I silently repeat the words, “I want my baby,” whenever I drift away from conversations with friends or family. These discussions usually revolve around everyday topics, like a challenging day at work, the latest binge-worthy series, or a light-hearted story that elicits laughter. However, sometimes the conversations touch on more profound subjects—like relationship endings, serious health issues, or significant global happenings. Yet, regardless of the context, my thoughts remain constant; I want my baby. I want my baby. I want my baby.
My baby passed away on 3/3/2020—almost a year ago. At that time, I was over eight months pregnant, had just purchased my dream home, held my ideal job, and was with a partner I knew would become my husband after our first encounter at 19.
As the first anniversary of Emily’s birth approaches, some aspects of my life have changed compared to last year; my body has somewhat returned to its previous form (somewhat—thanks to the remnants of pregnancy), I’m back at work, and when asked by cashiers how I’m doing, I cheerfully respond, “I’m well, how about you?”
In many ways, things have evolved, but in countless others, they remain the same. I still struggle with sleep, I cry daily (not constantly but at least at some point), and often find myself sitting in silence, shaking my head as I reflect on the past year. Nevertheless, one feeling remains as powerful today as it was then—the longing for my precious child who should be here but isn’t.
I recall how others seemed shocked to learn that she had died—surprised that I would need to go to the hospital to deliver her. People often assume that when a loss occurs, the baby simply vanishes, but that’s not the reality. Pregnancy doesn’t disappear just because the baby doesn’t survive. Babies are still born. They are delivered whether the loss happens early in the pregnancy (occasionally vaginally at home or through medical intervention) or during late-term losses, typically requiring labor to be induced.
On 3/4/2020, I arrived at the women’s hospital for my scheduled induction. In the waiting area, I sat across from excited mothers-to-be, eagerly awaiting their check-in.
I can never reclaim this moment, I thought, as I faced stuffed animals, balloons, and round bellies.
This will always be my first delivery—the one I envisioned long before I was married or seriously contemplated having children, though I never imagined it to unfold like this.
After checking in, I was led to my room, where I took in the surroundings. The large room had a private bathroom and appeared newly renovated. Across from the bed, a baby warmer hugged the wall, lined with a colorful baby blanket. Not wanting a constant reminder of what was about to unfold, I asked my then-husband, Mark, to please have it moved.
“They need a place for her body,” he gently informed me, though they pushed the warmer closer to the door, out of my sight.
The nurse gestured towards the bed, where a green-printed hospital gown awaited. I changed in the private bathroom, and as the loose gown enveloped my very-pregnant frame, I caught a final glimpse of my belly in the mirror.
Dressed and waddling to the bed, I found a stack of intake forms waiting. One read, “You’re about to experience one of life’s most special joys,” a cruel oversight, given the circumstances.
“Will you accept blood if a transfusion is needed?” a nurse inquired as I handed over the completed forms.
“Yes,” I replied, thinking, I won’t need that; a red hospital band was fastened to my wrist.
Just after 9 PM, the induction began, which lasted an excruciating 48 hours. During this time, family members cycled in and out, with Mark setting up camp on an uncomfortable couch beside my bed.
Multiple providers examined me, inserting hands, medication, and instruments into my body. My body resisted, as if pleading, “No, please no.”
I want my baby. I want my baby.
Yet, neither I nor my body had a choice in the matter.
With a balloon for dilation and an amniotic hook that broke my water, active labor commenced. Mark held a plastic bag to my face and a cool washcloth to my forehead as I lay in bed, feverish; sweating, shaking, and vomiting. As the nurse placed my numb legs back in stirrups, I felt the pelvic pressure. To my right was Mark, my hand entwined with his.
I pushed once, and through tears, I managed to ask, “Is it over?”
“That’s it, it’s over,” my doctor replied as he walked away, cradling her.
It was 8:53 PM on 3/6/2020, and the silence was deafening.
Cleaned and bundled in a soft blanket with a delicate pink hat on her tiny head, she was presented to me. I cradled her tightly, determined to absorb every detail—how she looked, how she felt; knowing our time together was limited.
