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Trigger warning: stillbirth, child loss
Birth stories are often filled with beauty and unexpected twists, illuminating the miracle of new life. However, for some, these narratives can turn into haunting nightmares from which they can never truly awaken. I have spent the last decade grappling with my own story, and as the tenth anniversary of my son’s death approaches, I feel compelled to share it. With Mother’s Day recently having passed, I want to honor all mothers who have endured the agony of neonatal loss or stillbirth, creating a space for those who suffer in silence.
It’s been ten years. Writing that makes my hands shake.
Ten years ago, I was 28 and nine months pregnant with my first child. On the eve of my due date, around 1 AM, I began to feel the first hints of labor. As dawn broke, I marveled at the stunning spring day, thinking it was the ideal backdrop for my child’s arrival. Everything seemed picture-perfect, just like my pregnancy.
My husband suggested I have a hearty breakfast before heading to the hospital, so I asked for my favorite: an everything bagel with lox cream cheese. I was starving.
I labored at home for an extended period, as my doctor had advised. My sister and mother joined me to help with breathing through contractions in my bedroom on a yoga mat and a medicine ball. It was a grueling day, and as the contractions intensified, the pain escalated to a level where I could hardly breathe. I knew it was time to go to the hospital. As I glanced out of the window, I saw the sun shining brightly. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
The pain grew unbearable. I remember thinking it was the most agonizing experience of my life, yet it also felt beautiful. I felt an intimate connection with my baby, as if we were communicating in our own way. Eventually, we arrived at the hospital, and in a rush, I leaped out of the car before my husband could park. I waddled to the entrance, was placed in a wheelchair, and barely made it for the epidural. Soon enough, it was time to push.
I pushed for what seemed like an eternity. The nurses encouraged me, saying I had created a wonderful home for him, which is why he was reluctant to leave. I struggled, my vision blurred, and I kept repeating, “I can’t see.”
Just then, a surge of strength came over me. I pushed one final time, feeling an intense pain akin to a ring of fire, and then—relief. There he was: seven pounds and one ounce, born on his due date.
Everything was a haze, but I could make out shadows and blurred images. He looked just like me, with a full head of brown hair. I cradled him on my chest, but in a moment, he was taken from me. That was the first and last time I saw him alive.
Hudson passed away an hour and a half later, taking a piece of my heart with him. A flurry of doctors worked tirelessly to revive him, but in the end, they delivered the devastating news: he was gone. I felt like I had been struck by lightning.
I screamed at the universe, wishing I could have traded places with him. The sun kept shining on that beautiful spring day, mocking me in my despair.
I won’t delve into the details, but the truth is that I needed an emergency C-section, and had it been performed, Hudson might be here today. This painful reality has haunted me for ten years. It never becomes easier; you just learn to hide the devastation within.
A decade later, the memories remain vivid—the sights, the sounds, the scents. Trauma like this lingers; it doesn’t fade away. I remember the doctor sobbing, the nurses crying, and the overwhelming silence that followed. That day shattered us all.
The hours that followed were a blur. I was poked and prodded by countless medical professionals, all while I felt utterly numb. I turned away grief counselors, not wanting to be touched or comforted. I was asked if I wanted to spend time with Hudson. Initially, I refused, but deep down, I knew I would regret it if I didn’t.
When they brought him to me, I was terrified but also compelled. In that moment, my mother reassured me, saying, “He is beautiful. He is perfect.” And he was. He looked like a dream—healthy and flawless. Saying goodbye felt unbearable.
I chose not to see him in his coffin; I couldn’t handle it. My husband did, reading him a story as he grieved.
Despite my trauma and the years of struggle with PTSD, depression, and anxiety, I went on to become pregnant four more times. One ended in miscarriage, one was high-risk, and another revealed a birth defect. Tragically, I faced another stillbirth at 34 weeks, a day after a maternity photoshoot.
Yes, it happened again. I had to bury another child.
Yet here I am today, with two living children who are my everything. I continue to stand, teetering on the edge of grief but still standing.
I am not strong; I am not a warrior; I am not exceptionally resilient. But I am a mother—a bereaved mother. Hudson changed me profoundly. He made me a mother, and in the process, I have learned so much about myself. I reflect on my journey daily, replaying every moment of that devastating day. I feel anger and gratitude, joy and sorrow, hope and bitterness.
While I still struggle with anxiety and PTSD, I can now hold a baby in my arms and feel okay. For more insights on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource. If you’re exploring options for conception, consider visiting Make a Mom. And for more stories, you can read about experiences on this blog.