Trigger Warning: Child loss, stillbirth
It’s been 143 days since I lost my son, Alex. After welcoming a child into the world, parents often track their milestones in months. You know the type—those parents who say, “Oh, my darling is 24 months old.” You sit there, mentally calculating, only to realize they mean their child is just 2 years old.
When grieving the loss of a child, however, the passage of time is counted differently—first in minutes, then hours, and finally, days. I suspect I’ll soon be marking the time in months and years, but for now, I can still recount the exact number of days since my life took a devastating turn.
The anxiety that accompanies the eight-week ultrasound is familiar to many expectant parents. For my second pregnancy, everything felt different—in a good way. I experienced minimal morning sickness and had a decent energy level. It was both a blessing and a curse, as I worried that something might be wrong since this didn’t match my first pregnancy experience. Hearing that heartbeat at eight weeks was a relief; there really was a baby growing inside me.
At the twelve-week ultrasound, we heard the heartbeat again and saw our little one moving about. The baby was exactly where it should be in terms of growth. We were out of the miscarriage danger zone and ready to share our joy with the world. As I crafted my announcement for Facebook, I hesitated before hitting “post.” A nagging feeling whispered that I might regret sharing this news. I brushed it off, thinking I was just being an overly cautious expectant mom. I posted the announcement anyway.
The next couple of months raced by. My belly grew, the baby moved, and I felt the reality of pregnancy settle in. The moment arrived to discover whether we would be welcoming a boy or a girl. I was certain it was a boy; this pregnancy felt entirely unlike my first. My partner, however, was convinced we would have another girl.
At 19 weeks pregnant, we took my close friend along to share in the excitement of discovering the baby’s gender. Our kids were born just four months apart, and this time, she was 10 weeks ahead of me. We envisioned a future where I had a boy and she had a girl, allowing us to swap baby clothes. But during the ultrasound, things took a troubling turn.
After the technician took measurements and we heard the heartbeat, our OB entered the room—this was unusual. She informed us that the baby’s organs weren’t measuring properly. Confusion set in as we tried to grasp the seriousness of the situation. We were scheduled to see a fetal specialist in an hour, which suggested urgency, but also a sense of dread. Nature, it seemed, had its own plans.
The specialist confirmed the organ abnormalities and revealed we were indeed having a boy. My husband’s face lit up, but uncertainty loomed. Would our son make it?
After a grueling seven hours at the hospital, we left with heavy hearts. My friend, initially excited to be part of our journey, found herself supporting us in a way she never expected. As we drove home, words escaped us. Shock, anger, fear—none of it seemed to have a target. It was all too surreal.
Over the next three weeks, we consulted specialists at Children’s Hospital and underwent various procedures in a desperate bid to save our son. Each appointment revealed declining amniotic fluid levels, intensifying my inner conflict. I longed for my baby boy, yet part of me wished for this emotional turmoil to end. It felt like a hellish waiting game, filled with the anxiety of whether my son would survive.
At 21 weeks and 6 days, our son surrendered. I now understand what true anguish is—carrying a lifeless baby while discussing how to remove him from my body. On a frigid February day, we welcomed and said goodbye to our son, Alex. Before heading to the hospital, I was instructed to take medication to induce contractions. Labor began almost immediately, and while I was in tears, my partner drove us to the hospital in a whirlwind.
We were on our way to meet a baby we hadn’t even named yet. In the midst of our turmoil, we decided on Alex for his first name, with Evan as a possible middle name—one I had thought of after hearing a mother call her child at the park. By the time we arrived, the contractions had intensified but were manageable. The procedure itself was quick, lasting about thirty minutes.
The following week was physically draining as I dealt with the aftermath of childbirth. My body was still responding as if I had a baby to nourish, and I found myself lost in a fog of grief. I lay in bed, trying to eat despite having no appetite, consumed by sorrow.
The most challenging part of my recovery was addressing my toddler’s innocent question: “Where is the baby?” My daughter, just over three, had already embraced the idea of a sibling. I worked with a therapist to navigate how best to respond to her. I learned to be honest yet simple: “The baby died. Not from anything that can hurt mommy, daddy, or you. Mama is very sad. The baby won’t be coming to live with us.”
After a week, her questions lessened, though reminders of my loss often surfaced. A few weeks later, I was emotionally fragile yet beginning to adapt to a “new normal.” My therapist suggested returning to work might provide some distraction, so I contacted my boss. She kindly drafted a brief email informing my coworkers of my situation, asking for professionalism upon my return.
Walking into the office felt like entering a minefield. Colleagues hesitated to approach me, unsure of what to say. I tried to appear approachable, initiating conversations to break the ice. Over time, things became easier, but some still tiptoed around me, particularly during conversations about pregnancy or baby showers. Part of me wished they would treat me normally, while another part was heartbroken, knowing I could never return to who I once was.
As the weeks passed, I found more moments of light amidst the darkness that had enveloped me after my loss. Though there were still unexpected waves of grief, I learned to navigate these emotions. My daughter often drew pictures of our family, sometimes depicting me with a frown and declaring, “Mommy is sad.” This pierced my heart, reminding me of my failure to bring the sibling she longed for into our lives.
My friend, who had accompanied me to the ultrasound, announced she was having a girl, as we had planned. I struggled to be happy for her, expressing my mixed emotions. She reassured me, “Just be as happy as you can and as sad as you want.”
Witnessing other pregnant women became a painful reminder of my loss, yet I continued searching for light within my days.
It’s been 143 days since I lost my son, Alex. My new normal requires me to rise each day, go to work, and be a mother to my daughter and a partner to my husband. I think of Alex daily, and although I still cry myself to sleep at times, it’s not as frequent.
There are still many who don’t know our story, and as my due date approaches, I anticipate the questions that will arise when they see me. I will have to share a condensed version of our journey, and once again, I may feel like the “turd in the punchbowl.”
When will this feeling fade? I don’t have the answers. When will I transition from counting the days to counting the months since Alex’s passing? I can’t say. What I do know is that I’ll strive to find joy every day and cherish my family.