I want my baby.
These are the words I find myself silently repeating during conversations with friends and family. Conversations often revolve around everyday topics—a stressful day at work, the latest must-watch TV series, or a humorous anecdote that brings laughter. Other times, the subjects are more significant, like a breakup, a serious illness, or current events.
Yet, regardless of what’s being discussed, my thoughts always drift back to the same place: I want my baby. I want my baby. I want my baby.
My baby passed away on 3/3/2020—almost a year ago. At that time, I was over eight months pregnant, recently moved into my dream home, thriving in my ideal job, and with a partner I knew would be my husband after just one meeting at 19.
As the first anniversary of my daughter’s birth approaches, some aspects of my life have changed; my body is starting to resemble its former self (somewhat—thanks to the remnants of pregnancy), I’m back to work, and when grocery store clerks ask how I’m doing, I respond with a cheerful, “I’m well, how are you?”
In many ways, life looks different now—but in so many others, it remains the same. I still struggle with sleep, I cry every day (not all day, but at least a part of each day), and I often find myself sitting in silence, shaking my head as I reflect on the events of the past year. However, one feeling is as strong today as it was then—the deep yearning for my baby who should be here but isn’t.
I recall the surprise on others’ faces when they learned my daughter had died—they seemed shocked that I needed to go to the hospital to deliver her. Many seem to think that when a loss occurs, the pregnancy simply disappears, but that’s not how it works. A pregnancy doesn’t vanish when the baby doesn’t survive; the baby is delivered. This can happen early in the pregnancy (sometimes vaginally at home or through medical intervention) or in late-term losses, which typically require labor induction.
On 3/4/2020, I arrived at the hospital for my scheduled induction. In the waiting area, I sat across from excited mothers-to-be waiting to be checked in.
I will never have this experience back, I thought, as I was surrounded by stuffed animals, balloons, and expectant mothers.
This delivery would always be my first—the one I envisioned long before I got married or seriously considered having children, though I never imagined it would be this way. After checking in, I was taken to my room, which was large, had a private bathroom, and appeared newly renovated.
Directly across from the bed was a baby warmer lined with a colorful baby blanket. Not wanting a constant reminder of what lay ahead, I asked my husband, Daniel, to have it removed. “They need a place for her body,” he gently reminded me, though they agreed to move the warmer out of my sight.
The nurse directed me to the bed, where a green-printed hospital gown awaited. As I changed and caught a glimpse of my pregnant belly in the mirror, I waddled back to the bed, where a stack of intake forms awaited.
“You’re about to experience one of life’s most special joys,” the first form read—a grave oversight, given the circumstances.
“Will you accept blood in the event a transfusion is needed?” a nurse asked as I handed her the completed forms.
“Yes,” I replied, thinking I wouldn’t need that; a red hospital band was placed on my wrist.
Induction began just after 9 PM, lasting a grueling 48 hours. Family filtered in and out, while Daniel settled into a small couch beside my bed.
Multiple medical professionals examined me, inserting hands, medications, and instruments deep into my body. 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 say.
With a balloon for dilation and an amniotic hook to break my water, active labor commenced. Daniel held a plastic bag to my face and a cool washcloth to my forehead as I lay in bed with a fever, sweating, shaking, and vomiting.
As the nurse positioned my numb legs in the stirrups, I felt a wave of pelvic pressure. Holding Daniel’s hand tightly, I pushed once and, through tears, managed to ask, “Is it over?”
“That’s it, it’s over.” My doctor walked away with my baby in his arms.
At 8:53 PM on 3/6/2020, silence enveloped the room.
Cleaned and bundled in a knit blanket, she was handed to me. I held her close, determined to memorize every detail—how she looked, how she felt; knowing my time with her was fleeting. She weighed 4 lbs, 12 oz, and measured 17 ¾ inches. Her adorable little nose and full lips were perfect. She was my baby—the one I carried for eight months, the one I created with the person I love most.
After 20 minutes of music, tears, and passing her back and forth, Daniel began to panic. “You’re bleeding a lot. I don’t think that’s normal.”
He left to find help while I clung to my baby.
With urgency, the doctor quickly scrubbed in, my legs were back in stirrups, and my baby 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, soaking the hospital linens. They ripped the plugs connecting my bed to the wall, and Daniel, the boy I loved, planted a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I love you,” he said shakily, just before they wheeled me toward the operating room.
In the OR, I lay flat on the table, surrounded by a team of medical professionals. They strapped me down, preventing any movement. Without anesthesia, I remained fully aware as they worked furiously to stop the bleeding.
“If we can’t stop the bleeding, we will need to do a hysterectomy,” someone said.
I’m 29. My baby is gone. I may die. If I survive, I’ll be infertile. My thoughts were chaotic, yet I felt calm.
I was dissociating as my survival instincts kicked in. My brain was doing what it was designed to do, helping me endure.
“Am I going to die? Am I going to be infertile?” I repeated in a monotone voice.
“We’re doing everything we can for you,” they reassured, rubbing my arm.
When they realized they couldn’t stop the bleeding, I was transferred to another hospital via an underground tunnel.
In a new operating room, a different team of professionals used advanced imaging to assist with the procedure. There was little conversation; they finished quickly, and I was moved to the ICU around 3 AM.
Once reunited with Daniel, I asked, “Where’s my baby?” I want my baby.
I was told I could see her again once I was stable.
The next day, approximately 15 hours post-delivery, I was reunited with her. We attempted to reclaim lost time—time that can never be restored.
A social worker provided a memory box filled with keepsakes: locks of hair, footprints, a molded handprint, and pictures—though the only photos I have of holding her are from the following day.
As the anniversary nears, it remains challenging to process everything that has occurred. A series of moments has irrevocably altered my world and who I am within it.
Since losing my daughter, my work as a therapist has shifted. I now dedicate part of my practice to helping other women and families navigating loss and trauma, a phenomenon often referred to as post-traumatic growth.
Post-traumatic growth is beautiful, powerful, and real. It is beautiful AND does not erase the pain, trauma, and grief. If I had to choose between providing therapeutic support to fellow loss mothers or having my baby back, my answer would always be the same: I would choose her. I will always miss her, and I will always want her. Hence, the echo of those four words: I want my baby.
These four words fill my thoughts daily; I share them with friends, family, and my therapists. Regardless of how I express them, they always lead me to tears. Occasionally, I mix it up with a simple, “I feel sad,” which also does the trick.
Daniel has his own poignant words—“I miss our baby.”
As I prepare to close a year that defies description, I remind myself:
I want my baby. I miss my baby. I love my baby.
And I always will.
For more insights and stories related to this journey, check out this post and explore the resources at Progyny for valuable information on pregnancy and home insemination. If you’re interested in exploring options for starting a family, Cryobaby is an authoritative resource worth checking out.
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- What to do after stillbirth
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Summary:
This heartfelt piece recounts the author’s emotional journey following the stillbirth of her daughter. It delves into the profound grief and longing for her child, the harrowing experience of delivery, and the subsequent trauma of nearly losing her own life. As she navigates her grief, she also highlights her commitment to supporting other families facing similar losses and the concept of post-traumatic growth, emphasizing that while healing is possible, the desire for her baby remains unending.
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