Trigger warning: child loss
Forty-three years ago, my mother-in-law, Evelyn, endured the heartbreak of a stillbirth at 40 weeks. She never got to hold her daughter, a loss compounded by the societal norms of her time. In her world, naming the baby was not encouraged, nor was she informed about where her child was laid to rest.
Evelyn revealed this painful chapter of her life to me during a hospital visit for my father-in-law, when thoughts of mortality were heavy in the air. Since then, it has been a topic that rarely comes up; I never inquired further, and she never shared more. After all, she went on to have two living children in the years that followed. Why dwell on a loss when there were other blessings to focus on?
Learning about her experience gave me a deeper admiration for her. She had endured three pregnancies, yet only two children to show for it. The agony of delivering a lifeless baby must have been unbearable—both physically and emotionally. It was probably for the best that she didn’t see her baby; how much grief can one heart endure?
In 2014, four years after our conversation, I found myself expecting. I felt invincible, convinced that the past belonged to another era. After all, Evelyn’s stillbirth occurred in the ’70s—surely, times had improved.
Yet, the sobering reality is that in the U.S., approximately 24,000 stillbirths occur each year, a staggering figure that dwarfs the number of SIDS cases. However, I thought we were in the clear; my son was safe.
Then came last year, when I became pregnant with my second child. This time, it was a girl. The pregnancy seemed to progress smoothly, with a reassuring doctor’s visit at 37 weeks. All was well; I was told to just wait.
However, at 38 weeks, I noticed a troubling change—my daughter had stopped moving. We quickly arranged for a neighbor to watch our toddler, planning only a short trip to the hospital. We didn’t even think to grab a phone charger.
The moment we entered the hospital, the grim truth was evident before the doctors even spoke the dreaded words: “There is no heartbeat.” The sonogram confirmed our worst fears. It wasn’t until 14 hours later, post-delivery, that we learned about the rare knot that had formed in her umbilical cord.
I gave birth—a term that feels inadequate, but it’s better than saying “delivered death”—during a time when many believe seeing the baby aids in the grieving process. We named our daughter, took photographs, and had the opportunity to spend precious hours with her after her birth. Some hospitals provide special cooling cots to allow parents to cherish these fleeting moments.
In contrast, Evelyn’s experience seemed more aligned with how one might respond to an early miscarriage: no photographs, no mementos, no funeral.
Each way of processing such profound grief is valid—both Evelyn and I grieved in our own manners—but the contrast underscores the complexities surrounding stillbirth. It is distinctly different from a miscarriage, which affects at least a quarter of all pregnancies. It is not the same as losing a living child; rather, it is the loss of a baby who never took a breath, yet had the potential to. It is a loss known only to the parents who carried them.
Stillbirth occupies a unique space between pregnancy and parenthood, akin to leaping from one platform to another only to fall into an abyss: we made it almost to the finish line, but lost everything anyway.
In many instances, stillbirth is not officially recognized with a birth certificate or a death certificate. More often than not, it falls upon the family to manage the body if the baby was delivered after 20 weeks. This responsibility can lead to burial or cremation, accompanied by associated costs, yet without any tax benefits, which are reserved for babies who take at least one breath. Many families hold services filled with sorrow and reflection.
This is the dilemma of stillbirth parents. We exist in a liminal space between miscarriage and the loss of a living child. We have photographs, yet we often keep them hidden. We gave birth, but there are no celebrations to mark a birthday. We produced milk, but there was no baby to nourish. We settled hospital bills, yet left the hospital empty-handed. We cremated a baby who was never officially alive. At times, when asked how many children we have, we hesitate.
Recently, someone asked if my toddler had any siblings. If I say that our daughter died, it implies she lived. But if I mention our prenatal loss, it minimizes the gravity of the experience.
After our loss, we received a condolence card from a friend’s mother, who had also lost a child in an accident. She welcomed me into the circle of grieving mothers, honoring my daughter by naming her and acknowledging her existence.
As my husband and I grappled with our feelings, we debated how our loss compared to a miscarriage. Was our grief as valid as my friend’s mother’s, despite the lack of memories? Was it more tragic, knowing our daughter had her whole life ahead of her? What was the appropriate amount of mourning? Should we take time off work as if we had lost a child, or quickly resume our lives?
The struggle to classify stillbirth and articulate the unexplainable contributes to the misunderstanding surrounding it. A friend recounted how, four years ago, her daughter was stillborn at full term. A medical school graduate in her circle had asked, “So, are we calling this a stillbirth?” Yes, we are calling it a stillbirth.
And we loudly affirm that it happens—it still happens. Contrary to what I believed, stillbirth didn’t remain in the 1970s. Rates in the U.S. have stagnated over the past two decades. Tragically, tens of thousands of new stillbirth parents emerge each year, grappling with love and loss.
Some of us held our babies. Some of us conducted funerals. When asked how many children we have, many of us are unsure how to respond. Yet, months or years down the line, we continue to mourn our babies and the futures they would have had.
Conclusion
In summary, this reflection delves into the emotional landscape of experiencing a stillbirth as opposed to a miscarriage. Through personal anecdotes and societal observations, it highlights the complexities of grief and the challenges of acknowledging the existence of a child lost before birth. The author draws parallels between past and present experiences, demonstrating the ongoing reality of stillbirth in today’s world.
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