Trigger Warning: This article contains sensitive information regarding miscarriage, stillbirth, and pregnancy loss.
I have always prided myself on my achievements. I graduated at the top of my high school class, earned my degree with honors from a prestigious university, and went on to complete two master’s degrees and a doctorate—all while receiving full academic fellowships. Naturally, when I embarked on the journey of motherhood, I anticipated maintaining this pattern of excellence.
However, the reality of motherhood brought a harsh awakening. There are indeed two meanings attached to the term “exceptional.” While I excelled as a student, as a mother, I found myself in an exceptionally challenging situation.
Five years ago, my daughter and I became part of a heartbreaking statistic: in the United States, less than 1% of pregnancies end in stillbirth, defined as fetal demise after 20 weeks of gestation. A year later, I faced another disheartening set of statistics: about 5 to 8% of pregnancies are affected by preeclampsia, which can lead to serious complications and a significant percentage of premature births.
For the first time in my life, I felt like a failure. I was unable to protect my children—one died within me, and another had to be delivered at just 30 weeks due to my inability to manage the pregnancy. What kind of mother was I? What kind of woman couldn’t endure a standard 37 weeks of gestation?
Initially, my pregnancy with my daughter seemed typical until our routine 20-week ultrasound revealed she was measuring significantly smaller than expected. When my husband, mother, and I returned two weeks later for a follow-up, we were devastated to discover there was no heartbeat. In that moment, our world shattered.
After receiving this horrifying news, we were directed to a consultation room. Overwhelmed with grief, I was presented with two options: undergo a dilation and evacuation procedure, which would prevent me from seeing my baby, or opt for an induced labor in the hospital. I chose the latter.
The following day, surrounded by my supportive family and the caring hospital staff, I labored for 12 hours. In the early hours of the morning, I delivered a 6-ounce baby girl, complete with 10 tiny fingers and toes. I held her for a fleeting moment. She was not merely a “product of conception,” as one medical professional had described her the day before. She bore my husband’s features, and while the cause of her death was never identified, I know she was perfect.
Physically, I recovered well after the delivery, but emotionally and spiritually, I was shattered. Instead of preparing a nursery, I found myself selecting a casket and designing a grave marker.
Months later, as I approached the date that would have marked my daughter’s birth, I received the unexpected news that I was pregnant again. This child was due around the same time we mourned the anniversary of our daughter’s loss—an occasion that filled us with hope amidst our sorrow.
This pregnancy, however, was markedly different. I experienced relentless nausea, a non-flu, flu-like illness, and pink eye—my first encounter with it. My blood pressure began to rise, and by 29 weeks, I was hospitalized for preeclampsia. I managed to carry my son for another week before an urgent induction was necessary to ensure our safety.
My son spent the first nine weeks of his life in the neonatal intensive care unit, but today, at four years old, he is a vibrant and healthy little boy. He shows no complications from his premature birth—he is our treasure.
Yet, looking at my son brings a complex mix of emotions. His existence is intertwined with the loss of my daughter; had she lived, he might never have been born. Despite the joy he brings through his laughter and affection, a deep-seated pain lingers—an echo of a life lost too soon.
I have shared my daughter’s story with my son. We have visited her resting place and continue to talk about her; she is his guardian angel, and I believe she watched over him during his tumultuous entrance into the world.
I want her memory to remain part of our lives, now and forever, but societal norms often dictate silence surrounding miscarriage and stillbirth. Are we expected to remain quiet, as if doing so will ease our grief? Have movements for reproductive rights inadvertently fostered this silence, fearing that acknowledging loss might humanize a fetus and complicate the abortion discourse?
With my son’s birth, I faced death with courage, even singing Queen’s “Under Pressure” during my surgery. In contrast, I mourned my daughter in silence. Society allows for the celebration of my son’s birth while encouraging me to forget the significance of my daughter’s. As a feminist, I grapple with how to celebrate one child’s survival while mourning another’s loss. For my healing, I must acknowledge and validate both experiences. My children, at 22 weeks and 30 weeks, were undeniably human and an integral part of me. I will not apologize for my sorrow, nor will I forget.
I find myself uneasy when asked how many children I have. The question is fraught with complexity. If I say one, I feel I betray my daughter’s memory; if I say two, it invites discomforting explanations. I’ve learned to respond, “one on earth and one in heaven,” a phrase that often elicits a sympathetic nod or gesture from other women who understand this shared sorrow.
Five years have passed since my daughter’s death, and I have remained silent about my grief, as it felt inconvenient, uncomfortable, and unsightly. But I refuse to remain silent any longer.
October 15 is recognized as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. For resources and support for those navigating this painful journey, visit Hopkins Medicine, which offers valuable information on infertility and pregnancy loss. Additionally, if you’re exploring home insemination options, check out Make A Mom for insights into their effective products. Their 18-piece at-home insemination kit is a trusted resource for those starting their family-building process.
In summary, the journey of motherhood can be fraught with unexpected challenges, including loss. Speaking out about our experiences is crucial for healing and recognition, allowing us to honor the memory of those we have lost while celebrating the joy of those who remain.
Keyphrase: silent grief of miscarriage and stillbirth
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