There are moments that pierce the heart, each one filled with meaning yet laden with sadness. For instance, when a colleague, unaware of my recent loss, innocently remarked that I looked great for someone six months along. Or when a friend bumped into my husband at the grocery store and inquired about my well-being, leaving him to deliver the difficult news. Then there was the day my daughter returned from school, sharing that her class was discussing siblings and she mentioned she has a brother named Patrick who isn’t with us anymore. Each of these instances leaves me breathless, yet they also provide a platform to honor my son, who may not be physically present but remains very much part of our lives.
Patrick was my third pregnancy: a healthy journey with my first child, a miscarriage at ten weeks with my second, and finally, with Patrick, a seemingly smooth path until everything changed at 19 weeks. Each August, I receive memories from that year’s beach trip, a time when my OB called with the reassuring news that all tests were normal. But as September approaches, the air thickens with the weight of an anniversary that no one desires—our beach getaway, our Labor Day gathering, and our visit to the Thomas the Tank Engine Park. He was with us for all those moments, and then in an instant, our world was irrevocably altered.
On September 11, 2017, the morning was cool in Connecticut as I arrived at work ahead of schedule, focusing on a press release when my phone rang. It was my OB’s office, and I expected to hear from a nurse. Instead, it was my doctor, delivering ominous news: “Routine tests came back with cause for concern… can you and your husband come in today?” That simple question sent us spiraling.
My husband rushed to the hospital, where the ultrasound technician’s silence felt heavy. The doctor explained our son had a spinal defect, a situation that would severely impact his quality of life if he survived. We had always believed in a woman’s right to choose, but never did we imagine we would face such a choice ourselves. How could we bring a child into a world that seemed unprepared for his needs? Moreover, I couldn’t help but think of our two-year-old daughter—what changes would this bring to her life?
We stepped outside to gather our thoughts before heading home. I replayed every moment of the pregnancy in my mind. I had taken all the right steps: folic acid, exercising, eating well. I wanted him so much, but what difference did that make now? I wished I could turn back time to that morning before everything shifted.
The next few days were a blur—breaking the news to family and friends, asking a coworker to inform the office that I had “lost” the baby, and feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over me. We painted Patrick’s nursery, transforming it from a deep navy blue into a more neutral gray. On September 15, I walked into the hospital carrying my baby, and hours later, I left empty.
Our daughter was too young to remember my pregnancy without our reminders. For a while, I tried to pretend it hadn’t happened, sinking into depression and anger. However, the more I discuss Patrick—whether in deep conversations with trusted friends or casual mentions during everyday moments—the more I feel his presence in our family.
Even when unexpected reminders of Patrick arise, knocking me off balance for a moment, I have come to see the beauty in those experiences. They allow me to share his story and keep his memory alive for both myself and others. These discussions can be challenging, sometimes even awkward, but they are invaluable. I refuse to ignore the reality of our son, Patrick. My daughter understands she is growing up with her little brother looking out for her from above, and it brings me comfort to know he’s watching over me as well.
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In summary, the journey of pregnancy can be filled with unexpected turns, and the loss of a child can leave an indelible mark on a family. Yet, it is essential to keep the memory alive, discussing their existence and allowing them to remain a part of our stories.
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