Trigger Warning: Child Loss
On June 1, my son, Leo James, entered the world, although his heart had stopped beating two days prior. I was 34 weeks into my pregnancy. The events of those days are etched in my memory, but let me start from the beginning of his short life.
This was my husband and my second child together, and we were filled with joy. We had planned everything meticulously, and I conceived right away. Time flew by as I juggled caring for our 4-year-old, and we soon discovered we were expecting another little boy.
My pregnancy progressed without any issues. I felt much like I did with my first son, but Leo had his own unique rhythm. I became attuned to his movements, memorizing when he would kick and when he would rest. Each evening after dinner, he would become active, as if he were practicing for a gymnastics routine while his brother, father, and I watched in amazement.
However, at 34 weeks, one night, I noticed something was wrong. Leo wasn’t moving as he usually did, not even a little. I poked my belly, playfully calling him “lazy bones.” The next morning, my worry deepened when I realized he hadn’t woken up with me.
I called my obstetrician right away, and he reassured me, suggesting we do a nonstress test. I arrived at the office alone, telling my husband it was probably nothing. I even shared a laugh with the nurse who was joking about Leo’s position when she struggled to find his heartbeat. But as the doctor performed the ultrasound, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread as I stared helplessly at the screen. My baby’s heart had stopped.
The doctor took a deep breath and uttered those words that no parent wishes to hear: “I’m so sorry.” In that moment, we were not doctor and patient but two people sharing an unimaginable loss. I will always be thankful for the compassion he showed me.
My husband arrived at the hospital, needing to see the ultrasound for himself, while I couldn’t bear to look. In silence, we held hands as they admitted us to the maternity ward—the place where joy is often replaced by sorrow. A white rose was carefully placed on our door, signaling the gravity of our situation to all who passed by. This room was a world away from the joyous laughter and cries of newborns.
We were met with condolences and pamphlets about stillbirth—words I had never thought I would encounter. The nurses were incredibly kind, respecting my wishes regarding how I wanted to be treated. They held my hand when my husband stepped out, allowing me to express my sorrow in whatever way I needed. They cared for me in ways I could never have anticipated, attending to my physical and emotional needs.
Three nurses, in particular, stood out to me: one who welcomed us, another who supported me through the night, and the third who helped me during the actual delivery. I labored for 18 hours to bring my precious Leo into this world.
In those moments, when my child was born still, the silence that enveloped us was profound. As I felt him leave my body, I was struck by the stillness; it was deafening. We transitioned from the chaos of labor to a haunting quiet. My nurse gently assured me that she would clean Leo up and wrap him in a blanket before bringing him to me. My doctor offered comforting words about how beautiful he was.
They prepared me for his appearance, acknowledging that he might have some discoloration. But I could see his beautiful curly hair and chubby cheeks. Each word was filled with care and humanity as I held him in my arms. Time lost all meaning in that moment; it could have been seconds or hours, but certainly not long enough. I had envisioned a lifetime with him, and instead, I was forced to face eternity without him.
As I cradled Leo, I noticed a small amount of blood. It was alarming, and I called for my nurse. She took Leo and my husband into the next room to explain about the cuddle cot, giving us a chance to be with him until we were ready to say goodbye. My doctor informed me I could be discharged approximately six hours after the birth. We cherished every moment, kissing him, memorizing every feature, and sharing with him how loved he would always be. Leaving him behind was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
It had been exactly 48 hours since I first felt the absence of his kicks.
A quote resonates deeply with me: “The hardest thing I’ve ever had to hear was that my child died. The hardest thing I’ve ever done is to live every day since that moment.” This sentiment rings true. The first month was filled with unbearable pain, and now, as I reach the three-month mark since Leo’s birth, I recognize I have transformed into a new version of myself. Sadness is now a constant companion. I find myself more cautious and worried.
Holidays, especially June 1, will always be bittersweet as we remember Leo. I strive to find joy in life, but there will always be a missing piece. The support and love I need are more vital than ever. I embrace this version of myself because it is essential for my healing. Though my experience makes some uncomfortable, I have become “the woman who lost her baby”—a testament to my strength and fierce love. My grief for Leo will not consume me; instead, my love for him will guide me. I now speak for him, as I navigate this unimaginable reality.
So to the nurses, doctors, and social workers who become part of these heart-wrenching experiences, I acknowledge the strength it takes to enter rooms marked with white roses. It requires immense courage to provide comfort and empathy to grieving parents, even when they are consumed by anger and despair. What you do is profound, and I appreciate the care you offer.
I understand the need to separate work from personal life, but I ask you to carry with you a piece of compassion and love for mothers like me and our children, who deserve to be remembered for their beauty. Please continue to support us through our darkest days and welcome us back with open arms when we are ready to welcome our rainbow babies. We need your guidance every step of the way.
In Summary
This heartfelt letter illustrates the profound impact of medical professionals during the devastating experience of stillbirth. It emphasizes the importance of compassion, empathy, and support for grieving parents while reflecting on the journey of healing.
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