Trigger Warning: This article contains references to miscarriage, stillbirth, and pregnancy loss.
To put it simply, I’ve always prided myself on my achievements. From being the valedictorian of my high school to graduating magna cum laude from a prestigious university, I even earned two master’s degrees and a doctorate on a full fellowship. So, when I stepped into motherhood, I naturally expected to continue this pattern of success.
However, life had different plans. Five years ago, I faced an unimaginable reality as my daughter and I became part of an alarming statistic: in the United States, less than 1% of pregnancies end in stillbirth, defined as fetal death after 20 weeks. A year later, I encountered another grim statistic: around 5 to 8% of pregnancies are affected by preeclampsia, a condition that leads to 15% of premature births.
For the first time, I felt like a failure. I couldn’t protect my children. One passed away inside me, while the other was born prematurely at just 30 weeks because I couldn’t manage the pregnancy. What kind of mother was I? How could I not endure a full term of 37 weeks?
With my first daughter, what we thought was a routine pregnancy took a tragic turn during the 20-week ultrasound when we discovered she was measuring significantly smaller than expected. During a follow-up two weeks later, my husband, mother, and I received the devastating news: there was no heartbeat. The shock was indescribable.
In the aftermath, I was faced with two choices. I could undergo a dilation and evacuation procedure, which would mean I wouldn’t be able to see my baby, or I could be induced in the maternity ward. I chose the latter.
The next day, surrounded by my family and under careful supervision, I delivered a 6-ounce baby girl at 2 a.m. She was perfect, with ten tiny fingers and toes, and she bore a resemblance to her father. Although the cause of her death was never determined, I will always remember her as my beloved child.
Physically, I recovered well, but emotionally and spiritually, I was shattered. Instead of choosing a crib, I was left selecting a casket and designing a grave marker.
A few months later, rather than being consumed by grief on what would have been my daughter’s birthday, I discovered I was pregnant again, with a due date that coincided with the anniversary of my first daughter’s passing. In our sorrow, we found hope.
This pregnancy was markedly different. I experienced severe morning sickness, pink eye for the first time, and my blood pressure began to rise. At 29 weeks, I was hospitalized due to preeclampsia, and after a week, I had to be induced to safeguard my life and my son’s.
My son spent nine weeks in the intensive care nursery but today, at four years old, he is a healthy boy. Despite his perfect health, I often feel a sense of conflict. I have him because I lost my daughter, and I wonder if he would even exist if she were still here. While our days are filled with laughter and hugs, a shadow of sadness lingers, a reminder of a life lost too soon.
I’ve shared stories of his big sister with my son; we have visited her grave together. She is his guardian angel, and I believe she protected him during his challenging entrance into the world.
I want her memory to remain a part of our lives, yet society often teaches us to remain silent about miscarriage and stillbirth. Is this silence meant to help us heal, or is it a product of fear about acknowledging loss? Has the movement for reproductive rights inadvertently encouraged this silence, fearing that such mourning might humanize the fetus and complicate the abortion debate?
With my son’s birth, I faced death head-on, even managing to sing Queen’s “Under Pressure” as I underwent surgery. Conversely, when my daughter died, 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 honor one birth without acknowledging the other? For my healing, I must recognize and validate both. My children, regardless of gestational age, were part of me. I refuse to apologize for my pain or erase her memory.
When asked how many children I have, I often hesitate. If I say one, I feel I am neglecting my daughter’s memory; if I say two, it invites discomfort. Now, I simply say, “one on earth and one in heaven.” This response often elicits understanding nods from other women who share this unspoken bond.
Five years have passed since my daughter’s death, and I have remained quiet about my grief for too long. But no more.
October 15 is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. For support and to raise awareness for those enduring such losses, check out www.october15th.com. You can also find additional resources about pregnancy loss and home insemination through excellent sites like Hopkins Medicine and Make a Mom, which can provide valuable insights into this journey.
Summary
This heartfelt article reflects on the profound grief experienced after miscarriage and stillbirth, highlighting the emotional complexities surrounding motherhood and loss. The author shares their personal journey, emphasizing the enduring memory of their daughter while celebrating the life of their son.