Dear Liam,
Today marks the day you were meant to enter this world, yet you won’t be arriving because you were already here in spirit.
Let me take you back to nine months ago. I was in a hotel room in New York City, preparing for a work dinner. On a whim, I decided to take a pregnancy test—just in case. After all, a few glasses of wine make forced networking a lot easier. To my surprise, it was positive. Awkward small talk awaited me!
Many might feel overwhelmed upon discovering an unexpected pregnancy, especially with an 11-month-old and a toddler at home. I received my fair share of questions about whether this was planned. Yet, from the moment I saw that positive result, my heart swelled with joy. I envisioned you, my sweet Liam, joining your siblings, Mia and Noah. I felt elated at the prospect of expanding our family, and the happiness seemed destined.
The next four months were filled with dreams of you. I imagined you inheriting my green eyes—so different from your siblings. I pictured you with Mia’s determination and Noah’s cuddly nature. I hoped you would be the first to sleep through the night, sparing me the sleeplessness that accompanies a newborn. I envisioned cozy winter walks in the camo bunting we had chosen for you, sipping coffee while reading stories together as we waited for the weather to warm up.
I dreamed of the day I would take you to college—the last one to leave home—and the tears I would shed as I watched you grow. I envisioned Mia and Noah meeting you in the hospital, with Noah showering you with slobbery kisses. I pictured you two wrestling in the backyard, gearing up for the same lacrosse team, while Mia bossed you both around during family vacations.
Even though you weren’t among us physically, you filled my heart every day. I cherished the moments when I could feel you move, especially after the nausea subsided around week 11. Mother’s Day was significant; our family of five felt complete as Mia and Noah piled on top of me, laughing and loving. I’ll hold onto that memory forever, as it was one of the last joyful moments before we had to say goodbye.
On a Monday morning, your dad and I took Mia to the doctor’s office for an ultrasound to see you. We were excited to share the news that you were a boy, even though we already knew. The appointment began on a hopeful note as we listened to your heartbeat, a beautiful rhythm that echoed love.
However, the joy turned to despair when we learned that your limbs were smaller than they should be for a baby at 20 weeks. Tragically, your rib cage was also underdeveloped, meaning there was no room for your lungs to grow. The doctor couldn’t pinpoint the issue but indicated it was fatal. We later learned you had a condition that caused your bones to be extremely fragile, leading to them breaking each time you moved in my belly. This meant that you would have suffered had you continued to grow.
Saying goodbye to you was the hardest moment of my life. I only felt you move a few times, and your dad never felt you at all. I wish I had spent more time talking to you, sharing my love and hopes. I wish we could have fixed whatever was broken in you before you were even conceived.
On May 16, 2017, I lost my second son after receiving an unexpected and heartbreaking diagnosis. We chose to end your suffering, knowing it was the only compassionate choice. I delivered you at White Plains Hospital, where I held you in my arms, small but perfect. You had your brother Noah’s nose. The chaplain blessed you, and we named you Liam Beau Littlefield. That same day, I kissed you goodbye, leaving the hospital without you, my heart shattered.
This is also a story about standing up for myself. A doctor tried to persuade me into a procedure I didn’t want, even contacting your dad without my permission to change my mind. I also received conflicting medical advice that could have prevented me from holding you or finding answers about your condition.
After your passing, we received a call from the genetic lab that identified the specific mutation responsible for your illness. The diagnosis of osteogenesis imperfecta type II brought clarity and a 93% certainty that it was a random occurrence, which was a relief.
Politically, this is a story about what is termed a termination for medical reasons. Though I believe I made the right choice for you, I understand that not everyone would agree. I hope sharing my story opens minds to the possibility that sometimes ending a pregnancy is the most compassionate option for the baby.
But more than anything, this is a personal story. I grapple with how to describe our loss. Is it stillbirth? Pregnancy loss? Abortion? Each term feels inadequate, and yet, does it matter what we call it? Isn’t everyone’s pain valid, regardless of terminology?
This narrative also highlights the power of friendship and support. The labor and delivery nurse who held my hand and wept with me, the messages from friends near and far, and the understanding colleagues who allowed me to grieve, all made a difference.
It took me nearly five months to come to terms with this loss, and healing is ongoing. Some days feel like two steps back for every one step forward. I still get asked about my due date, and the creeping reminder can be difficult. My therapist has been invaluable through this process.
Yet, amidst the pain, I feel hope. I look forward to expanding my family and welcoming a niece or nephew soon. I’m learning to find joy for others, even in their pregnancy announcements.
Lastly, this story belongs to you, Liam. I can’t plan your birthday parties or watch you take your first steps, but my love for you will endure forever.
In summary, this tale reflects on the bittersweet journey of losing a child and the profound love that remains. It addresses the complexities of grief, the importance of support, and the hope for the future, while also advocating for understanding and compassion in difficult decisions.
Keyphrase: Losing a child
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