March 2, 2021
I want my baby.
These are the words I whisper to myself when I zone out during conversations with friends or family, who might be discussing trivial matters like a hectic workday, a trending TV series, or an amusing anecdote that would typically spark laughter. Occasionally, the topics delve into more serious territories—breakups, health crises, or current events.
But regardless of the subject, my thoughts remain unchanged: I want my baby. I want my baby. I want my baby.
My baby passed away on 3/3/2020—almost one year ago. At that time, I was over eight months pregnant, had just purchased my dream home, secured my ideal job, and was with a partner I knew I would marry after just one meeting at 19.
As the first anniversary of Ava’s delivery draws near, some aspects of my life have changed compared to last year; my body bears a resemblance to its former self (somewhat—thanks to pregnancy), I am back to work, and when grocery clerks ask how I’m doing, I respond cheerfully, “I’m well, how are you?”
In many ways, however, life feels the same. I struggle with sleep, I find myself crying daily (not all day, just some part of each day), and often I sit in silence, shaking my head as I contemplate the past year. Yet, one feeling remains as strong today as it was then—the deep longing for my baby who should be here but isn’t.
I recall the surprise on others’ faces when they learned that Ava had passed away—surprised that I needed to go to the hospital to give birth to her. Many seem to think that when a loss occurs, the pregnancy simply disappears, but that’s not how it works. The truth is, babies still need to be delivered. Whether the loss happens early in the pregnancy (sometimes vaginally at home or through medical intervention) or later, as in my case, babies are born even when they do not survive.
On 3/4/2020, I went to the hospital for my scheduled induction. In the waiting area, I was surrounded by expectant mothers buzzing with anticipation.
I thought, I will never get this experience back, as I noticed the stuffed animals, balloons, and swollen bellies around me.
This will forever be my first delivery—the one I envisioned long before marriage or serious thoughts about parenthood crossed my mind, yet I never imagined it would unfold this way.
After checking in, they took me to my room, a spacious area with a private bathroom that seemed newly renovated. Directly across from my bed, a baby warmer awaited, lined with a cheerful blanket adorned with colorful handprints. Not wanting a constant reminder of what was to come, I asked Alex—my then 31-year-old husband, who was once a 21-year-old boy I knew I’d marry—to have it removed.
“They need a place to put her body,” he gently informed me, though they agreed to move the warmer out of my line of sight.
The nurse guided me to the bed, where a green hospital gown awaited. I changed in the private bathroom, catching one last glimpse of my belly in the mirror before waddling back to the bed, where I found a stack of forms.
“You’re about to experience one of life’s most special joys,” read the first form—a grave irony given the circumstances.
“Will you accept blood if a transfusion is required?” a nurse asked as I handed her the completed paperwork.
“Yes,” I replied, thinking, I won’t need that; a red hospital band was snapped around my wrist.
At just after 9 PM, the induction process began, lasting a grueling 48 hours. During this time, family members filtered in and out, while Alex took up residence on a couch too small for his tall frame.
Multiple medical professionals inserted hands, medications, and instruments into my body, while my body resisted, as if saying, “no, please no.”
I want my baby. I want my baby.
But neither I nor my body had a choice.
With a balloon for dilation and an amniotic hook that broke my water, active labor commenced. Alex held a plastic bag to my face and a cool washcloth to my forehead as I lay in bed, feverish, sweating, shaking, and vomiting.
Pelvic pressure mounted as the nurse placed my numb legs back in stirrups. Alex held my hand tight. I pushed once, tears streaming down my face, and managed to ask, “Is it over?”
“That’s it, it’s over,” my doctor said as he walked away, cradling my baby in his arms.
It was 8:53 PM on 3/6/2020, and the silence was deafening.
Cleaned and wrapped in a knit blanket with a pink hat resting delicately on her tiny head, Ava was handed to me. I held her close, determined to soak up every detail—determined to know and love her, to be her mother. I wanted to remember everything about her—how she looked, how she felt; I knew our time was fleeting.
