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Trigger Warning: This article contains discussions and imagery related to miscarriage, stillbirth, and pregnancy loss.
As a physician with a keen focus on maternal health, I’ve always held myself to a high standard. I graduated at the top of my class and have devoted years to studying the intricacies of human life. Yet, when I stepped into the realm of motherhood, I faced a harsh realization: excellence in academia does not guarantee success in the emotional landscape of parenting.
Five summers ago, I became part of a heartbreaking statistic. In the United States, stillbirth occurs in less than 1% of pregnancies, defined as the loss of a fetus after 20 weeks. A year later, I found myself confronting another grim reality: approximately 5 to 8% of pregnancies are complicated by preeclampsia, a condition that leads to 15% of premature births.
For the first time in my professional life, I felt like I had failed. I could not protect my unborn child, who passed away within me, and another had to be delivered prematurely due to complications I could not manage. What kind of mother was I if I could not endure a full term of pregnancy?
With my first pregnancy, we believed everything was progressing normally until the routine 20-week ultrasound revealed that my baby was measuring significantly smaller than expected. When my partner and I returned for a follow-up two weeks later, we were met with the devastating news: there was no heartbeat. The shock of that moment is etched in our minds forever.
Following the heartbreaking diagnosis, I was presented with two options: a dilation and evacuation procedure or induction in the hospital. I chose induction, wanting to hold my baby, to feel her humanity. After hours of labor, I delivered a tiny girl, weighing just 6 ounces, with ten perfect fingers and toes. In that fleeting moment, I cradled her in my arms. She was not just a “product of conception” as a healthcare provider had casually described; she was my daughter. Although the cause of her death was never determined, I knew she was flawless.
Physically, I recovered from the delivery, but emotionally, I was shattered. Instead of preparing a nursery, I was planning a burial and selecting a grave marker.
Months later, I learned I was pregnant again. This time, the due date would coincide with the anniversary of my daughter’s loss. Amid our sorrow, a flicker of hope ignited.
However, this pregnancy was fraught with challenges. I experienced severe morning sickness, unusual infections, and escalating blood pressure. At 29 weeks, I was hospitalized with preeclampsia. To ensure our survival, I underwent an urgent induction just a week later. My son spent his early weeks in the NICU, but today, he is a vibrant four-year-old.
While I cherish him, I grapple with conflicting emotions. His existence is intertwined with the grief of losing my daughter. I often reflect on how life might have unfolded had she been alive today. Despite the joy he brings, a shadow of sorrow lingers, a constant reminder of a life that ended too soon.
I have shared my daughter’s story with my son. We visit her grave and speak of her often—she is his guardian angel, and I believe she played a role in his safe arrival. Yet, societal norms dictate silence surrounding miscarriage and stillbirth, often branding such discussions as taboo. Is this silence meant to aid our healing, as if moving on means forgetting?
When I brought my son into this world, I confronted mortality head-on, even singing Queen’s “Under Pressure” during a critical moment in surgery. Yet, as I mourned my daughter, I was expected to grieve quietly. I am allowed to celebrate my son’s birth but made to feel I should forget my daughter’s. As a feminist and a mother, I reject this notion. I refuse to apologize for my pain or deny the humanity of both my children, who existed within me, even for a fleeting time.
When asked how many children I have, I hesitate. Saying one feels like a betrayal to my daughter’s memory, while saying two invites uncomfortable questions. I often settle on, “one on earth and one in heaven,” a response that usually meets with empathetic nods from fellow mothers, who understand the unspoken bond we share.
Five years have passed since my daughter’s death, and I have kept my grief largely to myself, finding it too painful to voice. However, I will not remain silent any longer.
October 15 is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. If you seek support or wish to raise awareness for those navigating similar losses, please explore resources available at October 15th.
As a physician and a mother, I understand that the journey of motherhood can be fraught with challenges, and the emotional toll of loss can be profound. For those seeking information on fertility treatments, I recommend checking out UCSF’s excellent resource on IVF for comprehensive guidance.
In this delicate realm, we must uphold our voices and share our truths.
Summary:
This article addresses the profound emotional impact of miscarriage and stillbirth, reflecting on the author’s personal experiences as a mother who faced these challenges. It emphasizes the importance of recognizing both joy and grief in motherhood, challenging societal norms that encourage silence around such losses. The author invites readers to remember and honor their lost children while seeking support and understanding in their journeys.