She was so small at 4 lbs, 12 oz, and 17 ¾ inches. She had an adorable nose and full lips. She was my baby—the one I carried for eight months, created with the person I love most.
Once the medical team left to give us privacy, we savored twenty minutes filled with music, tears, and passing her back and forth before Mark’s panic set in.
“You’re bleeding heavily. I don’t think that’s normal,” he said.
He rushed out for help while I remained in bed, holding her close.
With urgency, the doctor quickly scrubbed in. My legs returned to stirrups, and my baby was taken from me.
I want my baby. I want my baby.
The medical team assessed my condition as blood gushed from my body, saturating the hospital linens.
They disconnected the bed from the wall, and Mark, the boy I fell in love with at 21, planted a gentle kiss on my forehead. I heard his shaky voice say, “I love you,” before I was wheeled toward the operating room.
Inside, I was laid flat on the table; around eight medical professionals surrounded my immobilized body. They secured a strap over me to prevent movement.
With no anesthesia to take me away, I remained fully aware as they worked desperately to halt the bleeding.
“Without stopping the bleeding, we might need to perform a hysterectomy,” someone stated.
I’m 29. My baby died. I’m going to die. If I survive, I’ll be infertile. My thoughts were loud, yet I felt strangely calm.
My brain was doing what it was designed to do, trying to help me endure the trauma.
I repeatedly asked in a monotone voice, “Am I going to die? Will I be infertile?”
“We’re doing everything possible for you,” they attempted to reassure me by gently rubbing my arm.
When they recognized they couldn’t stop the bleeding, I was transferred to another hospital on the same campus, through an underground tunnel.
I entered a new operating room with a fresh team and advanced imaging equipment.
In this procedure, the atmosphere was much more subdued, with minimal reassurance offered. They completed the surgery, and I was moved to the ICU around 3 AM.
Once reunited with Mark, I asked, “Where’s my baby?” I want my baby.
They informed me I could see her again once stable and transferred to the acute unit.
The following day, about 15 hours post-delivery, I was reunited with her. We attempted to reclaim lost time—time that can never be regained.
A social worker brought a memory box filled with mementos; locks of hair, footprints, a molded handprint, and photographs—images I presume were taken immediately after her birth. However, the only pictures of me holding her are from the following day.
As the year anniversary approaches, it remains challenging to process everything that has transpired. A series of moments has forever altered my world and who I am within it.
Since losing my daughter, my work as a therapist has evolved. I now dedicate part of my practice to assisting other women and families who have faced loss and trauma, often referred to as post-traumatic growth.
Post-traumatic growth is both beautiful and powerful. It is real, and yet it does not erase the pain, trauma, and grief. If I could choose between providing therapeutic support to other grieving mothers or having my baby, the answer would always be clear. I would choose her every time, I will always miss her, and I will always want her, hence the constant refrain of those four words; I want my baby.
These four words occupy my mind throughout the day, echoing in conversations with friends, family, and my therapists. They always bring me to tears. Occasionally, I mix it up with a simple “I feel sad,” which also does the trick.
Mark has his own mantra, equally poignant—“I miss our child.”
As I prepare to reflect on a year that defies adequate expression, I return to what I know best:
I want my baby. I miss my baby. I love my baby.
And I always will.
For more insights into pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource on Healthline or discover more about home insemination kits here. You can also read about similar experiences in our post here.
Probable Search Queries:
- Home insemination kits
- Understanding stillbirth
- Dealing with pregnancy loss
- Post-traumatic growth
- Therapy after loss
Summary:
This heartfelt narrative explores the profound grief of losing a child to stillbirth and the subsequent journey of healing. The author shares their experience of the delivery process and the emotional turmoil that accompanies the loss, emphasizing the ongoing longing for their baby. As they reflect on their year since the tragedy, they discuss how their work as a therapist has shifted to support others facing similar losses, highlighting the concept of post-traumatic growth, which, while powerful, does not erase the pain of their experience.
Keyphrase: stillbirth and healing journey
Tags: [“home insemination kit” “home insemination syringe” “self insemination”]