Weighing just 4 lbs, 12 oz and measuring 17 ¾ inches, she had a precious nose and full lips. She was my baby—created with the person I loved most in this world.
The medical team stepped out to give us a moment alone; we had 20 minutes filled with music, tears, and passing her back and forth. But soon, Alex began to panic.
“You’re bleeding a lot. I don’t think that’s normal.”
He left to seek help while I held Ava close.
The doctor returned swiftly, my legs back in stirrups, and Ava was taken from me.
I want my baby. I want my baby.
As the medical team assessed the situation, I watched blood pour from my body, saturating the hospital linens.
They swiftly disconnected the bed from the wall, and Alex, the boy I fell in love with, planted a gentle kiss on my forehead and whispered, “I love you,” as they wheeled me toward the operating room.
Once inside, I was positioned flat on the table, surrounded by approximately eight medical professionals. They strapped me down, and despite being numb from the waist down, I remained fully aware as they worked frantically to stop the bleeding.
With four ports for simultaneous blood transfusions, I lay there, utterly helpless.
“If we can’t stop the bleeding, we will need to do a hysterectomy,” someone said.
I’m 29. My baby died. I’m going to die. If I survive, I’ll be infertile. My thoughts raced, yet I felt strangely calm.
I was dissociating as my survival instincts kicked in. My brain was doing what it was designed to do—help me survive.
“Am I going to die? Am I going to be infertile?” I asked repetitively in a monotone voice.
“We’re doing everything we can for you,” they said, trying to comfort me by rubbing my arm.
When they realized they couldn’t stop the bleeding, I was transferred to another hospital via an underground tunnel.
In the new operating room, I encountered a different team of professionals and an advanced imaging machine to aid in the procedure. This time, there was more silence, less reassurance. After the procedure, I was taken to the ICU around 3 AM.
Once reunited with Alex, I asked the question haunting me, “Where’s my baby?” I want my baby.
I was told I could see her once I stabilized and was moved to the acute unit.
The next day, about 15 hours after delivery, I was finally reunited with Ava. We tried to make up for the lost time that could never be restored.
A social worker brought in a memory box filled with mementos—locks of hair, footprints, a molded handprint, and pictures taken right after her birth. However, the only photos I have of holding her are from the following day.
As the one-year anniversary approaches, processing everything that has happened is still challenging. A series of moments have irrevocably altered my world and my identity within it.
Since losing my daughter, my work as a therapist has transformed. I now dedicate part of my practice to supporting other women and families who have experienced loss and trauma—a phenomenon often referred to as post-traumatic growth.
Post-traumatic growth is beautiful, powerful, and real. It is beautiful, yet it doesn’t erase the pain, trauma, and grief. If I had to choose between providing therapeutic support to other bereaved mothers or having my baby, I wouldn’t hesitate: my choice will always be Ava. I will always miss her, and I will always want her, which is why I continually replay those four words: I want my baby.
These words echo in my mind throughout the day, in conversations with friends, family, and therapists, and they inevitably bring me to tears. Occasionally, I switch it up with a simple, “I feel sad,” which also does the trick.
Alex has his own mantra—equally simple yet profound: “I miss our baby.”
As I prepare to mark a year that defies description, I hold on to what I know:
I want my baby. I miss my baby. I love my baby.
And I always will.
For more insights and helpful information about home insemination, check out this blog post. Also, for expert advice on fertility, visit Make A Mom. Additionally, CCRM IVF offers excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
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Summary: This heartfelt narrative reflects the author’s journey through the profound grief of losing a baby to stillbirth and the subsequent trauma. It explores the physical and emotional challenges faced during the delivery process, the experience of loss, and the ongoing longing for her child. The author also discusses the transformation in her work as a therapist, dedicating her practice to helping others navigate similar experiences. Ultimately, the story is a powerful testament to love and loss.