy that I had not felt in my previous pregnancies. When I found out I was pregnant with your sister, it was a mix of shock and wonder: “Oh my goodness, I’m having a baby?! This will be amazing, right?!” With Deacon, there was a sense of panic: “Can I handle this again? Why did we do this so soon? Oh man, Beatrice will not be thrilled.” However, knowing how deeply I loved your siblings and how beautifully our family had turned out gave me confidence this time. It truly felt like fate—an opportunity to expand our family’s love.
In the months that followed, I envisioned what you would be like and how our family would change with you. I imagined you inheriting my green eyes (which neither of your siblings have). I pictured you with Bea’s tenacity and Deacon’s cuddliness. I hoped you would be the first to sleep through the night so I wouldn’t have to rely on a Magic Sleepsuit for my sanity!
I dreamed of bundling you in the camo Patagonia bunting we bought for winter strolls, holding you on my lap while reading and sipping coffee as we waited for warm weather (ugh, New York… probably not until next April). I imagined taking you to college—the last one to leave—and watching you cry a little when you saw the emotional mess I’d become. I looked forward to Deacon and Bea meeting you in the hospital; we had been teaching Deacon to kiss, so I envisioned him planting a big, slobbery kiss on your round cheek, just like Bea had done for him (right before turning away and asking for my sandwich; your sister loves food!).
For those four months, even though you didn’t fill our lives in the same loud and messy way as your siblings, you were always present in my heart. I loved you more each day, especially after the nausea subsided around week 11. One of those days, Mother’s Day, stands out—picnicking and playing in the park with Bea and Deacon, I truly felt your presence. Our family of five felt complete as the two of them climbed over me, laughing. I will always cherish that moment because it was one of the last before I had to say goodbye to you.
On a Monday morning, we brought Bea to the doctor’s office to see a picture of you and find out if you were a boy or a girl. We already knew you were a boy, but we thought it would be fun to keep her guessing since the baby in my belly was one of her favorite topics. It started out fun: we talked about your heartbeat—just like hers—and that rhythm was perfect.
However, not all parts of you were perfect. Your legs and arms were remarkably tiny for a baby at 20 weeks. Even more concerning, your rib cage was so small that there was no room for your lungs to develop—the very lungs you would need to breathe once you were born. The doctor couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was wrong, but she knew it meant you wouldn’t be able to join our family.
We later learned you had a disease that caused your bones to be extremely fragile; they had already begun to break with every tiny movement inside me, which hindered their growth. This meant that you would have experienced pain had you grown longer within me and even more so during your brief time on earth.
Bidding farewell to you was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. I wish I had felt you kick more before letting go. I only felt you three times, and your dad didn’t feel you at all. I wish I had spent more moments simply being still, talking to you, and expressing everything I’ve shared here. I worry you’ll never know how deeply you were loved. I wish I could have done something at that moment of your creation to mend what was broken, granting you the life you deserved.
This is a story about how on May 16, 2017, I lost my second son. After receiving a shocking diagnosis that was “not compatible with life” and “100% fatal,” we made the heart-wrenching decision to end your suffering before we were ready. I gave birth to you at White Plains Hospital at 8 a.m., following about 12 hours of labor.
You no longer had your perfect heartbeat, so you must have passed away during delivery. They wrapped you in a blanket and placed a hat on you, allowing me to hold you for as long as I wanted. Though I can’t say how long it was, I will treasure those moments forever. Even as small as you were, I noticed you had the same nose as Deacon. A chaplain came in and blessed you with holy oil, and we named you Maxwell Beau Littlefield. On the same day you were born, I kissed you goodbye, and several hours later, I was wheeled out of the hospital—without my precious Beau.
This is also a story about standing up for oneself. I encountered a doctor who attempted to persuade me into a procedure against my wishes, even contacting Chas without my consent to sway his opinion. Another doctor suggested the wrong postmortem genetic testing. Had I followed their advice, I would have never held my beautiful baby in my arms or uncovered the answers regarding your condition.
Speaking of answers, this is a story about remarkable science. About six weeks after your passing, we received a call from the genetic lab— they identified the specific mutation affecting collagen production, leading to a diagnosis of osteogenesis imperfecta type II. We learned that there was a 93% certainty this was a random occurrence and should not impact future pregnancies. The remaining 7% relates to a germline mutation, and I’m thankful for a friend who recently graduated med school, giving me a clearer understanding of genetics. Here’s hoping we’re in that 93%.
Politically, this is a story about what’s referred to as a termination for medical reasons. While I firmly believe I made the right choice for you—and it hardly felt like a decision—I know opinions differ. I hope sharing my experience encourages others to ponder the “what-if”: What if ending a much-wanted pregnancy is actually the best option for the baby? Even if it doesn’t feel right for you, can you imagine how it might for someone else?
The narrative is not merely political; it’s deeply personal. I sometimes feel ashamed when discussing what happened to you. Do I refer to it as stillbirth? Is that misleading? You were still born, weren’t you? I held you, I cried over you. Is it pregnancy loss? Does that feel insufficient? Would it matter if this loss had occurred earlier, in my eighth week instead of my 21st? It felt like losing a person, not just a pregnancy. Abortion? Yet I wanted you! I loved you dearly! Ultimately, does it matter what terminology I use? Isn’t everyone’s pain equally valid, regardless of its label?
People are incredible, and this is a story about the strength of friendship and connection. It’s about the labor and delivery nurse who held my hand and wept with me when I met you. It’s about the messages I received from friends near and far, bringing both smiles and tears. Though we didn’t share our news widely, the outpouring of love was immense.
It’s also a story about the colleagues and mentors who supported my need to grieve and welcomed me back with understanding and kindness. This is about strangers and friends of friends who shared in our sadness, many recounting their own heartbreaking experiences. Those tales helped me, and I hope mine may assist someone else.
It took me almost five months to realize this is also a story about healing—the little I’ve accomplished and the much I aspire to. Some days, it feels like two steps back for every step forward. Duchess Kate’s pregnancy announcement even ruined my day. She’s married to a prince and gets a healthy third baby? “Lauren, remember, she vomits for nine months straight”—STILL NOT FAIR.
Every so often, I find myself on a conference call where someone asks when my baby is due. This date has been looming for a while. My therapist certainly deserves her fees. At times, I fear I’ll never feel whole again, that I’ll never have another healthy baby, or that I won’t view pregnancy as a joyous countdown instead of a dread-filled march.
Mostly, however, I feel okay. I am hopeful about expanding my family, excited to welcome a niece or nephew in November, and I feel genuinely happy for (or at least less envious of) those non-royal moms posting pregnancy announcements on Facebook.
Finally, this is a story for you, Beau. I won’t be able to organize your birthday parties, capture videos of your first steps, hug you on your first day of kindergarten, or dance with you at a school event. You may not be here in person, but you will always be loved deeply.
If you’re interested in learning more about similar experiences, I encourage you to check out this post on intracervicalinsemination.org. You might also find valuable insights at this excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination. And if you’re considering home insemination, this reputable online retailer offers a variety of at-home insemination syringe kits.
Summary:
In this heartfelt letter, the author reflects on the profound love and dreams she had for her unborn son, Max, who was diagnosed with a fatal condition. She shares the emotional journey of discovering her pregnancy, the anticipation of welcoming him into their family, and the heart-wrenching decision to say goodbye. The narrative touches on themes of love, loss, science, and personal choice, emphasizing the importance of support and connection in navigating grief.
Leave a Reply