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Trigger Warning: This narrative includes details about miscarriage, stillbirth, and pregnancy loss.
Let’s get straight to the point: I’ve always been a bit of an overachiever. I was the valedictorian of my high school, graduated magna cum laude from a prestigious university, and while enjoying a full fellowship, I earned two master’s degrees and a doctorate. So, when it came to the journey of motherhood, I assumed I would keep up that impressive streak.
However, life threw me a curveball, reminding me that “exceptional” has two meanings. As a student, I was exceptional in all the right ways; as a mother, my experience was exceptionally painful.
Five summers ago, my daughter and I became part of a heartbreaking statistic: fewer than 1% of pregnancies in the U.S. result in stillbirth, which is defined as the loss of a fetus after 20 weeks of gestation. A year later, I faced another grim statistic: around 5 to 8% of pregnancies are complicated by preeclampsia, a condition that can lead to premature births in 15% of cases.
For the first time in my life, I felt like a failure. I couldn’t protect my children—one lost within me, and the other forced out into the world at only 30 weeks because I couldn’t handle the pregnancy. What kind of mother was I? How could I not manage to carry a pregnancy to term?
With my daughter, we thought everything was fine until that routine 20-week ultrasound revealed she was measuring smaller than expected. Two weeks later, when we returned for a follow-up, we found out there was no heartbeat. Shock enveloped us; it was a moment none of us could ever forget.
After receiving the devastating news, I was brought into a consultation room. I was given two options: undergo a dilation and evacuation procedure, which would leave me unable to see my baby, or be induced to deliver her naturally. I chose induction.
The next day, surrounded by my husband and parents, I lay in a hospital bed for 12 hours, monitored by a caring staff. Just after 2 a.m., I delivered a 6-ounce baby girl who had ten tiny fingers and toes. For a fleeting moment, I held her close. She wasn’t just a “product of conception,” as one doctor had coldly referred to her the day before; she bore my husband’s features. The reason for her death was never determined, but she was perfect in every way.
Physically, I recovered well after the delivery, but my daughter’s passing shattered me emotionally and spiritually. Instead of preparing for a nursery, I was picking out a casket and designing a grave marker.
Months later, on what would have been my daughter’s birthday, I found out I was pregnant again. This time, there was a spark of hope, as the new arrival was due around the anniversary of our loss.
However, this pregnancy was a rollercoaster ride. I experienced morning sickness around the clock, pink eye for the first time, and my blood pressure began to rise. At 29 weeks, I was hospitalized for preeclampsia and, after an extra week, had to be induced to save both my life and my son’s.
My son spent nine weeks in the NICU due to his prematurity, but today, at four years old, he is a vibrant little guy. He shows no lasting effects from his early arrival and is our shining light. Yet, every day I look at my son with mixed emotions. His existence is a bittersweet reminder of the child I lost. I wonder if I would have him if my daughter were still alive. Although our days are filled with laughter and hugs, a shadow of grief lingers, reminding me of that life cut short.
I’ve shared stories about his big sister with my son. We’ve visited her grave and talk about her often. She is his guardian angel, and I believe she played a role in his safe arrival.
Society often tells us to remain silent about miscarriage and stillbirth, as if that grief should simply vanish. Is this silence meant to help us heal? Or is it a byproduct of the reproductive rights movement, which might see mourning a lost child as complicating the conversation around choice?
With my son’s birth, I confronted death head-on, even attempting to sing Queen’s “Under Pressure” during surgery. But with my daughter’s death, I grieved in silence. In our culture, I’m encouraged to celebrate my son’s birth while being urged to forget about my daughter’s. As a feminist, how can I rejoice in one birth while disregarding the other? Both of my children, at 22 weeks and 30 weeks, were undeniably human and a part of me. I refuse to apologize for my pain or forget my daughter.
When people ask me how many children I have, I often hesitate. If I say one, I feel like I’m dishonoring my daughter. If I say two, it leads to an uncomfortable explanation. I’ve settled on, “one on earth and one in heaven,” which usually elicits a knowing nod or a comforting gesture from other mothers who understand my silent struggle.
I am irrevocably changed by the events of five years ago. I am a mother who has experienced the deep heartache of losing a child, and I refuse to remain silent any longer.
October 15 is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. To find support and raise awareness for those who have experienced loss, check out this resource.
In Summary
The journey of motherhood can be fraught with unexpected challenges, particularly when dealing with miscarriage and stillbirth. The author reflects on her own experiences of loss while advocating for the acknowledgment of both her children. By breaking the silence surrounding such painful topics, she aims to honor her daughter’s memory while celebrating her son’s life.