By: Lisa Green
Updated: Dec. 20, 2017
Originally Published: Dec. 20, 2017
Trigger warning: child loss, stillbirth
It has been 143 days since I lost my son, Ethan. You know how, after a child is born, parents tend to count their milestones in months? Those well-meaning parents who say, “Oh, my precious little one is 24 months old,” can leave you staring blankly, calculating how old that really is in your head, only to realize that your child is simply 2 years old—just say 2!
After losing a child, though, you find yourself counting the days without them—first in minutes, then hours, and finally days. I suspect that soon enough, I will measure the time in months, perhaps even years, but right now, I can still recount the exact number of days since my life took an unimaginable turn.
The Anxiety of Pregnancy
The anxiety that accompanies an eight-week ultrasound is almost palpable. With my second pregnancy, everything felt different—thankfully, in a positive way. I experienced little to no morning sickness and had a decent level of energy, which paradoxically heightened my worries. This was not how my first pregnancy had felt. Hearing that tiny heartbeat at eight weeks was a moment of relief; there truly was a baby growing inside me, perfectly on track.
At the twelve-week ultrasound, I saw that heartbeat again and witnessed my baby moving around, exactly the size he should be. We had crossed the twelve-week mark, leaving the miscarriage risk behind us. It was finally time to share our joyous news with the world. However, as I prepared my announcement for Facebook, I hesitated. A strange instinct told me I might regret broadcasting this news. I brushed it off, convincing myself that my great appointment meant everything was fine. With a pep talk to myself, I hit “post,” and our excitement was out there.
Gender Reveal and Unforeseen News
The following two months flew by. My belly grew, and the reality of my pregnancy became more vivid. Finally, the day arrived to learn the gender of our baby. I just knew it was a boy. This pregnancy had been so different from my first with our daughter, and I was certain we were having a son. My husband, however, believed we were welcoming another girl.
At 19 weeks pregnant, we invited my best friend along for the gender reveal. Our children were born just a few months apart, and with her expecting at the same time, we were excited to envision our plans of sharing clothes. The ultrasound tech conducted the measurements, and while we could hear the heartbeat, the baby was coy about revealing whether we were decorating in pink or blue.
When our OB entered the room, I sensed something was off. Typically, we would meet with her in her office afterward, but now she delivered news that shook my world—some of our baby’s organs weren’t measuring correctly. The gravity of the situation was lost on us; we didn’t comprehend the severity. We were urgently referred to a fetal specialist within the hour.
The detailed ultrasound confirmed our fears: there were abnormalities in our baby’s organs, and we learned we were indeed having a boy. My husband was overjoyed, but we were left with the heavy uncertainty of whether our son would survive.
The Heartbreaking Loss
Seven hours later, we left the hospital, emotions swirling—shock, anger, fear, and uncertainty. Over the next three weeks, we sought help from numerous specialists, desperately trying to save our son. Each visit revealed dwindling amniotic fluid levels, and I was torn between a fierce desire to protect him and the weight of watching him decline. The emotional turmoil was unbearable.
On the 21st week, our son, Ethan, succumbed to his struggles. I now understand what true heartbreak is: carrying your deceased child while discussing the logistics of his delivery. On a chilly day in February, we welcomed Ethan into the world and said our final goodbyes.
Prior to heading to the hospital, I took medication to induce contractions. Even though I wasn’t giving birth in the traditional sense, my body still needed to respond. The medication triggered intense contractions almost immediately. As I navigated those painful moments, my husband drove us to the hospital, and we realized we hadn’t even settled on a name. We decided on Ethan, and I suggested the middle name “James” after hearing it in passing.
After the Loss
Post-surgery, the week that followed was physically taxing. My body reacted to the loss, and although I had no baby to nourish, my milk came in. Most of that time felt like a blur; I spent hours in bed, eating little and crying often, grappling with how to explain this loss to the world.
The most challenging aspect was addressing my toddler’s innocent question: “Where is the baby?” At just over three years old, she had been excited about becoming a big sister, hugging my belly and singing lullabies. Working with my therapist, we decided on honesty. I told her, “The baby died. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Mama is very sad, and the baby won’t be coming home.”
After a week, her questions eased, but occasionally, reminders would spark her memory, leading to the same question. Each time, I reiterated the truth until her inquiries became less frequent.
Returning to Work
About three weeks postpartum, I started to feel physically better, but emotionally, I was in turmoil. My therapist suggested returning to work, believing it could provide a necessary distraction. When I spoke to my boss about my return, she offered to communicate my situation to my colleagues. She sent out a brief email explaining that I had experienced pregnancy complications and lost my son, Ethan.
Upon returning to work, I felt like an outsider. Colleagues were hesitant to approach me, unsure of what to say. I tried to appear approachable, initiating conversations myself. Gradually, it became easier, although some still viewed me as “the coworker who lost her baby.” Navigating discussions about pregnancy or baby showers remained a sensitive subject. Part of me wanted to urge them not to walk on eggshells, yet I was acutely aware that I was not the same person I once was.
Finding Light in the Darkness
As the following months unfolded, I experienced glimmers of light amidst the darkness that had enveloped me after Ethan’s death. I still faced unexpected moments of sorrow, especially during solitary drives when my thoughts would overwhelm me. My daughter’s drawings, often depicting a happy family, would sometimes feature a sad face for me, reminding me of the sibling she would never have.
My best friend, who had accompanied me to the ultrasound, announced she was having a girl—just as we had planned. I found it difficult to be happy for her, a testament to the complex emotions surrounding loss. Yet, she encouraged me to feel both joy and sadness.
It’s been 143 days since I lost my son, Ethan. My new reality requires me to rise each day, fulfill my roles as a mother and wife, and navigate my grief. I think of Ethan daily; sometimes I cry myself to sleep, though not every night anymore.
There are still people unaware of our story. As my due date approaches and passes, I know I will have to explain our loss to acquaintances, once again feeling like an unwelcome presence in a joyful setting.
When will this feeling subside? I don’t have the answer. When will I transition from counting days to months? That remains uncertain. What I do know is that I will strive to find joy each day, and I will cherish the moments with my family.
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Summary
This heartfelt narrative recounts the author’s journey through the devastating loss of her son, Ethan, after a complicated pregnancy. It explores her emotional turmoil, the challenges of addressing her loss with her young daughter, and the struggle to navigate life after such tragedy. Ultimately, the author emphasizes the importance of finding joy and maintaining connections with family while acknowledging the profound impact of her grief.