Trigger Warning: Child Loss
Forty-three years ago, when my mother-in-law experienced a stillbirth at full term, she faced the harrowing reality of not seeing her daughter. In her cultural context, she was not encouraged to name her child nor informed about her burial place. She shared this painful chapter of her life with me only during a hospital visit for my father-in-law, a moment when the subject of loss felt palpable. Since that time, this topic has rarely resurfaced; I never inquired further, and she never volunteered more details. After all, she had gone on to have two living children, so why dwell on a past loss?
However, hearing her story deepened my respect for her resilience. Despite having given birth three times, she had only two living children. She endured the unimaginable experience of laboring and delivering a stillborn child. What greater emotional and physical anguish could a mother experience? It was perhaps a blessing that she never laid eyes on her baby. Why revisit such profound sorrow when she had already faced so much?
In 2014, four years after our conversation, I became pregnant, feeling a sense of optimism. After all, her stillbirth occurred in the 1970s, and surely things had improved. Yet, the reality is sobering—each year, approximately 24,000 stillbirths occur in the U.S., a figure significantly higher than that of sudden infant deaths (SIDS). The odds seemed favorable; I believed our son would be safe.
Then came the pregnancy with our second child—this time, a daughter. The journey was largely uncomplicated until my 37-week checkup, which confirmed everything was well. Just wait, I was told. Yet, at 38 weeks, I noticed a troubling stillness; my daughter had stopped moving. We quickly arranged for our toddler to stay with a neighbor, planning a brief hospital visit—no need for a phone charger, we thought.
Upon arrival, the devastating news was evident even before the doctors spoke the dreaded words: “There is no heartbeat.” The somber reality became undeniable as we observed the sonogram screen. It wasn’t until 14 hours post-delivery that we discovered a rare tight knot in her umbilical cord.
In stark contrast to my mother-in-law’s experience, I gave birth in a time and culture that promotes seeing the baby as a means of coping with grief. We named our daughter, captured photographs, and were offered the chance to spend precious hours with her post-delivery. Some hospitals even provide specialized cooling cots, allowing parents to cherish their babies longer. My mother-in-law’s approach, however, resembled that of someone coping with an early miscarriage: no photographs, no footprints, no funeral rites.
Both ways of coping with such heart-wrenching grief are valid; we both mourned, yet the distinction underscores the societal unfamiliarity surrounding stillbirth. It is crucial to differentiate stillbirth from miscarriage, which affects at least a quarter of pregnancies. It is neither the death of a living person nor merely an early pregnancy loss. It embodies the tragic loss of a baby who never drew breath yet held infinite potential. It represents a unique grief for a child known solely to one individual.
Stillbirth occupies a liminal space between carrying a baby and welcoming one. It is analogous to leaping from one platform to another, only to fall into an abyss—reaching the finish line yet still losing.
In many instances of stillbirth, there is neither a birth certificate nor a death certificate. However, many states require families to arrange for the body’s disposition if the baby was delivered after 20 weeks. This means burial or cremation, often incurring costs without the benefit of tax credits, which are only applicable when a baby takes a breath.
Thus, the stillbirth parent faces a profound dilemma, straddling the boundary between miscarriage and the death of a living child. We possess photographs, yet we hesitate to share them. We have given birth, but the day of birth lacks the joy of celebration. We experienced lactation, yet there was no infant to nurture. We settled hospital bills but departed empty-handed. We cremated a child who, by official standards, was never alive. The question of how many children we have remains fraught with uncertainty.
Recently, I was asked if my toddler had siblings. If I disclose that our daughter died, it implies she lived. Conversely, saying we experienced a prenatal loss feels inadequate, diminishing the weight of the tragedy. After our loss, a sympathy card from a friend’s mother, who had also faced the death of a child, offered solace. She embraced me in the community of mothers who have known loss, honoring my daughter by acknowledging her name and existence.
In grappling with our experience, my husband and I pondered how our loss compared to a miscarriage. Was our grief less significant since we lacked shared memories? Did our daughter’s potential life make our sorrow more profound? How long should we mourn? Should we take time off work as though we had lost a child, or should we resume our lives?
The challenge of categorizing stillbirth contributes to the ongoing misunderstanding surrounding it. A friend recounted that when her daughter was stillborn at full term four years ago, a newly graduated medical professional asked, “So, are we calling this a stillbirth?” Yes, indeed. We are unequivocally naming it a stillbirth, and we must voice our experiences. Stillbirth remains a pressing reality; it did not vanish alongside the 1970s. Alarmingly, stillbirth rates in the U.S. have not diminished in two decades, with tens of thousands of new stillbirth parents emerging each year, simultaneously filled with love yet feeling an overwhelming emptiness.
Some of us have held our babies. Others have conducted funerals. When inquired about the number of children we have, many of us remain uncertain how to articulate our experiences. Yet, regardless of the time that passes—months, years, or decades—we all continue to grieve for our babies and the lives they could have lived.
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Summary
Stillbirth is a profound loss that occupies a unique space between pregnancy and the death of a living child. Unlike miscarriage, stillbirth is often shrouded in misunderstanding and societal stigma, leading to complex grieving processes for parents. Each experience is valid, yet the challenge remains in articulating the significance of stillbirth in a world that often fails to acknowledge it.