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Trigger Warning: This narrative includes details about miscarriage, stillbirth, and pregnancy loss.
To put it simply, I have always excelled in my pursuits. I was the valedictorian of my high school, graduated magna cum laude from a prestigious university, and earned two master’s degrees along with a doctorate, all while on a full fellowship. Naturally, I expected to carry this same level of achievement into motherhood.
However, I quickly learned that the term “exceptional” comes with dual meanings. Academically, I was remarkably successful, yet as a mother, my experience was bewilderingly atypical.
Five summers ago, my daughter and I became part of a heartbreaking statistic: less than 1% of pregnancies in the United States culminate in stillbirth, defined as the loss of a fetus after 20 weeks of gestation. A year later, I found myself facing another alarming statistic: approximately 5 to 8% of pregnancies are affected by preeclampsia, a condition that leads to 15% of preterm deliveries.
For the first time in my life, I felt like a failure. I couldn’t safeguard my children—one perished within me, while the other had to be delivered prematurely at just 30 weeks because I was unable to sustain the pregnancy. What kind of mother was I? What kind of woman could not endure, at the very least, a full-term pregnancy?
During my pregnancy with my daughter, everything appeared normal until the routine 20-week ultrasound revealed she was significantly smaller than anticipated. My husband, mother, and I returned for a follow-up two weeks later only to discover there was no heartbeat—a moment that shocked us all and is etched in our memories.
After receiving the devastating diagnosis, I was guided to a consultation room where I was presented with two options: undergo a dilation and evacuation procedure, which would prevent me from seeing my baby afterward, or be induced in the hospital to experience a traditional labor process. I chose the latter.
The following day, with my family by my side, I spent 12 hours in a hospital bed under careful monitoring. Shortly after 2 a.m., I delivered a 6-ounce baby girl, perfect in every way, with 10 tiny fingers and toes. For a fleeting moment, I held her, defying the cold terminology of a “product of conception” that one doctor had used just the day before. Her cause of death remains unknown, but I firmly believe she was beautiful.
Physically, I recovered well, but emotionally and spiritually, my daughter’s passing shattered me. Instead of preparing a nursery, I found myself selecting a casket and designing her grave marker.
Months later, instead of grieving on what would have been my daughter’s birthday, I discovered I was pregnant again. This time, the child was due around the anniversary of my daughter’s death, bringing a flicker of hope amid our sorrow.
This pregnancy was markedly different; I dealt with severe morning sickness, pink eye, and rising blood pressure. At 29 weeks, I was hospitalized due to preeclampsia, and soon after, I had to be induced to protect my life and that of my son.
Though he spent the first nine weeks of his life in the NICU, today, at four years old, he thrives without complications. He is our little miracle. Yet, as I gaze upon him, I’m filled with conflicting emotions. His existence stems from the loss of my daughter; had she lived, he might not be here. While each day is filled with laughter and warmth, the memory of a life lost too soon lingers.
I have shared with my son about his sister; we’ve visited her grave and spoken of her often. To him, she is a guardian angel, and I believe she safeguarded him during his own challenging arrival.
I wish to keep her memory alive, yet society often encourages silence regarding miscarriage and stillbirth. Is this silence supposed to foster healing? Or is it perpetuated by cultural norms that fear acknowledging loss might complicate discussions surrounding reproductive rights?
After the birth of my son, I faced the terrifying unknown but sang through the process. Conversely, after losing my daughter, I mourned quietly. In our society, it seems acceptable to celebrate one child’s birth while being urged to forget the other. As a feminist, I struggle to reconcile pride in one birth while disregarding the other. I must validate both experiences; my children, whether at 22 weeks or 30 weeks, were undeniably human and a part of me. I refuse to apologize for my grief. I will not forget.
When asked how many children I have, I often hesitate. If I say one, I feel I dishonor my daughter’s memory. If I say two, it invites discomfort. I usually respond with, “one here and one in heaven,” a phrasing that often elicits understanding from other women who share this silent bond.
Five years have passed since my daughter’s death, and I have remained quiet about my grief for too long; it was uncomfortable and inconvenient. No more.
October 15 marks Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. For additional resources and support for those experiencing loss, visit October 15.
Summary:
This article explores the profound grief associated with miscarriage and stillbirth through the personal journey of a mother who faced the tragic loss of her daughter and the complex emotions surrounding her subsequent pregnancy. It emphasizes the importance of acknowledging and validating both experiences, challenging societal norms that promote silence around such losses.
Keyphrase: Silent grief of miscarriage and stillbirth
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